Nucs

I saw bees huddled around the vents, pushing against each other, spindly legs stretching through the slits.

I had been considering beekeeping for at least two years. I spent time researching hive boxes, gear, and where to place the hives in my yard—for protection and production. Beekeeping, like most things, is easier in the mind. But books don’t produce honey or pollinate a garden.

Reluctantly, I was ready to buy a colony of bees. I met a beekeeper at a farmer’s market during a bee festival. He said it would be best to get two. “One colony could swarm or fail, so getting two would be safer. If they both thrive, more honey,” he said. I like honey, so I took his advice.

In the early spring of last year, I ordered two nucleus colonies from a local apiary. A nucleus colony, or nuc for short, is a small hive containing bees in all stages of development. From these small hives, thousands of productive bees would hatch, and rivers (I hoped) of honey would flow.

Most nucs are reserved for sale in the fall, but I didn’t want to risk not getting my bees. I was the first on the apiaries’ list, but I would have to wait a year for delivery. I would rather be patient than disappointed.

They looked out longingly, I thought. Likely, their small, stripped bodies were shivering with excitement at the possibility of escaping and stinging me.

I waited throughout the summer, fall, and over the winter. In April, I took a hands-on class from the apiary where I ordered the nucs. It had been a mild winter, and the early spring rains were chased by sunshine and warm bright days. It was a verdant, shaggy spring. Every green thing grew easily, and a heavy layer of pollen covered anything that did not blow in the breeze. Even the river that borders my town of Cambridge, the Choptank, on still days, was covered in yellow pollen that traced the eddies of current running toward the Chesapeake Bay.

At the beginning of May, I got a call from the apiary where I had ordered the bees. My two nucs were ready. I could pick them up anytime. Since they were in sealed, but vented, nuc boxes, I would not need protective gear. The beekeeper at the apiary said they would be comfortable in the family car. I have carried almost everything in the ten-year-old Honda van—it has scars to prove it—so I didn’t hesitate to pack two colonies into the back seat. I scheduled a time to pick them up, still wondering if I knew enough about bees to even begin.

The nucs were ready and in the sealed boxes when I arrived. The bees were quiet. I heard no humming like when I inspected the colony in the hands-on class two weeks before. I saw bees huddled around the vents, pushing against each other, spindly legs stretching through the slits. They looked out longingly, I thought. Likely, their small, stripped bodies were shivering with excitement at the possibility of escaping and stinging me.

I picked up the boxes to load into my car. Though the box was quiet, my hand passed over the vent. I felt the heat of the hive escaping. It was a curious sensation. A small shot of adrenaline surged through my body. The colonies were alive. It was like handling the frames throbbing with activity at the hands-on class the week before.

I drove down the lane of the apiary toward the state road. The windows were down. Then I rolled them up. I rolled them down again as I stopped at the end of the lane. I turned onto the road and accelerated. The bees stayed quiet, even silent, as the wind blew through the windows in a rising gust.

Unsure of myself, I stayed quiet, too.