Feeding Bees
From my back window, I saw small shapes around the front of the box. I walked out to watch them.
This story is a repost from last year—the first winter I fed my two colonies of bees. Over the past weekend, I started feeding them again. Read more bee stories here.
This year, winter crawled in slowly and without confidence. Warm days still rose in late fall with the pale sunrise. The hives were closed for the winter to keep the temperature constant and regulated by the bees.
The weather cooled but never grew cold for more than a few broken weeks in January. In the fall, a master beekeeper encouraged me to supplement the bees’ honey with sugar syrup. One of my colonies was strong and had made a large store of capped brood, but the other had done only enough to get by. His concern, which became mine as leaves shook from the hackberry tree that had shaded the hive boxes a few months earlier, was that the less productive hive would struggle during the bleak midwinter when the pollen had blown away with the scouring wind.
I want to be a beekeeper who does not artificially support the bees by feeding them. But I want to keep bees alive even more. The master beekeeper told me that he fed his colony throughout parts of the year. He suggested that feeding the bees would keep them strong without struggling.
I could feed the bees with granulated sugar when the temperature dropped below freezing or make thick, sweet blocks to place under the lid. When the days were cool but sunny, I could make a sugar syrup with the consistency of honeysuckle sap that the bees would prefer.
That afternoon, I looked out the back window, expecting to see hundreds of bees clinging to the feeders.
Now, the sun rising, shining its first light on the front of the hive boxes, heated the colonies, and the workers would creep out of the hive box and begin a tentative swirling flight, looking for pollen in the slowly changing landscape. It was warm, and I would make syrup until the cold formed it into blocks of sweet ice.
In a saucepan, I mixed granulated sugar with water, turned the burner on low, and walked away. Later, I came back to stir and check the bottom of the pan for gritty sugar. I walked away again and waited a slow hour. When I returned, the warm saucepan steamed in the cool breeze blowing through the open westward-facing kitchen windows.
When the thickened sugar syrup was smooth, I slid the pan off the burner and watched the steam float above it and dissolve as it reached the hood over the stovetop.
After it cooled, I filled two water bottles with the sugar syrup. A red bottom with a trough screwed to the bottle gave the bees a ridge to cling to while their proboscises lapped up the watery sugar.
I walked to the back corner of the yard. Hackberry twigs had fallen around the boxes and sprinkled the tops. It was in the late afternoon. The sun made its slow sink toward the western horizon, and soft shadows covered the hives. I flipped the water bottles over, and they filled with a slow and soft gurgle. I placed one on each box, picked up a few sticks, and walked across the yard to the house.
The next morning, the early light was blue. A brittle frost was on the pale green grass. When the sun rose over the white pines across the road, the morning light was orange and warm, and the frost gently turned to steam wherever the sun lay.
Within an hour, the sun fully shining on the front of my two hive boxes signaled the bees to forage for pollen. Creeping out, they found the water bottles filled with the sugar syrup.
From my back window, I saw small shapes around the front of the box. I walked out to watch them.
The bees found the water bottles and covered both like a beard. I inched closer and watched their intent frenzy. With small steps, I moved to get a better view. I was within a couple of feet, and in their work, they ignored me. I was no threat and only stood watching like the mockingbird that sometimes perched on the top of the hive box. Filled with the self-satisfaction of providing a food source for my bees and calculating the pounds of potential honey next year would bring, I backed away.
That afternoon, I looked out the back window, expecting to see hundreds of bees clinging to the feeders. Bees flew lazily around the yard, but the water bottles were gone from the top of the boxes.
I walked out the back door. On the ground in front of the boxes were two empty water bottles. The breeze could easily have blown them from the box tops, but to me, it seemed purposeful. Like a drunk sliding an empty glass down a slippery bar, the bees demanded another round.
I picked up the empty bottles stoically. Perhaps a few worker bees huddled around the entrance to their hive box and, with antenna twitching, watched me walk away to go make more for tomorrow.