He’ll Grow into It
Poetry Sunday: Rapture
Rapture
BY RICHARD JONES
In the desert, a traveler
returning to his family
is surprised
by a wild beast.
To save himself
from the fierce animal,
he leaps into a deep well
empty of water.
But at the bottom
is a dragon, waiting
with open mouth
to devour him.
The unhappy man,
not daring to go out
lest he should be
the prey of the beast,
not daring to jump
to the bottom
lest he should be
devoured by the dragon,
clings to the branch
of a bush growing
in the cracks of the well.
Hanging upon the bough,
he feels his hands
weaken, yet still
he clings, afraid
of his certain fate.
Then he sees two mice,
one white, the other black,
moving about the bush,
gnawing the roots.
The traveler sees this
and knows that he must
inevitably perish, that he will
never see his sons again.
But while thus hanging
he looks about and sees
on the leaves of the bush
some drops of honey.
These leaves
he reaches with his tongue
and licks the honey off,
with rapture.
Poetry Sunday: Mountain Man Sings “Honey Bee”
Don’t Click on this Link Unless You Want to Salivate
Reader, it’s harvest time. And let me simply introduce you to two first harvests. I’ll let the images speak for themselves. No more from me about how wonderful this is. No word from me about toasted medallions of french bread spread with butter and warm, fresh, local honey. I don’t want you writhing in envy.
Of course, if you want this experience for yourself, call me. I’ll get you set up.
The Honeycomb-with-a-Drop-of-Honey T-shirt
Reader, the newest installment of the TwoHoneys t-shirt is now available for purchase: $15 for a handoff exchange; $20 if we need to mail it.
You, too, can wear your very own glorious 2012 rendition (designed by the wonderfully taletented Nicola Mason) by contacting me (liz@two-honeys.com). Tell me if you prefer your design on the front or on the back and tell me your size. I wear a medium. I can also wear a large if I shrink it just a smidgin.
See how this shirt makes your shoulders and your back look friendly and strong and your waist look slim? Perfect.
My Beekeeping Truck
No, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with my truck, Reader. Well, one of the many eight fine cylinders isn’t firing. Which is Not a Big Deal, and a mechanic will soon fix it.
But my friend (and architect and fellow beekeeper) Bob LOVES old cars, and he has delighted in my truck. He could hardly hold himself back from digging into it.
We stopped at Bob and Kim’s house and somehow the talk turned to my misfiring 5th cylinder, at which point Bob grabbed a handful of tools and said, “Let’s check it out!”
Of course, once he got into my truck, he needed more than the few tools he brought with him. When this occurs (and it always occurs), my job is to run to the basement and then bring to Bob whatever tool he requires. I think he’s surprised that every time he asks, “Do you have a _______?,” my answer is always, “Yes.”
These sorts of jobs almost always engage whoever is around. Which means that Bob employed his wife, Kim, to Google and research the firing sequences of 1972 Chevy pickup cylinders. She was the one who told us which of the cylinders is the 5th cylinder. She was also the one to fire up the truck.
And, in case you’re wondering, Reader, yes, I also ended up flat on my back in my driveway under my truck and getting my hands quite filthy.
It’s very good to know and be comfortable in the guts of your own truck.
Bob is currently building four top-bar hives that will knock your socks off. If you want one, let me know. Worth every penny of whatever he decides to ask for them.
Poetry Sunday: Endangered Species
Endangered Species
BY EAMON GRENNAN
Out the living-room window
I see the two older children burning
household trash under the ash tree
in wind and rain. They move
in slow motion about the flames,
heads bowed in concentration
as they feed each fresh piece in, hair
blown wild across their faces, the fire
wavering in tongues before them
so they seem creatures
half flame, half flesh,
wholly separate from me. All of a sudden
the baby breaks slowly down
through the flexed branches of the ash
in a blaze of blood and green leaves,
an amniotic drench, a gleaming liver-purple
slop of ripe placenta, head first
and wailing to be amongst us. Boy and girl
look up in silence and hold gravely out
flamefeathered arms to catch her,
who lands on her back in their linked
and ashen hands. Later,
when I take her in my arms
for a walk to that turn on the high road
where the sea always startles, I can see
how at intervals she’s thunderstruck
by a scalloped green leaf, a shivering
jig of grassheads, or that speckled bee
that pushes itself among
the purple and scarlet parts
of a fuchsia bell. And her eyes are on fire.
