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My father worked with many
projects on our farm. He planted
several crops but always make
certain he kept an acre or two of
alfalfa and clover. My mother
planted a flower garden with
numerous nectar growing gems.
It was an easy transition
for the bees to take pollen from
the flowers, clover and alfalfa
and spin them into amber gold. We
never wanted for honey in our home.
My father had between three and
five hives each year. He was a mystery
to me when he donned his screened hood,
leather gloves, heavy jacket with
sleeves tied down, thick denim pants
wrapped with rubber bands at the end of
his pant legs, and steel-toed boots.
He carried a smoker in his hand that
looked like a big tea kettle about to
blaze. His attire seemed as if he came
from outer space.
I watched him slowly move toward
the hives, squeezing puffs of smoke at
the bees. As the smoke grew, the bees
swarmed less and less. Soon my father
reached his gloved hand into their
hives. He filled his bucket with honey
and honeycomb.
In the meantime, my mother had
baked fluffy hot biscuits. As we sat
down to dinner, the fresh honey
dripped slowly down the biscuits. The
honey was sweet to the taste. The bees
had created a marvelous delicacy from
my father's crops and my mother
flowers. My family and the bees were
copasetic in their efforts with the
gifts they gave to each other.
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