Make the "buzzing" stop

I did it. We pulled into the industrial stock yard (which may or may not have been reminiscent of a zombie priority setting. just sayin) . It was about 7:45 am, and I was ready and raring to go. I mean I did have 2 cups of coffee organically sweetened with a shot of pure adrenaline...After all, I was about to solely attempt to extract a random wild bee hive from within a camper, that no one knew the size of, much less how long it had been there. Did I mention It was just me? It was just me. My support group, consisting of my very tired husband and son who would wait at a safe distance away in all the warmth and comfort that a Mazda 6 has to offer. And occasionally snap a picture if and when one became disenchanted with the status updates that facebook boasted and remembered to do so.

The "gentlemen" that had sought me out and asked me if I would do this were a tad more adventurous, and opted to stay within speaking distance of the extraction. And with that, and both feet, in I went. The more I "chiseled" and removed, the larger the hive began to become. Gently cutting and prying, placing and praying, and all the while chanting, "Must get the queen, must get the queen". One thing I had not anticipated, was that the hive that I was relocating the bees to might in fact, not be BIG enough. This became a more dire concern with each and every "frame" of comb that I removed.

Thank-God-fully, I had brought cardboard file boxes, and then of course, the miraculous "bonus", that the "guys"had duck tape on hand. We then make shifted 2 "hives" within seconds only to discover we still came up short. They offered up a plastic storage bin as a last resort, and with THAT, we were saddled and sent forth. Mobile. Sure it meant riding home with a box full of wild angry bees on my lap. But, hey, small sacrifices. Right?  And home the bees went.

I nestled their hive into a small back corner of our farm, nearest to the garden. Seemed like the completely right thing to do. And all was right with the... I'm not even gonna leave you "cliff hanging" on this one. ALL was NOT right with the world.

The bees were settling, grieving, counting and then recovering from their losses. Not to mention the fact that they had quite LITERALLY just been ripped away from their established home. However, despite the circumstances, they remained calmly vigilant. Not only I took notice, but a neighbor, one who had raised bees "all his life" and had more than graciously, advised and sort of hand-held my "dream" from start until, present. Came by to see how things went. He was impressed with how "docile" (well, as docile as one can imagine a bee to be) the bees were. We talked in length about the weather, acquiring more hives, and the possibilities of building them by hand instead of buying and then he made his way home and I went back to work relocating the bees from within the various boxes. 

Fast forward several hours. The bees must have begun taking inventory and I noticed that they didn't seem as happy about their relocation as they had at first. They were flitting about angrily I'm sure trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once again, apparently I wasn't the only one who took notice. This time, the same neighbor and his son came strolling down the driveway and explained that the bees were throwing their little "bee-temper-tantrums" in their yard as well. I thought about it and immediately offered to relocate the newly relocated bees to another area of my property assuring them that they just needed some time to calm. The offering up of that as the solution was abruptly met with a completely unexpected curve ball of a reply. "You know you're not zoned for bees."

Zoned for BEES? Bees. The little wild flying insects that hop from flower to flower, tree to tree pollinating only the ENTIRE PLANET ensuring that we have the plants that create the oxygen that we are blessed to be inhaling right this instant, the very same oxygen subsequently, that had just allowed you to breath out that poised little threat in the form of a question. You have to be zoned for that? I quickly responded that we were zoned agricultural and shouldn't that cover it? To which I was combatively met with a, "No you're not" retort. Lets pause here for just a second, lest we have forgotten, the man who had encouraged me this entire venture, had single handedly convinced my husband to allow me to place the bees on our property against his better judgement. The same man who had entertained the idea of coming with me to help extract the hive, and who had come over the second we had arrived home to ask how much honey I thought I had gotten, this very same man was now standing in my driveway and telling me "we have a problem." Was this for real? I began to play an "alternate ending" scenario in my head wherein they started laughing hysterically and admitted that they were just kidding and we all had a good laugh while stuffing our faces with fresh honey. I quickly snapped out of that dream to begin to come to terms with the fact that this was a very real situation. I added that I had done my research and knew what our zoning was and with that bid them a good day.

A little disheartened, a little confused, I immediately began once again, moving the bees. First things first, and then I would go read up on this "bee-zoning". As it turned out, the sweet and generous neighbors saved me the trouble and hand delivered to my husband, a printed copy of the zoning map and a detailed rundown of just what we were allowed to (and not to) have within our current zoning classification. Which my husband then gave to me after I was finished resettling the colony. My eyes scanned the map, located our property and my heart sank a little, we had recently been re-zoned from AU (agricultural use) to RR1 (rural residential class 1). This had happened in 2011 When a certain parcel of "conservation land" had been rezoned and sold to make way for the building of a new house. Whose house you might ask? Theirs. My eyes then shifted from the map onto the paper containing our fate and fell instantly on the word "bees" but were quickly drawn to another word two doors down from that. GOATS.

We were also not allowed to farm goats on this property anymore. My husband, seeing my expression quickly added that the map and paper had come with a message. The neighbors (who at times kept hogs that were also apparently contra-ban) on their property had added that they didn't mind anything else being there, just not the bees. I took little comfort in the knowledge that the chickens were legit, my sorrow quickly turned to fury, and my fury to fuel. And suddenly, I was a woman on fire with a mission. 

When life hands you zoning restrictions... YOU MAKE THEM CHANGE.