Complaining about beekeeping — an unlikely art form
Like so many beekeepers, I have become an expert at complaining. I can do it well and on short notice. I can complain on a variety of dissociated topics. It’s an acquired talent requiring years of beekeeping to achieve. “My bees died.” “Varroa is killing me.” “Insecticides are insidious.” “They swarmed.” “Our bees are just not what they once were.” Accomplished complaints fluidly roll off my tongue.
This past spring, I was completely geared for the usual bout of concerns and predictions. While my winterkill was not too great, it was somewhat strange. A few of my strongest colonies from last year died during the winter having hundreds of pounds of honey on them. That alone predicted bad karma for the 2024 season. I came through winter with about a 25% winter loss. That is pretty good for me.
As winter faded and spring became established, I did the normal spring preparations. I scraped bottom boards, removed entrance reducers, and rearranged food stores among the surviving colonies. I got most of the dead equipment out of the yards, and I did the spring tune-up on the mower. I wasn’t Johnny-on-the-spot, but I did okay.
Then I mentally prepared myself for the usual late-season freeze that had killed so many bees and blossoms in past early spring seasons. Time passed. The late freeze never came. That’s strange. I already had my complaints and quotes prepared and edited. My bees built up nicely on the early pollen and nectar sources. From friends in Alabama, I began to hear that bees in the Southeast were looking pretty good. Across the Midwest, beekeepers were remarkably positive about the way their bees looked. After all we have been through in recent years, this upbeat attitude was an oddity.
The spring flow started. I honed my negative attitude. “It will rain.” “Sure, there are blossoms everywhere, but they won’t produce.” “Varroa will stress my colonies.” We have been through this over and over again. Why should I dare hope that this year would be any better? But this season was better — it was even noticeably better than previous years. I had put on the usual supers per colony. This year, I should have put on many more. I should have brought some of the old, dusty equipment out of deep storage to get this entire crop. While I was completely prepared to complain, I was not completely prepared for a true nectar flow.
This “super” shortage was brought home in a personal way. I put on some supers and gave the remaining colonies a promise of supers to come. Then, for several weeks, I had to battle a surprise case of sciatica. As I sat in my chair — hurting — I knew I had screwed up. Everywhere, locust and tulip poplar were hanging nearly to the ground. The world was green and lush. You could just tell; this was a good year. What I had given the bees was all they were going to get. I could do little but sit and heal. By the time I was better, all the white blossoms were gone. The nectar window had begun to close. I now had populous, packed-out colonies. Then the swarming started.
Swarms, swarms everywhere
In this regard, I was not the only one caught unawares. At bee meetings, one beekeeper reported that he was being swamped by swarming. Most of his 100 colonies swarmed. That seemed nearly impossible. We are accustomed to our season being killed by many things, but being killed by bees being so strong that they split themselves was not something I was expecting. Other beekeepers had comments like …
