My plan today is to clean up the weeds that are steadily surrounding the Bush Beans. Armed with a hand rake, a garden hoe, a metal rake and several bales of Farmer Brown's cast-off hay, I prepare to tackle the nine rows of beans next to the pumpkin patch.
Weeding is, by far, my least favorite gardening chore. I am told that weeds will suck the nutrients away from better-bred, more desirable pedigree plants. It's mind-numbing work, and it's done on hands and knees... working with precision at the tender stems of my burgeoning beans. I cannot even drift into an inspirational reverie. Garden stones have practically penetrated both menisci. My back is sore, and the base of my neck is numb.
After about an hour, I hear a tractor approaching the barn. I walk up the hill and follow it to the house. The driver parks in an outbuilding. It's Farmer Brown. I'm surprised and elated.
"How are you doing," I ask. There is emphasis on the entire sentence.
"Well, I'm fine. What'd you expect?"
"I was worried." "Yesterday evening, there were state troopers and emergency vehicles out in front of your house. When I got home, I tried to call you..."
"Nope. I was upstairs watching the entire fiasco through the window."
"So you weren't sick. What was it?"
"Special Olympics. Torch Relay."
"That makes sense. Come to think of it, the mood outside your house seemed pretty relaxed."
"Nope. No one's going to get rid of me that easily," Farmer Brown declares.
Change subject. We've established that the rumors of Farmer Brown's demise are greatly exaggerated. "Hey, George, I think I found some good local honey for the stand."
"Oh. Where'd you find it?"
"Holmberg. Alan Holmberg."
"The orchard."
"Nope. No connection, but his packaging is professional." I explain that he's willing to place hives at Wychwood, and we'd be able to sell the honey from "our hives" with a secondary sticker declaring the fact that the honey originated at this farm. "Obviously, I want to talk with you since I cannot commit without your agreement."
Farmer Brown explains that he has a friend who keeps hives on his land, about a half mile away, and he doesn't think a few new bees would interfere on this end of the farm.
"You want to talk with him? After all, it's your land. I'm just a sharecropper."
"Sure. Why not?" I push dial, Alan answers, and I introduce him to Farmer Brown, handing the dainty Blackberry to the rugged farmer. I'm excited, all giddy inside, as I see myself putting my first "Farm Deal" together.
The two agricultural titans engage in several minutes of bee-buzz. Brown, in fact was a bee keeper for many years. To hear him tell it, he was not at all sad to give his ten hives the heave-ho!
Eventually, George hands me the phone. Alan and I speak. He's decided that it might not be a good idea to place his hives right away. Productive bees, he explains, work up to two -and-a-half-miles, and there might be a conflict with the bee keeper already at Wychwood.
Farmer Brown decides he'll speak with his friend. We both conclude that I can simply buy Alan's local honey, and start selling it at the stand immediately. When the time is right we can bring his bees to the farm.
"That young man keeps 500 hives!" Farmer Brown laughs. "He must never sleep."
Jim, the retired lineman, turned farmhand, has joined us, shoulders balanced against a support in the garage, in a comfortable rest. "Hell of a lot of bees... sounds professional," he concludes.
"Nothing wrong with professional," I add. "I'll bet we'll do fine simply selling the product. We can always break out the hives later," I conclude in my worst pun yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment