Support Your Local Beekeeper

Facebook has gotten to be a pretty messy place. But just when I'm ready to call it quits, someone posts something that piques my curiosity.

Photo by Suzi Blakly. (Used with permission.)

Enter Suzi Blakly, latter day beekeeper.

I've been following Suzi's progress as she did the pre-planning and then purchased her first hive. (And she has the suit, to boot!)

Intrigued by her new hobby, I started to do a little reading on the subject of bees. Years ago, I read The Secret Life of Bees, but that's about the only time I've read anything remotely related to our yellow and black striped neighbors.

With the Google as my guide, here is what I've learned. (Suzi, if I've gotten anything wrong, please feel free to correct me, and I'll make it right.)

First off, it's the girls who rule the hive...and do all of the work. The queen bee sees to the population of the hive. The worker bees (also female) clean, feed the baby bees, guard the place, pack pollen and nectar into cells, fan the hive to cool it, and, of course, go out into the world to gather the goods. The drones are the only males. Their job is to knock up the queen. That's it. While guys in general might think this is a pretty cushy job, the downside is that once they've shot their wad (so to speak), they die. (I can hear Mr. Ginley say, "Ya, but what a way to go!" Duly noted.)

There has been a lot of buzz lately (you know I had to work that in somewhere) about what the experts are calling "colony collapse disorder." A new variety of pesticide called neonicotinoids (neonics for short) is killing bees in record numbers. The neonics replaced a pesticide which was considered unsafe for human consumption. The problem with the neonics is that they don't evaporate as quickly as their predecessor, and are thus lethal longer.

Also contributing to the loss of hives is that we've paved paradise (and put up a parking lot). Rural areas are shrinking, as are the natural bee habitats.

If you think we can do just fine without bees, here is what you need to know.

It is estimated that one third of the food we eat is thanks to the efforts of bees. In China, where bees are virtually extinct, crops have to be pollinated by hand.

One other fun fact. The pesticides you put on your lawn remain for three years. Also, if you buy your flowers from a big box store and think you are doing right by the bees, you may need to take a closer look. Many of these plants are sold pre-treated with neonics to reduce the risk of disease.

More things I've learned...if you can, it's best to buy your honey from a local artisan. "Organic" honey means nothing. The resulting product comes from many countries and colonies, which affects the taste and health benefits of the honey. When shopping, look for honey that is non-heated and non-transformed.

The farmer's market will be coming back to my neighborhood soon, and, as I recall, there was a honey supplier there last year. I hope she returns, because I'm ready to go for the real thing.

No more plastic honey bears for me!

Us Old Gals

When my kid went off to college five years ago, we were sure it would be curtains for our cat.

Mabel had always been so attached to the lad.

Originally, when we decided to adopt a cat, it was understood she would be mine. But when we went to the cat shelter, it was my husband who experienced love at first sight.

Mabel hates cats. She was perched up high, hissing at the other felines as they passed by below her. She bore a striking resemblance to our first cat, Marge, who had crossed over a year before.

We were told at the time that we had to wait for Mabel to be spayed. Her official adoption date would be April 8, 2000. The shelter manager said that she was pacing back and forth in front of the door, waiting for my arrival. I had a picture in my head of her tapping a watch and looking up in exasperation: "Where have you been? What took you so long?"

She yelled at me all the way home. Once we arrived, she walked upstairs, downstairs and through the basement, presumably to ensure she was the solo cat. Then she plopped herself down on the couch and indicated her accommodations would be satisfactory.

Over time, it became apparent that Joe was her favorite. She followed him around, sat on his desk as he did his homework or next to him on the couch.

I've always been the provider of food and attended to litter box detail. And general clean up of hairballs and such.

Mr. Ginley talks to her all day when it's just the two of them. He has invented activities which, he claims, keep her heart going. "Dancing Dads and Kitty Cats." And "Tick Tock Kitty Clock." And "Cat Ups." He also rotates her from time to time, so she doesn't get flat on one side. She does her old lady noises at him or yowls, but mostly she has an air of resignation when he embarks on one of his routines.

Mabel's exact age is unknown. When we adopted her, we were told 2 1/2 to 3 years old. Which would put her birthday in 1997, and her current age at about 20.

