Alyssa, a friend of Pmatt’s, dropped me a line the other day and asked if I could show her the beekeeping ropes, so she can start her own hives. Awesome, an apprentice! I’ll be like the old guy in Karate Kid, the cool master, full of knowledge and experience, but careful not to make the lessons too easy. My advice will be issued in cryptic and portentous riddles. Only by arriving at the answer herself will she understand the meaning behind what I have said, so that my words shall serve as confirmations for her own learning, not a bypass for the school of hard stings.
Or, more likely, I’ll open the hive, immediately drop a frame of angry bees, one will crawl under up my pant leg and I’ll hop and howl around the backyard batting and swatting myself, crying and squealing like a stuck pig.
Sounds like she’s already well on her way to being an urban farmer, having hens for eggs, fermenting kobucha and aging cheese in her kitchen (I, too, have “aged” cheese, but it’s mostly sliced American past its due date). I figured this was so she would be ready to become self-sustaining in the event of an apocalyptic collapse of civilization, but she apparently thinks the imminent demise of the ecosystem and the society it supports is hooey. I figured she’ll be whistling a different tune when she’s fighting a pack of wild dogs for her breakfast, but she remains unperturbed. I quote:
Animals don’t worry me. It’s the horsemen that freak me out. Angry men on
a rampage with an agenda, not good. Not in the bible. Not in a bar. Just
not good.
Anyway, she’ll be swinging by next weekend, I’ll crack the hive and show her around. If anyone else is interested, just drop me a line, we’ll make a party.
