Sweet on Bees

Why are bees in this urban neighborhood thriving?

by Bruce Schimmel

By nature, the honeybee is a peaceable creature that's no more likely to attack you than a cow.

I'm a beekeeper, and so I invite you to test this for yourself. Next time you see some bees sipping on a field of clover, simply reach down and pet one. Go ahead. Right on the furry patch on her back. (That fur is a good way to tell a honeybee from a yellow jacket or hornet.) Simply stroke her gently, and she'll hum happily. I promise.

But I also promise that should you come a-knocking on her beehive, and she thinks you're about to mess with her babies inside, she'll turn into a terror.

Be sweet to bees, and they'll be good to you. And especially be careful when you're playing in their cribs — which we recently did, with some thriving hives in West Philly.

The honey from these bees had to be harvested because their hives were overflowing. This, in itself, is newsworthy. You've probably heard how bees, worldwide, are suffering from Colony Collapse Disorder.

In some places, including parts of Pennsylvania, as many as half the colonies have crashed. Inexplicably, these sick bees do the unthinkable: They abandon their brood. They leave, and don't return.

So why would these bees, located in the middle of an urban neighborhood, be so happy?

Consider who's being sweet to them.

Jade Walker and Johanna Rosen run Mill Creek Farm at 49th and Brown. Jade, the farm's beekeeper, is tall, deeply tanned, and has the muscles of someone who regularly slings bushels of produce.

She'll need all that strength, and more, because her hives are loaded with honey, and boiling over with bees. So, Jade recruited me and Harold, an intern from Saul Agricultural High School, to help.

As a beekeeper, Jade's a newbie. When the hives arrived last year, she knew little about beekeeping. "But I had these bees here," said Jade, "and so I had to learn." And then, as a symbol of her commitment, she got a giant bee tattooed on her inner wrist.

Right now, though, you can't see Jade's wrists, ankles or anything except her face behind a bee-veil. Under the blazing sun, Harold is also heavily swaddled; his wrists and ankles are bound to his clothing in duct tape. What you don't want is a bee crawling up your pant leg.

Fortunately, I have a magic screen — the smoke that curls from the snout of something that looks like a little Tin Man. Smoke short-circuits a bee's ability to sense you. But you've still got to be very gentle.

We smoke up the hives, and pry off the sticky racks. Each rack is solid with honey, and honey is heavy. My arms ache as I carry the buzzing boxes to the truck — being careful not to exhale on them.

But I can inhale, and the honey smells like a summer bouquet. The scent of squash blossoms, the sweetness of peaches, the tang of thyme.

Everything blooming goes into the taste and smell of honey, which is as distinctive as a vintage of wine. This year's honey, says Jade, is lightly floral, with a slight peppery taste.

We finish loading the truck with racks, and none of the bees have misbehaved.

"You really need to be on point with bees," says Jade. "It's the most present state you can be in. You need to be super calm."

Of all the attractions for visitors to this model farm, the bees garner the most questions.

"Sometimes we get groups, and that's all we talk about," says Jade. "Everyone is doom and gloom about bees, what with hives everywhere collapsing and bees wandering away."

But Jade's bees feast on flowers from fruit and vegetables that are grown without chemicals — which is one reason I think her bees stay put.

"There's so much growing here, so much life, that they're really happy here," says Jade. "And so they stay."

(bruce@schimmel.com)