Finding a Voice

I visited a farm today where bees are the newest enterprise. Inspired, I revisited something I wrote for my dad for Christmas in 2005.

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The one thing my dad has said he misses about farming is the beekeeping. He used to do it with his father, who died when my dad was 29 and I was not quite 2. Dad bought the apiary from Grandpa’s estate and carried on in the Taylor Apiaries tradition —giving his children valuable work experience in the process.

People would drive for miles to buy our honey, prepackaged in our containers or poured into their own tins or jars or, more usually, margarine tubs and ice cream pails. We sold by weight, placing the container on the scale to check the empty weight, then opening the spout to release the slick liquid to the desired weight. The golden sparkle could have been mesmerizing if we weren't watching the ounces, snapping the spout shut at just the right moment, sometimes opening it a crack to top up the volume. Sticky as honey is on fingers, dishes, clothes, floors, its viscosity lubricated the spout like heavy, rich oil. The lever on the tap was so tight that we could stop the flow without a drop leftover.

We had two types of scales. One was rather tall, white, enamel, spring-operated, and easy to use: just watch the numbers on the dial. The other, an old balance scale, required more care to load little weights to the desired amount and then carefully watch the arm rise until it the arrow pointed to exactly the right spot indicating a balance between the weights and the honey-filled pail.

The apiary seemed like more of a hobby than a livelihood for dad, but it was a source of income and, I realized many years later, my first summer job. In serving customers, I learned about providing service, accurate measurement, attention to detail, packing and shipping, writing and calculating receipts, making change. My siblings and I often accompanied dad in the truck to do the rounds checking the hives. In processing the honey, I would scrape the combs, hang the frames on the de-capper machine which would carry the frame between 2 hot knives to slice off the caps, releasing the golden sweetness. My siblings and I loved to chew the chunks of honeycomb that dropped down, like homemade gum.

From the de-capper, the frames went into the extractor where they would spinspinspin, centrifugal force pulling the honey out to splatter on the sides of the tank, slip and drip down, and drain out. Next it was pumped upstairs where impurities would be strained out and the pure honey would run from a temporary holding tank to its last stop before going into pails and barrels for sale. One holding tank was gleaming stainless steel — formerly a milk tank from a dairy. These tanks were built into the wall, so on one side the honey went in and on the other side the honey was served through spouts.

The smell of the place was both inviting and comforting: rich sweetness intermingled with hot wax, label ink, packing glue. Often in the summer, mom would bring over freshly baked buns with real butter, onto which we would drizzle the golden liquid to savour on our tongues.

In the days before air conditioning, the honey house was one of my favorite places, especially the room where we served customers. The shelving in the sales room was not sophisticated – more practical than aesthetic, yet it was made interesting by Dad's collection of antique bottles and honey containers. (He had a collectors guide about antique bottles, which I would sometimes study, especially fascinated with old-style baby bottles.) The sales room was a lovely place to spend the afternoon after working in the garden or climbing trees or catching kittens in the barn. It always felt peaceful. Sometimes I would lie in half-light on the glossy, grey floor, soaking in the cool, smooth serenity.

It may have been my first summer job, but somehow it didn't feel like work.

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