I chose goats

I must love my goats. Story, our second goat went into labor this afternoon. The thing about goat "labor" is it can last up to 12 hours. And when I say "last" I mean, most of the time you find yourself sitting there and staring in hopeful anticipation at a goat's butt. Uneventful doesn't really begin to describe it. Never mind that I've been up since 4:30 a.m., my husband's father is in town from Scotland and we had DINNER PLANS. Sigh.

As to not disappoint my overly excited son, I sent them on their merry little way while I stayed behind on goat watch. Did I mention it's raining today? Has been since I knew for certain that Story was in actual labor. And the only reason that this fact is even worth mentioning is that Story decided to "weather the storm" on our porch. Now this is a normal occurrence for all the animals to do during this type of weather, however, not one of them has ever been in labor during such an occasion.

I'm not sure if you are aware, but it turns out that 99.99999% of pregnancies result in babies. Which at this late hour translates into that there is a 99.9999999% chance there will be a BABY, born-on-my- porch. Tonight. The plus sides are that I wont have to step out into utter darkness in a dead rain and march/ swim half way across the earth to the back pen to check on her progress every hour or so. The "minuses"? I will leave up to your own imaginations.

So. Here I sit, atop a backless breakfast bar stool. Waiting. While my family is happily devouring the semi-coursed meal at our favorite Japanese restaurant (SUSHIIIIIIII!!!) I did make them promise to bring some home, so besides the baby(s) I have that to look forward to.

As for now, things are quiet. I am afraid to move as she has discovered her super power, and it is ULTRA-sound like hearing. Also, she's super CLINGY and we have glass windows and doors which translates into "Story sees all". I'm walking on such pins and needles that I feel as if I am burglarizing my OWN HOME. Plus, it is very reminiscent of that feeling one gets, just after they have FINALLY laid their sleeping little bundle of joy to down for a much needed (by ALL parties involved) nap, and then attempting to quietly escape the prison nursery.

I'll admit it is half the reason why I am typing up this blog right now. I. Am. Terrified. Of. My. Goat. And thankfully this was within reach from my "frozen" statuesque like perch. I guess for multiple reasons, that sorta makes this like a "cry for help". HELP. And also, please bring sushi...

Everything but the hooves

I smell like goat. which by the way is just fine because they smell like the lovely cheese that they are famous for having a hand in making. It's been another LONG day. And it all started at about 7am this morning when I stepped out the front door to take Callie, our dog, on her morning walk. The goats are either usually perched expectantly at the door to their pen just waiting to be fed. Or, if for some reason their beauty sleep had gotten the best of them and I was up before they were, the second the door opened it was as if someone had cocked a loaded gun and both heads would SHOOT up in anticipation. But not this morning.

No, this morning was different. Story stood at attention at her usual post, however Eve was nowhere in site. This prompted an immediate red flag on a few different levels. First, we had closed off the adjoining gate between the first and second pen as to keep an eye on the "pregnancy" activities and the pens were not that big to begin with. Second, the only real place to "hide" was in the manger and from my vantage point, that looked Eve-less as well. I will admit a sickly feeling of panic slowly began to creep in. I made a bee-line for the pen.

And then I heard her. She made a noise that I simply just cannot describe but will try, a scream-grunt-gutteral growl? As I approached, I could just barely make out her outline on the other side of a self-inflicted nest/barricade of hay laying on her side, in the manger. I immediately dropped Callie's leash. I could tell from her body movements that she was straining. Heavily. With everything she had in her, she was pushing! Flustered a bit I knew that I had to stay calm. It was go time.

She looked so helpless. So confused. I had read that first time goat mommies have no idea that they are even pregnant. I was now SEEING that reality. She struggled, fidgeted, screamed (as goats do). I KNEW what I was looking for. Hooves and noses. Goats give birth much like we do, except hooves come out first followed by the snout and then the rest. But all I could see was what looked like a cloudy-water balloon. Finally. I could make out what appeared to be a nose (and a tongue) inside the "balloon", but where were the HOOVES!? Ok, I was panicking a bit, I'm not going to lie.  But I got a grip and wasn't about to let inexperience and procrastination allow me to lose another goat(s).

I called the vet's private cell and I unabashedly didn't even for a SECOND pause to consider the time. The vet sleepily answered and explained that she would have to "patch me through to blah blah blah..." MY GOAT IS BREACHED and you are giving me an answering service!? I thanked her and went back to it. Eve seemed in distress, even more than normal (as if I have any IDEA what NORMAL looked like) let's just call it "mother's intuition" she needed help and it was gonna have to be me.

I RACED inside and grabbed my husband's stash of medical gloves (he's good for that sorta stuff) raced back out and sure enough, she was still in the same situation she had been when I had left her side.  SO, I gloved up, and I swear I saw Story avert her eyes as I went "ALL IN". I found the hooves, lodged on either side as if it were chanting "hell no I wont go" and refusing to vacate the premises. And as gently as one can in this type of situation, I helped "guide" the little one safely out. And there it was, reality starring me in the face and "meeehing" if I've ever seen it. Eve grunted again, and before I could even change gloves, out came the twin. Unassisted THANK GOD.

Calm, clean and all settled in, Eve was now the proud momma of two adorable, healthy bucklings (baby boys). While, "Auntie Story", well that one's for another day...

playing for keeps?

I know that I have made mention of it in the past, how there is just something mezmerizingly magical and innocent about spending time out in the midst of the animals and watching as chickens eat right out of your hand (and maybe even nibble a finger or two in their excitement).

However, if I'm being honest, it didn't feel much like a farm after we lost Sadie. Im not sure why but when she died I suddenly felt phony. I found myself, when people asked about the farm and what all we had on it feeling somewhat inadequate and after counting in the 2 goats, I was quick to add (almost out of necessity) "we had 3, but we lost one". As if that made us somehow more legit. And, even if it DID, it didn't to me.

Sadie was my lead goat as I mentioned before. She was also the only goat that had been handled well before we got her,  and as such she allowed everyone who visited to pet and feed her without even giving it a second thought. When it was just she and I, we had a bond. She knew my voice and I knew when she was around due to the bell that adorned her neck. She would jump up on me like a dog might when their master returned home from work. For the same reasons even, both food and because she missed me. It was hard loosing her. In more ways than I realized at first.

She was sort of the true catalyst to this venture. If you visit the farm, you may take note of a silhouette outline of a goat atop our mailbox, painted black and wearing a bell. And while she wasn't necessarily by any means the "prettiest," she was mine, and I loved her. In fact, when she died, I didn't intentionally do so, but I looked on the other 2 with a mild disdain and bitterness. The 2 beautiful goats left behind, we had only REALLY gotten in order to make Sadie happy (and stop screaming). They were "Sadie's friends" and now she was gone and we were left with "them". Don't get me wrong. I loved them, as skittish and standoffish as they were. I guess I was just at a place of disbelief, and they happened to be in my line of sight.

Which brings us to the present. A few days ago, in a post entitled "wake up calls" I spoke about the abrupt and "all at once" realization that we apparently had 4 roosters. Some of you may remember that I  had sworn off ANY and ALL roosters from the get go due to the fact that I already had an extremely loud and sure fire random wake up call in the form of a 4 year old boy, who at least thankfully, my neighbors didn't also have to endure.

I now have a truth to admit. I... kinda, Love the..roosters. All of them.There. I said it ok. I mean what other animal quite literally SCREAMS farm? I love their distinctive calls. I love that they do them at sporadic intervals throughout the entire day and not just in the mornings. I love figuring out who is who and pin pointing exactly where it is they have positioned themselves in the yard. And more than just hearing them do it, I love to watch them put every ounce of all that they are into their crow. Now you may hear me (or my copycat son) yell, "shut it Brewster!" more often than not, (he's by far the loudest)  but it's actually a term of endearment. I love it! All of it! ALL 4 OF IT!

I have agonized over "what to do". They are barred rock and one americana, so all feathers no meat, I mean, you could maybe make a stew? Soup? At any rate, I am not willing to "partake" of them. AND, I am skeptical of anyone else whom I do not know (i.e. craigslist add)  adhering to this same standard. Which leaves me really only with 2 choices. Give them ONLY to someone I know and trust OR... keep them. All of them. (good thing my husband doesn't ever read my blog)

Brewster, I mean seriously? The kid played "taps" at Sadie's funeral, plus, he was outed long ago. Dixie. Dixie is the kind of rooster that when you think, "rooster" in general, his image more than likely comes to mind "standard"plus he's "slow and low" (the quietest).  Nugget. He's our black and white striped VERY identifiable rooster, who's feathers make my favorite earrings, plus, his name is NUGGET. And then there is sweet "Lacey. The youngest and to be quite frank, most beautiful rooster. He's still just a babe. And his attempts at crowing can be counted on one finger. Before I even knew he was a rooster, I had already pegged him as my favorite "little". How can I just hand him over after I've hand-fed him? It just doesn't seem like the right thing to do. (plus I don't wanna) They trust me. I care for them. I can't. Won't sell them short, or OUT.