Poetry Sunday: from Still Another Day
from Still Another Day
BY PABLO NERUDA
The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
My Truck
I have a new truck. It’s 40-years old and drop-dead, head-turning gorgeous, and I’m not blowing smoke.
She’s a 1972 Chevrolet Camper Special, 8 cylinder 350 engine, 8-ft bed, all original parts, paint, etc. It’s spotless. I think it spent its first night outdoors last night…and only because I haven’t figured out how to get it in the garage yet. That part’s gonna take work and some fancy maneuvering.
Last evening, I drove my new pickup truck home from Indianapolis, and I had some time to discover why I love it and why I was not satisfied as I tested the newer-model pickups. I listened to my gut, and my gut told me I needed this one.
- There is no A/C. So I get to hang my arm out the window and feel the breeze. And I can talk with people who admire it at stop lights.
- But there are two awesome vents…just pull a black knob that pulls a long lever, and two big baffles open up to allow steady rush of wind all over my feet and legs.
- After a rain, this breeze of which I speak is simply glorious.
- No power windows. Just roll them up and roll them down. No problemo.
- Oh, but there are some beautifully tall and wide side mirrors. Very sweet.
- No automatic door locks. Which means I’ll probably lock it less…if at all.
- Which means I’ll probably stop hauling a bunch of stuff that I think needs protection.
- I mean, please. Why on earth do I need to carry stuff that I have to worry about?
- I just want to get in my clutter-free pickup and drive it.
- The radio doesn’t work, so there’s no news, no noise, no disturbances. I can think without interference as I drive.
- There’s no power outlet, so I can’t plug anything in. Again, no disturbances, no distractions.
- I’ll want to stay off of my phone while I’m in the car because I can’t recharge it as I go. Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.
- And there is no Bluetooth…I consider Bluetooth the work of the devil. It is responsible for the demise of our society.
- So if I don’t call you right back, Reader, I may be driving in my truck.
- There’s no cup holder. Which means fewer messes and fewer places to gunk things up.
- Of course, because of the no-A/C part, I’ll want some bottled water on the seat with me.
- There is a long and sturdy bench seat. And it’s spotless. Did I say “all original”? Yes. I did. It is. Even the upholstery.
- And this bench seat does not sag. It hasn’t been driven enough over its 40 years to sink. It seems glad to have me.
- Bench seats are friendly and simple. The dog can ride up front with me and Deb.
- The steering wheel doesn’t have every control known to man installed right on it.
- It’s a simple, skinny, tough steering wheel, and it’s big and wide. My hands look good holding onto it. I admired them the 2 hours from Indianapolis.
- Right smack dab in the middle of the steering wheel is a horn. It gives a deep and strong call. It doesn’t beep. It doesn’t honk. It sings. It sounds like my dog, Murphy, when it sings…it’s a baritone. I wish you could hear it.
Facing the Cross-Comb Music
I’m sort of dreading today’s work. I’ve neglected the two top-bar hives I keep at the Veteran’s Memorial Community Garden in the East End. I let them go it alone for too long, and they’ve built a hive of cross comb. It’s bad.
So, today I’m determined to take my rubber bands and my zip ties and my serrated knife and get things straightened out over there.
To make matters worse, one of the colonies creating severe cross comb is also living in one of the hive bodies that succumbed to a TBH design flaw. Some of the cedar fencing I use for the hive bodies is simply too thin to hold the weight of a hive full of bars loaded with bees and comb and honey. Under tremendous weight, the cedar siding begins to bow. When the siding bows out, the top bars, which usually rest on the edge of the siding, slip down so that the comb squishes onto the bottom of the hive. And in this recent heat, the wax melts on the floor of the hive. None of this is good.
I’m gonna face the music today (because our high temperatures should only reach 80 degrees…which means I can work with the comb without it disintegrating in my hands). I intend to spend hours doing right by the bees that I previously neglected.
Comb by comb, I’ll cut the cross comb from the bars. Then I’ll reattach the straightened comb to its bar using either rubber bands or zip ties. Or both. Then I’ll place the newly reattached comb into a new, improved TBH.
I will reward myself with lunch at Eli’s. :)
I’ll take pictures of it for you. If I remember.
I expect to run into Joe Cocoran there. Talk about a ball of fire.