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| Mel and Mo enjoy summer's scenery on the farm |
“When we extracted honey two years ago it flowed into jars light, sun-drenched, summer blonde and floral to taste,” my friend Jack emailed. “Yesterday brought dark, dark, heavy orangish jars of flavorful anti-oxidant fighting goodness. Same hive.”
On the other hand, my bees disappeared again—another year without our raw honey in my pantry. After investing time and finances, I could be disappointed.
For what profit? As farmer and poet Wendell Berry says, “We live the given life.”
In my mother-in-law’s vernacular, “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
On the brink of seventy years, I look on the bright side more than ever. I consider what our land has yielded, regardless of drought, fruits and vegetables to nourish us. There’s plenty left to consume with great pleasure until springtime.
Plenty to give away.
As I sliced one of our last watermelons into a bowl, I considered Michigan’s motto, Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice. Yes, if we seek a pleasant peninsula, if we open our eyes and rest them upon our lands and waters, we’ll see what abundance they give.
If we pause and lift our heads, perhaps we’ll notice our neighbor, risk a wave hello. If we slow down we might see what natural and human resources await our health and pleasure within our own community.
For heaven’s sake, there’s ample raw honey available in these parts of north Oakland and south Lapeer counties. I’ll buy what was given to another beekeeper.
Good economy.
I may not have bees to overwinter, but we do have five new chickens and their eggs to collect daily. Rain or shine. Those silly girls toured the greenhouse yesterday while I tidied apiary equipment. Like kids in Disneyland, the hens cocked their heads this way and that and chased crickets.
This is goodness from autumn’s honeyed mouth, October’s cornucopia spilling earth’s gifts upon our table and into our souls.
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| Mo sleeps on our chicken chair |
All our place wants is our cat Mo. After eighteen years, we’re lonely for our black and white friend. Although we buried him next to Goldie, our protective hen, we still expect to find Mozart sleeping under the lilac bushes or sunning on the patio’s pea gravel. We listen for his voice. Mo said “Me-el” like nobody else.
Now we wait for our next mouser to show up. PJ, our first cat, and Mo both came to us when least expected. Two cats in twenty-six years. We may not know how to keep bees, but somehow our tomcats settled in and abided a long lifetime.
I know dear Reader, bees and tomcats are entirely different creatures not to be compared. However, I must say it’s a wonderful feeling to love and be loved by a living thing. And it hurts when they leave, bees or cat.
On this rainy October day, I turn to my study window from habit, remember Mo on the sill outside, talking to me. He couldn’t tolerate muddy paws. I appreciated that.
Oh yes, this place flows with more than enough goodness.