I've been working daily with Eve (our tan and white goat). She used to be the absolute MOST skittish, now she's the only one who lets me love on her. The roosters, with each and every crow, had helped re-instill the excitement, wonder, HEART that Sadie had first given me.

And it's nice to be "back". (insert crow here)

"Wake up" calls...

Yesterday was one of those days that just began suddenly and abruptly without warning and I feel like, even though it's tomorrow, it still hasn't ended. Best way to sum it up in one word or less, Poop. I was awoken at an unholy hour by a very loud reminder that only a rooster can offer, exclaiming in his own special way that he was in fact awake and hungry and what did I plan to do about it. My son had been sick the night before, in my bed and my sleep pattern was still reeling in attempt to sort itself out from that sweet little middle of the night treat thus I did not feel like dealing with the very loud calls of Bess turned Brewster the rooster.

I lay in bed in protest for a minute, that is until Callie, our dog joined in the chorus. She had slept on the back porch by choice and apparently did not appreciate her early morning wake up call. And, in true form of the domino effect that was now unwinding just outside my bedroom window, the goats weighed in, letting me know that they too were hungry and in need of assistance. Farms are fun they said. (actually nobody said that but me) ANYWAY.

I did what any good farmer-mommy would do and sent my 4 year old(who was feeling much better) out into the yard to "free the masses". After all, it is educational and good for him right? I slowly got up and dressed lagging a little from the "sheet changing" extravaganza that had erupted from my son during the night. I guess that's what I get for letting him crawl into bed with me. At any rate, I was half way to the door when it flung open and my son exclaimed as he raced past me that "poop had snuck out of his butt!"

A puzzled scowl formed on my face as I turned and headed in his direction. However, the goats had spotted me from the back porch door and their wales were becoming increasingly louder and more desperate sounding. Hungry pregnant goats are no joke. My first priority was obviously tending to my son, and I was also curious as to what "snuck out" really boiled down to. Apparently his tummy decided to "flush" things out via a closer route. And I was the lucky one to get to play clean up. The thing about diarrhea is, it keeps coming. The thing about SUPER pregnant and SUPER hungry goats is, they keep "mehh'ing" and roosters, well they don't need an excuse to do what they do they just keep doing it.

And suddenly we were "those" neighbors. You know, the ones who blare their tastelessly loud music at ungodly hours. Except our "music" was a gaggle of unhappy animals who wouldn't know harmony if it punched them in the throat (which is coincidentally what I kinda felt like doing to the rooster at that moment).

I finished (for the time being anyway) with my son and raced outside to let the chickens out and hush the chaos by stuffing it with food. Pregnant goats eat A LOT. And "input" like cause and effect, will always lead to "output" in their case, lots and lots and lots of output. As the goats happily grazed I hurriedly made a pile and, with the help of a good thick pair of gloves began to mulch it through the yard. So there I am sprinkling goat poop like magical fairy dust throughout the lay of the land, when I heard the shrill loud demanding call, "MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM WIPE MY BUTTTTTTTTT AGAINNNN"

When will the poop end? I threw down the goat's, to tend to my son's never ending supply AND I still had the joys of looking forward to delving into the not 1 but 2 chicken coops to do the same. Who knew that 75% if not more of farming AND motherhood would revolve around POOP!? And, while I was cleaning my son who greeted me in the "assumed position" pose as I walked through the doorway, he had the audacity to tell me that I SMELL! I got news for you pal... the only "roses" in here are the ones plastered on the friggin wall.

Needless to say by noon, my son had had at least 3 wardrobe changes and I was sweeping our porch and walkway free of chicken and goat "presents" for the umpteenth time. I still had a honey order to fill and drop by, not to mention a laundry list of household chores that I would now be doing intermittently if and when I was released from the prison known as our bathroom and the impossible "natural spring" that had suddenly burst forth from my child. I only got half of what I truly needed to get done before the sun went to sleep and finally so did I.

So today when the rooster called, I hopped up and like a woman on fire and raced out to sift through todays chores so that I could secure time to finish yesterdays. As I opened the coop, the POWs darted past me and the rooster crowed his freedom call. The thing was, the "call" was then echoed back...

I whirled around just in time to see Nugget offering HIS rebuttle. I stared in disbelief. 2. 2 roosters? How could this be? (no I do not need a lecture on the "birds and bees" of chicken eggs thank you) We weren't even supposed to have 1. Regardless of the discovery I had made, there were still things that needed to get done and I had to get my head back in the game which meant worrying about Nugget later. The bright side being that, at least I wouldn't have to change his name. To which Nugget then crowed again in agreement.

