[It has been a super busy few weeks so haven’t chance to write much, but since swarm season is imminent, here is a swarm catching piece I wrote a few years ago.]

A young beekeeper loaded a large rubbermaid tote full of beekeeping gear onto his truck. The tote contained a veil, beekeeping jacket, smoker, and other minor tools of the trade. He headed off to collect a swarm that another beekeeper didn’t want (or want to fool with). The old  beekeeper had called the young beekeeper, who wasn’t all that young, but he was younger than the old beekeeper who wasn’t all that old, but he was old enough to know that he didn’t want to fool with this swarm.  

The young beekeeper gladly accepted the opportunity to collect the swarm. The swarm looked like a basketball of bees hanging from the bottom of a swarm trap attached to a fence post. But upon closer inspection, the bees had already drawn four small combs that formed the inner framework for the ball. Instead of relocating inside the swarm trap, the bees had taken up residence underneath it. The was not a swarm but a burgeoning open-air brood nest. 

“Should be easy enough,” the young beekeeper thought. 

He put on his veil and stuffed dried grass clippings into his smoker. He rummaged for several minutes through his tote for his lighter until he remembered that he used the lighter earlier in the week to light the candles on his wife’s birthday cake and forgot to put the lighter back in the tote. 

“It’s always something,” the young beekeeper thought. He thought about returning to his house to retrieve the lighter, but it was already half-dark and getting darker by the minute, and his house was ten minutes away and the bees seemed calm enough. Still, he had the good sense to switch out his veil for his beekeeping jacket and he put on his goat skin gloves. 

He carefully used the tip of his hive tool to probe the mass of bees, and he started sawing through the top of one comb. A few bees took umbrage, pelting his protective gear, but he persisted. Then a piece of comb fell, and bees exploded in all directions. He did not get stung, per se, but the inside of his gloves now felt prickly. 

“That didn’t work,” he thought. 

He went back to his tailgate and rummaged through his box again. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but as if struck by divine inspiration, the young beekeeper grabbed a bottle of robber spray.

He spritzed air around the bees like a lady spritzing perfume. As if somebody had pulled a fire alarm, the bees started evacuating the comb in an orderly fashion, one long line pouring off the combs onto and up the side of the swarm trap. The bees made a beeline for the small circular entrance on the side of the swarm trap. Within minutes the comb was evacuated, and the beekeeper easily cut the comb from the bottom of the swarm trap and put it in a five gallon bucket on the back of his truck so he could melt it down in the future.  

“Easy enough,” the young beekeeper thought proudly. He would just take the swarm trap with him, then bring it back in a few days after he moved the bees over to one of his hives. The old beekeeper wouldn’t mind. He then examined how the swarm trap was affixed to the post.

“Who uses square head screws?” he thought. 

The young beekeeper went back to his truck and started rummaging through his toolbox, but he knew it was futile–he didn’t have any square head bits. Despite his best efforts, he would leave empty handed.

The next morning, the old beekeeper called; he couldn’t believe his good luck. Another swarm had already moved into his swarm trap. 

The young beekeeper didn’t even try to explain. 

He just said, “You keep that one.”

I had a sense that I was walking straight into a mess. At this point, I was a young Soil Conservationist for my local Soil and Water Conservation District, and I had met Jeff a time or two at various farming meetings in the county, but this was the first time he had ever called me. I would later come to recognize a familiar pattern of rapid intensification within his calls.  

“Stephen, how are you?”

“Good, good.” 

“This is Jeff Wilson.”

“Hey, Jeff, how ya doing?

“Well, I’ve been better, if I’m being honest–I’m about to lose a fifty acre field I’ve been renting on account of some shenanigans.” He said this like a singer warming up, his voice getting a little louder and higher with every single word uttered. 

“What’s the problem?” I asked. 

“Well, you know as well as I do, that this is has been one of the wettest falls we’ve ever had, and we were a little late getting the wheat planted on account of that, and then it turned bitter cold and some of the corn stalks have washed and piled up in the bottom of a terrace, and landowner acts as if his whole field is washing away.”

“I hate to hear that,” I said. 

“You’re dang right, I hate it too. I tried to explain to him that the soil hadn’t washed–heck, it’s too cold for it to wash with the ground frozen, but he said I wasn’t taking proper care of his land, and that he’s already got another offer from a farmer who wants to rent it next year. And then I knew exactly what was going on.”

“Shenanigans,” I said. 

“Worse than shenanigans. You’d best believe that I know exactly which farmer it is–I won’t say his name–but he does this all the time, always trying to rent tracts out from underneath people, and stirring up stuff with landowners. You’d better believe I’m gunna deal with him, but could you come out to explain to the landowner, as a neutral party, that there’s nothing more I could have done in a year like this, that there hasn’t been any real washin, not even the slightest rut started.” 

