As Summer Turns to Fall

Beehives in the Wild Garden at sunset
Bee hives in the Wild Garden at sunset on a summer afternoon

Our bees did very well this year. The hives are in the Wild Garden, which is a garden next to the woods, edged with white roses and yew.  Inside the hedge of roses and yew, perennial or self-seeding weeds that came up on their own grow freely, tidied by my selective weeding in the first year of the garden’s existence and lightly thereafter, and some additions: some mint, a mysterious yellow tall flower from a friend, and some phlox I had to move from somewhere it wasn’t wanted way back when. You can read more about the Wild Garden here.

summer honey in jars and comb honey all rights reserved Bean & Bantam
Six half-gallon jars of honey, a couple of quarts, cut comb, and the purple bee suit. This picture is an after. The before consists of multiple bee stings, honey and wax covered hands, a sticky garage floor and doorknobs, and a few long hours.

Phlox and tree silouhettes in the wild garden at sunset

It’s been a good summer.T his is a short post, so I’ll link here to my favorite post about summer here, and my favorite post about fall here.

 

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Steeples and Stars

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Spring has arrived in Vermont.

Iris coming up. You know what pops in my head when I see these new iris? “And these are my steeples” from that kids game where you fold your hands into a church. I like visiting churches… as a tourist. I’ve seen quite a few across the world, but not many inspire the simple awe of spring and sunlight on new green, or the grace of hands on dirt, or the benediction of brushing off damp gritty knees after kneeling to weed. Excuse me while I go look up the word benediction… Not totally sure what it means…

A little boy asked me not long ago what a church was, as we drove by one, and I tried to explain, I said churches were where people went to pray and talk to God. He asked me if churches where were God lived. Well, I said, it’s kind of his house, but he doesn’t live there. He’s everywhere. I thought that was the end of it, but then he asked me, “what are we made of?” What are we made of? What? What should I answer? Skin and bones? I reached way back and remembered a song lyric and something about carbon. We are all made of stars, I said. He was quiet the rest of the way home.



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