Three years ago my twin boys turned eight, and like any good uncle would, my darling brother showed up with a ridiculous and ostensibly dangerous gift. As he pulled in the driveway, the back of his truck brimming with white boxes, I thought, “Oh hell no!” My brother is a beekeeper, so I knew what was coming. In his cavalier and enchanting way, he was, as usual, able to assuage the situation as he belly-laughed and hugged us all hello, all while slyly handing us three sets of beekeeper suits. He was gifting the boys their own hives. Immediately, we were swept up in the excitement and adventure. It took all of two hours for that to fade and for the kids to lose interest. And thus, I became the keeper of the bees.
My husband and I joke around about our semi-homestead here in Bucks County, PA. With our chickens and bountiful gardens we keep, bees didn’t seem that strange a venture. Little did I know my husband didn’t really dig bees, and that was just the first bump in my beekeeping road.