Her prior owners had her declawed but not spayed. Idiots.

Get your pet spayed or neutered, people!

Sorry, I digress.

Obviously, Mabel has survived her many separations from the boy. Back and forth for college, and now in his new digs. These days, she is happy to see him, and hangs around when he's here, but after he leaves, she no longer yells at me and looks at the door, waiting for him to reappear.

She has adapted.

Mabel has decided that I'm the new human of choice. I don't mind being sloppy seconds. I rather enjoy her draping herself across my lap. Although, honestly, I could do without her sticking her face in my food when I'm trying to eat.

I don't know how much time the old girl has left, but we plan to enjoy her while she's here.

As for our kid, he is adopting a cat of his own, who will be joining him this week. A male cat with whom he established a connection while helping me at the cat shelter.

Just don't tell Mabel!

Putting it all Together

Who among us hasn't dreaded seeing those words on the side of a box: assembly required?

Last weekend, in the next chapter of our son's moving-on process, the three of us put our heads together and committed to assembling three pieces of furniture.

The futon was no problem...we'd put that up and taken it down when Joe moved into his college digs, thanks to instructions we downloaded from the internet. We got a pleasant surprise when Mr. Ginley figured out where to put the little metal doo-hickey that keeps the cushion on the frame. (Who knew there were holes in the frame? You couldn't tell from the diagram.)

The rolling cart (after a slight mishap with unscrewing and re-screwing a couple of pieces) was relatively easy.

The desk took two hours.

Many jokes are made about Ikea furniture (directions in Swedish, etc.). But while this particular item was not manufactured in the land of "ja," it certainly had many of the same characteristics as its Swedish cousin.

The first order of business was opening up the box and releasing the components from their plastic wrappers. I was in charge of sorting the various screws and geegaws needed to attach everything. And to hand them over as requested.

The desk was comprised of a variety of pressboard pieces. Fortunately, it was a small desk, but it did have two drawers, so that made things just a little more complex. Mr. Ginley grappled with the instructions, which showed how to assemble the piece upside down.

Surprisingly, there was very little cursing, no yelling, and only one do-over.

The process made Mr. Ginley and I nostalgic for our own growing-up experiences.

Bill's story was the bicycles.

One Christmas morning when he and his younger brother were 10 and 11 (or so), they awoke to find goldenrod banana bikes under the tree. The bicycles had been assembled Christmas Eve by an inebriated dad and two older brothers. The instructions were in Japanese. There was much swearing and nasty hangovers all around the next day. But Bill and his brother were ecstatic, and insisted on riding their bikes in the cold weather (against their father's protests), which wreaked havoc with the green (yes, green) tires.

I'm sure my parents put together their share of toys.  Like the baby buggies my sister and I received. I'm guessing those were a pain to assemble. It seems to me a lot of the games and things we got were put together after Christmas morning, and we (with the help of older siblings) did the assembling.

After last weekend, I thought our work was done for awhile. Alas, Stephanie offered me two bookcases, free of charge. (Us, turn down a place to house books? Surely you jest!) One was complete the other, you got it, was "assembly required."

The box is going to sit around for just a little while longer.

At least until Mr. Ginley's screwdriver hand recovers from its carpal tunnel.

Bye Bye Birdie

Yes, I know my son was away at college for four years before he moved back home. Yes, I know he's old enough and competent enough to make it on his own.

Yes, I know it's time.

Still, I miss the rotten kid.

Last Sunday, the two of us had breakfast, and he regaled me with tales of his trip to France. (He just got back Saturday night.) I sat there listening, trying to memorize every detail, soaking in the familiar atmosphere of our favorite local diner. Keep the coffee coming, I want to burn this into my memory banks.

Afterward, we did the weekly grocery shopping, and I let him pick out food and such for his first week in his new digs.

Later, when his girlfriend, Jill, arrived, we loaded up the three cars with bins of stuff and headed over to his new abode.

Our first hurdle was parking. He doesn't have driveway privileges, so we had to park on the street. Or, more accurately in this case, across the street.

The second hurdle was getting in. He had a key. But there was a keypad on the front door.

He didn't know the code.

