Beeks and frogs

This evening was awesome. As soon as Ron got home from work, we put the dogs out and then headed up to Mannford to pick up a new beehive. Ron had made arrangements to buy a colony of survivor stock from a guy who catches feral swarms for a living.

Our host was an old hippie who lives at the end of a gravel road way out in the sticks and is in the process of building an igloo-shaped honey house out of concrete and native stone. His property is heavily wooded, and there are beehives everywhere you look. I could smell bees as soon as we got out of the car. It was awesome.

Two other beeks — both rookies — joined us while we were out there, and we spent a long time looking in hives and talking shop while we waited for all the girls to come in for the night so we could take our hives. It was very cool.

If somebody would make beehive-scented perfume, I would wear it all the time. Nothing in this world smells nicer than a healthy beehive. It’s positively intoxicating.

We came home to find our neighborhood practically echoing with the sound of frogs calling to each other. I fed the dogs while Ron put our new hive out in the bee yard, and then he called me outside to see something he’d noticed on his way in:

This little guy was just hanging out on Smeagol’s head, singing his heart out. It was too dark for me to get a very good picture, but you get the idea.

Hope your evening was as nice as ours.