The Old School

Towards the latter end of January we found ourselves in a tiny town called Tuatapere (too-ah-tap-ah-ree. I called it a lot of things before I figured it out).  We were here to do two things: live in a gymnasium and work with plants.  Odd combination, yes.  

Not the gymnasium.

Our host called it "The Old School," which was his project of taking a rather decently-sized school and converting it into a living arrangement of some sorts as well as home for his plant nursery and gardens.  I was overloaded with inspiration here.  It wasn't finished yet, but we were deeply impressed by how cool his house looked inside.  Sadly, we never got pictures of the inside, as that might have come off as kind of weird and intrusive.  Not sure.  We, however, lived inside a gymnasium which was partially converted.  So, we lived separately, had our own cozy room, a lounge area with some old couches and an awesome kitchen, which meant one thing: 

Also not the gymnasium.

COOOORNBREAD!  Stacy worked her Appalachian magic and whipped up some mean ol' skillet-baked cornbread.  This was the highlight of our stay.  Among many other highlights.

Work was often monotonous but good.  I had been wanting to pick up some plant knowledge, and I found our host to be overflowing in this area.  Which I should hope so, since he ran a nursery.  It was a great experience, but alas, much of my time was spent harvesting and planting potatoes.  This was due to my red beard and stocky Scotch-Irish demeanor.  Stacy did many other things, most related to harvesting seeds from different kinds of trees and such.  But I made a deep and lasting connection with my ancestors.  I still have a few potatoes left over... not sure if they're still good.

This is a guinea fowl: the world's creepiest bird.  And not the gymnasium.

One of the other awesome highlights at the Old School was getting to help with beekeeping and honey extraction, the latter being a real treat for us since it's only done twice a year (in our host's case), and since we got a large tub of some of the richest honey in existence.  

Not the gymnasium, and I don't entirely remember who's in those suits.

The processes involved in beekeeping are overwhelmingly intricate.  Not the gymnasium.

Our host was new to beekeeping by two years, yet her knowledge of the trade was astounding.  I had considered, on down the road some day, "Oh, we'll have some hives and bees and get some honey--that'll be pleasant."  But, to completely sum up what she taught is, in a very real way, I would now say this, "Oh my goodness, beekeeping is crazier and more complex than any level of mathematics!"  I still would like to tackle it some day.  Maybe after I finish college algebra.

Can you see the QUEEN?  It's the one with the little painted red butt. Also: not the gymnasium.

Consider this one scenario (in layman's terms, because...that's how I have to write it): the current queen, of one hive, has been in charge for a while.  She's laid thousands of eggs and led her society of loyal-ish workers, soldiers and disciples through a successful 4-6 week season of making honey.  She's seeming kind of old, coming up on her second month now, and so the other bees do a dance of insubordination and mutiny.  Ironically, she knows and must oblige them by laying some special eggs.  Now, if the workers give "royal honey" to these special eggs, a new queen will form.  The current queen knows this, but allows it to happen.  Then, this scenario can go in one of several directions.  The queen may insist she's still boss and go and murder the new almost-hatching queens.  Or, she may get scared, gather up a loyal few and swarm off into the wilderness where she'll become friends with wild bees and make new babies and start a new hive and kingdom.  Or she may dilly-dally, allowing the new queen(s) to be born.  Then the new queen will find the old one, stab her with her stinger a dozen times (the only time they do this), and her new followers will eat the old queen.  Lastly, to secure her right on the throne, the new queen makes sure to stab and eat the other new queens, regardless of if they're born yet or not.  All of this happens within a few minutes of being born.  Sure makes you look back on your first few years of life and think, "Gee, I didn't do anything wild or exciting like that." And that's why we live for 80ish years and bees live for 6 weeks.

Stacy using a "hot knife" to burn off the cells holding the honey.  This was in the gymnasium!

The process of extracting the honey was less interesting than the life and time's of a new queen bee, but it was more straightforward and involved us, so I actually understood it.  We used a hot knife to scrape away the gunky cells on a frame, thus free the honey that had been collected underneath.  From here, we placed two-to-four similarly-weighted frames into a big metal tub with a crank on the outside.  One person steadies this device while another cranks it in a rhythmic fashion, splattering the honey onto the walls of the inside of the tub via centrifugal force (I think, I don't know.  Look it up on Wikipedia).  The honey then casually drips down and out of a faucet where it flows like liquid gold into a bucket (with a strainer to catch residue).  And that's how honey is born!

Look. At. That.  Tastes great on cornbread.

Well, that seems informative enough for now.  Next time: Stewart Island!  Thanks for reading.  Like it, comment, share, whatevs.  I'll upload more pictures later, too.  

That is all.