It is April 20. A blustery, cold day alternating between hail, wind, snow and vain bursts of sun. Birds careen wildly off course, the whitecaps on the St. Lawrence River ride high and the clouds march across the sky with the menace of a tornado lurking somewhere behind them. It is early afternoon and since morning I have been awaiting the arrival of my first hive of bees with ever-growing anticipation. I have been unable to do much work, despite preparations which need to be made imminently, such as informing the neighbours. I recognize this feeling. It is imminent delivery. I am expecting.
It is too cold. Too windy. Too overcast. Perhaps the bees won’t come at all. Or perhaps I will have to keep them inside until the climactic conditions improve. Should I feed them more than sugar water? Where is the best place for the hive? Should I have ordered two? Will the hive build up satisfactorily? Will the queen survive. So many questions and without experience, I have no immediate way to answer.
Wait I must, while pacing the floor, for my brood to arrive.