“Well, I guess I can,” I said. I don’t know why I said yes. I’d like to think at that point in my career I still felt obligated to help people if I could, even if the ask was a little outside of my job description.

Despite Jeff’s reputation for being slightly excitable, everybody knew he worked hard, and I doubt I have ever met a farmer with a bigger chip on his shoulder. His father was actually a banker, but despite the apparent advantage of startup capital, Jeff’s farming pursuits seemed just about as profitable as everybody else’s, meaning hardly profitable at all. If I had to psychoanalyze him, I suspect the stubborn determination so common in young farmers trying to prove they can defy the odds (or their father’s advice) and make a living farming was amplified a thousandfold in Jeff. It wasn’t from lack of trying that Jeff failed. But in choosing farming, he had traded compound interest for compound problems. 

So I felt obligated to help, and the spot in question was much as Jeff described over the phone. There was about a 3 foot by 10 foot bare strip of red soil showing, where the residue had washed down in the bottom of the terrace. No rut, just a bare spot upstream above a little dam of corn stalks. Mr. Rutherford, the landowner,  seemed relieved when I told him this wasn’t anything to worry about, that all it needed was a little straw thrown on it, that it had been an awfully wet year. Jeff had seemed rather solemn as we walked through the field, but now he nodded vigorously.

“Well, I was worried my field was eroding,” said the landowner, “When that other farmer stopped by and said I ought to be concerned, I guess I jumped the gun a little bit.”

“Mr. Rutherford,” said Jeff, “I want you to know I pride myself on taking care of landowners’ fields, just as if they were my very own, and I hate to say this about another farmer but he ain’t nothing but a snake, just trying to pick up some rented land, and you better believe he’s got a thing or two coming. He ought to know better than to mess with me. Two can play at that.”

Face red, Jeff was now fully animated as he talked. He was shaking his head with emphasis, spitting a little inadvertently, and looking at us directly in the eye beneath his slightly cockeyed ball cap. Mr. Rutherford and I smiled nervously, and I suggested that it was too cold to stand around in a field. 

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Rutherford. Your field is in good hands,” said Jeff, excitedly.    

Later, in the spring, I was sitting in the office, when one of my coworkers brought in news of the latest rumor sweeping the countryside. At night, someone had cut all the strings on a certain farmer’s freshly cut hay bales, in a field not too far from Mr. Rutherford’s. I just grinned–and didn’t say a word.

I’m no Casanova, but I know a thing or two: I know diamonds are dumb and roses are for rubes and the real way to a woman’s heart is to fix the washing machine. Lately, my wife has been dropping lots of amorous hints, like “The washing machine got stuck again,” and “Ugh! I had to restart that load of towels three times!”

I like to play it coy at first, as if I’m not even listening, which really drives her wild. 

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“I will take a look at it,” I replied nonchalantly. I call this advanced romantic repartee, “The Art of the I Will.” It is best used repeatedly, to build playful tension in the relationship, ideally to the point where your wife is teasing you about outsourcing appliance repair to another man. 

“If you don’t look at it soon, I’m going to call a repairman,” she deadpanned.  

“I will, I will,” I said. 

It’s playing with fire, but these days appliance repairmen are a dying breed, so it’s highly unlikely there is one locally who could service the washer, but never–and I repeat never–do you want a polite, punctual, professional elderly man testing your wife’s sensors or swapping out her actuator. That is a standard you’ll never be able to live up to. 

This past weekend, after a long buildup of “I wills,” I took it upon myself to plan a big romantic getaway. Really, my wife was the only one getting away, to go visit her parents. Her dad has been having some health issues, and since Thomas was sick, I stayed home with him for a guy’s weekend. 

My plan was to surprise her by cleaning the house and fixing the washing machine while she was gone. I had secretly ordered the needed part for the washer earlier in the week. According to the polite, punctual, professional elderly man on YouTube, repairing the faulty door lock mechanism should only take twenty minutes. 

After two hours, I gave up.

 “Ugh! This stupid washer!” I said. 

“You’re not supposed to say ‘stupid,”” Thomas replied. He had been acting as my assistant, mostly picking up the tiny screws I kept fumbling and dropping. I had hoped to impress him with my handyman acumen. But this was beyond my skill to diagnose and fix. It was not the door lock mechanism. It was not a clogged inlet screen. The washer just refused to switch over to the spin cycle, even after it had drained. 

“Don’t tell my mom I said that,” I told Thomas. “How about we go down to the barn and get the hand truck.” 

“Why?”

“Cause we’re going to get rid of this piece of junk and buy a new washer.”

Guys, let me tell you–there are few gestures more romantic than fixing a washing machine. One is buying a new washer and having it ready upon your wife’s return home. 

Another, cheaper option, is doing the laundry. 

Heed and remember.