While his dad did the dad thing ("Didn't you notice the keypad when you looked at the place? Do you have your lease agreement, is it on there?"), Joe frantically called the landlord, then the landlord's dad, until he finally reached one of them and got the number.

Then we got to the stairs. His apartment is on the third floor.

Schlep, schlep, schlep, we dragged each of his worldly goods up countless stairs to reach the top of Mount Crumpet and dump it.

Between trips, Mr. Ginley and I sat and panted for awhile before heading back down for the next load. Admittedly, we let the youngsters do more of the heavy lifting. That's the way it should be, after all. Over breakfast, Joe had told me he walked all over Paris. So I reminded him that he was in much better shape than his mother, who had only roamed the halls at work, while he was there, across the pond, having a good old time.

But I digress. Which I do well.

Once the cars had been divested of their goods, we sat and chatted for a bit. Joe's apartment is what realtors would term "cozy" or "cute." Meaning small. Very small. But also adorable. Nooks and crannies and personality galore. I went back in time in my own mind, remembering my first solo digs, sitting with a cat in my lap in the rocking chair in the summer, drinking tea and enjoying the evening breeze.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ginley fretted over the lack of space, making suggestions on what could go where. (Have I ever mentioned he has excellent spatial skills?)

The two young folks listened politely with their parent filters on.

It was time to go.

As we waved goodbye and pulled away from the curb, I couldn't help feeling both excited for Joe and sad for us. I like having the kid around. He's fun and sweet and smart, in an absent-minded professor kind of way.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On Tuesday, Joe's friend, Kyle, arrived with his truck to move the stuff that wouldn't fit in the car.

There is still work to be done. Both at the new apartment (assembling furniture) and here. Surveying Joe's former room last night, it didn't look abandoned. There is still a ton of stuff that needs to be packed up and put away until his next move. Mr. Ginley and I are planning on taking over his room, which is significantly larger than ours.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to breakfast tomorrow morning.

The bird has flown, but I hope he won't be a stranger to the old nest.

Who's Zooming Whom?

During the Cold War, Mad Magazine came up with two characters, blackbirds, one with a white coat, the other a black coat, that were part of a running series called Spy vs. Spy.

The pair were constantly trying to outwit one another, but their efforts mostly backfired on themselves.

This image comes to mind often these days as I observe marketers vying for my attention/hard earned money.

Telemarketing, I am sad to say, is alive and, if not well, is still chugging along. Mr. Ginley has developed a series of ways to deal with these calls. I have no patience, I just hang up as soon as I realize I don't know the caller. He, on the other hand, engages in mind games.

For example, when "John" from "Windows" calls, he tells them we don't have a computer. Or that our windows are nice and shiny clean and work just fine.

When he gets a robocall, he looks around the room and responds to their questions with random words. "Ottoman." Or "Gnome." Or "Kitties."

Once, when asked for his opinion on a political poll, he skewed it by answering the opposite way of how he really felt.

All in an effort to throw off marketers, who are trying to figure out what we are all about.

On Google, we will randomly search for something we have no interest in. For weeks afterward, we will be solicited for products related to Mr. Potato Head, Jheri-Curl wig or Pajamagrams.

Sometimes, I will go to Amazon  and put something in my cart, just to see if they will come back and ding me about it later. And if the price will go down when they do.

Oftentimes, you can shop around on a website, and they will offer you a percentage off for a first-time purchase. We saved $8 just this week on free shipping for an item we purchased.

On the plus side, my spam filter has become more effective at weeding out junk mail. So I don't have to deal with offers to be my f*** buddy.

I imagine this game has gone on since long before the pyramids were built. Marketing, in one form or another, is an ancient practice that's only grown more sophisticated over time.

The trick is to recognize that you're being courted and take advantage of your suitor, as much as possible.

Where it all gets scary is when institutions like your health care provider get involved. There's a bill that's been proposed whereby insurance companies can require you to test your DNA to see if you're likely to have health problems, and then, presumably, charge you more. More up-my-grill tactics from a government that insists it doesn't want to be in my business.

What's a body to do?

This body will do its best by leading wild goose chases and such.

It's a pyrrhic victory, at best.

Sometimes, that is all we get in this life.