I’m going through a bee-intensive phase right now–that’s the beauty of a subject search in the library’s catalogue. I’ve got bee memoirs, bee mysteries, and a bee manual at this point. I’ve wanted my own hive for a long time, especially ever since a swarm landed on our wild plum tree last summer. I regret to say that I wasn’t there to witness it, but my husband was. One of our Amish neighbors happened to have an old hive box, so he came and simply lopped off the branch so the swarm landed neatly inside. He placed it on the other side of a small field near our house, and I can see it tantalizing me every time I do dishes. However, I’d given up on the dream of having my own hive last year when I took a beekeeping class and realized how expensive the endeavor would be, not to mention how many things can go wrong. I’ve got a healthy bee population out here in the country, so I don’t really have a pressing need for pollinators. (I hope I didn’t just jinx myself into inviting an unforeseen environmental collapse by saying that…) And yet, and yet. I’ve already got my chickens and my worm bin, so it’s time for the next helpful creature on the list, isn’t it? And it’s so easy to wax enthusiastic about a dream when it’s tucked neatly between well-ordered pages. Maybe that’s where this one will have to stay, at least for the foreseeable future, but now that the Mayan Apocalypse has come and gone, it seems I still have a crowd of Somedays waiting to file by, and maybe one will be kind and drop another swarm into my yard, and maybe this time I’ll have a lovely little box waiting for it. Such is the nature of hope.