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A Traveling Man
By: Stephen Bishop
Well, I’ve done it. I have joined the ranks of migratory beekeepers. Granted, this is similar to the time I joined the ranks of America’s soybean farmers. On that occasion, which I will not detail extensively for fear of paralyzing myself with cringe-worthy memories, I showed up at our local grain elevator with a mammoth load of soybeans on the back of my pickup truck. Mammoth for me, I should say, because I was using a combine that can be best described as a museum piece, or as my wife liked to call it, a piece of junk. I am a sucker for old rusty equipment, mostly because it is the only type I can afford. This was an old pull combine, meaning I pulled it through the field of soybeans with a tractor, while it decided where and when it wanted to break down.
I blame my wife’s grandpa for this foray into soybean farming because he seemed to entertain himself in his later years by using me as labor for his crazy ideas, like getting the old combine running. When the grain buyer saw my four-cylinder pickup truck get in line with all of the eighteen-wheel tractor trailers waiting to off-load, he walked up to my truck, looked in the bed, and then said with a shrug, “Well, you gotta start somewhere.”
Indeed, you do. Which is why I’m not ashamed to say I started my journey into migratory beekeeping by loading eight hives onto a lawnmower trailer and hauling them over hill and dale and county line, over an hour away. It was a journey for the ages. Not really, mostly it was pretty boring, except the time I accidentally caught major air going over some railroad tracks. For some reason, I thought it was a defunct crossing in which the tracks had been removed. It was not. Thankfully, I had the hives fastened down securely enough that they only did a few back flips before pretty much landing on and reassuming their previous spots on the trailer.
My destination was a friend’s farm, an idyllic little farm with broken-down tractors scattered piecemeal, old barns in various stages of disintegration, and sourwood trees. I actually thought about penning a letter and sending it to my wife, describing the wonders and beauties I encountered upon my arrival.
My Dearest Wife,
How much I miss you! Though the miles have been slow and fraught with apprehension, the trip across the county-line has been mostly uneventful, save for a few aerobatics at a railroad crossing. Thankfully, my arduous journey to capture the nectar of the illusive sourwood blossom is near its end, as I have finally made it to my long-awaited destination, a farm of marvelous beauty and rust. Truly, the various patinas here are breathtaking, and it makes me long for the day when we will have more rusty, broken down farm equipment to call our own. Perhaps upon my return, we can visit and rescue a rusty piece from the scrapyard.
Your Loving Husband,
Stephen
Unfortunately, I was unable to actually pen and post my romantic missive because I was too busy navigating rusty outcroppings and ogling the farming artifacts. After much pulling forward and backing, I was finally able to find the perfect spot to park my trailer of bees. I just hope the bees weren’t too nauseous from all the herky-jerky maneuvers and the previous back flips at the railroad crossing. In any event, I got the bees to their new destination safe and sound –– and, in so doing, I joined the ranks of America’s migratory beekeepers. Hey, you gotta start somewhere.
