At our house, honey is not a term of endearment. Usually I curse, because working honey (getting the stuff out of the honey combs) is a back-ache inducing day-long sticky kitchen producing slave labor type job, and all it gains me is endless jars of honey that need to be stored somewhere. I like honey now and then. I could live without it. I am allergic to bee sting. The type allergic where I go into anaphylactic shock when I get stung, unless I get to my Benadryl in a hurry. Massive doses of antihistamine will keep me alive, but very tired, very, very grumpy and not happily so, neither the 'alive' nor the 'tired' part.
Harold on the other hand keeps bees, names them (Emily, each one), likes hanging out with them, thinks the beekeeper's garb is dashing, and he makes me paint the darn bee boxes!
When there was a swarm in the orchard, all else was dropped, but the camera, and the bee stuff.
A SWARM!
Yay! It must be what he dreams of.
The branch with the swarm gets sacrificed (okay, we do have too many apples, so I won't complain about it), placed in the bee box (painted by yours truly) and the bees are rehoused.
At night the box was closed, and the new hive was moved in the back of the orchard, with the other bees. If he got the queen, the hive will stay in the box and make brood and - more gosh darn honey.
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