As I was bringing the last bucket full of water needed to fill the goat's trough,WTF. I will admit that I had had my suspicions about "her" as her tail feathers had begun to fountain over with large green plumes. Sigh. 3. And, as if to let me know that perhaps I shouldn't jump to any conclusions so soon, it happened. DIXIE made a retort in the form of a crow. It felt as if the chickens had plotted against me and bided their time.
a weaker "crow" sounded from the tree line to my left. And, seeing as I could see all of the "bigs" (my soon to be laying chickens) I turned in time to catch Lacey (one of the littles) sounding off.4. 4 roosters. 3 of which were supposed to be laying eggs like ANY DAY NOW. Leaving me with only 2 possible hens who were even close to being ready and 3 who have a while yet to go on that journey. So now I am left with the predicament of just what to do. I mean, what does one do with 4 roosters exactly?

Anyone feel like "chicken tonight?" :(

plastic makes perfect

Sometimes. Sometimes, I'm just a mother. Today was one of THOSE days. It was cold. No, I mean exceptionally so, especially for our little slice of heaven here in the "Sunshine state". I am a runner first and foremost, but I couple it with some solid bike riding and swimming when I can. Did I mention it's cold? Kinda hard to accomplish any of that when it's in the 40's (and you have a 4 yr old in tow). That is unless you are INdoors.

In the throws of starting a farm, we made a couple of "cuts". #1. Was lawn service. We have livestock, it's a no brainer. #2, Cable TV. Because who's got time? #3 Gym membership. Once again, who's got time? To be honest, I DO have time, however, I prefer old-schooling it and running, biking or WHATEVER it is, doing SO outdoors. Hey, don't get me wrong, while looking directly into the eyes of the sweaty 75 year old man virtually on his death bed, yet attempting to do the exact same thing that you are doing is extremely empowering (who EVER decided that ANY sports equipment should face one another hates themselves and life in general) It's just not for me. The repetitive droning of the Dread, Treadmill, is just not, at least for me, something I wake up excited about.

Anyway, bringing this full circle and back to those horrid (for Florida) temperatures. I just, could not in good conscience take my son on a 5 mile run-trek into the beach head-wind no matter how much "warmth" I strapped to his little body. I had to surrender. I had to, for his safety (and MY sanity) head back to the gym.

My son, due to his no fear personality (no, seriously, this kid has NO FEAR almost to the point of stupid) is sort of a "celebrity" there. So, walking through the doors after it's been a while is kinda magical. We were warmly welcomed back as I ushered him to his most FAVORITE place ever. The "playroom". The thing about the playroom is, that for him it's not the toys that hold his interest. It's the amazing ladies who run it. Ms. Twinkle and Ms. Shannelle. (stop trying to auto correct me) They LOVE him and in turn, he adores them.

It was like a talk-show-host approved family reunion today. Big ole bear hugs all around and perhaps a few unspoken tears shed, it was nice to be "home". Of course the, "where have you been's", followed by the "WAIT what's?" were exchanged. And, after all stories became "up to date", and my repetetive 5 miler was completed,  before even finishing saying our goodbyes, a certain "little" someone had found something "shinier" and was off and running. They seemed concerned, as well they should be, it's what we pay for... however, I was less enthused. As his mother, for... ALL HIS LIFE, I knew exactly where he was heading. You see, there's this popsicle freezer near the front door, it's a sure thing every time. And there he was, already having picked out and now attempting to open a strawberry popsicle. I was once again suckered into the bribe and let him have it. We had errands to run since we were in town anyway, so if it helped that pill go down just a little smoother, so be it.

First stop, Walmart. Now usually my son either leaves what's left of the sticky slobbery mess- on- a- stick in his cup holder OR he asks, "mommy could you hold this?" which really translates into throw it away for me. However, this time he actually announced that the "ice stick" would be accompanying him into the store. I was a little surprised, but also just thankful that I wasn't going to have to "hold it". About 2 minutes into our excursion, he lost interest and resorted to that old ploy. I declined and said that if he wanted it anymore at all, then he would just have to hold onto it himself and finish it. To which he agreed to my amazement. And only seconds later handed me the popsicle-less stick.

All was right with the world... until my son burped. Now don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with burping especially if you're polite about it and say excuse me, which he did. It wasn't his manners that raised the red flag. It was the watery-over full sound that made me regret not taking it away when I had the chance. He seemed ok afterwards so we proceeded further and further into the maze of the chaotic discount forrest that is Walmart.

I was perusing the canning jars when I heard it. "Mommy, I feel like I have to throw up." NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I knew it! I should have listened to that motherly gut-wrenching instinct when the "watery burp" had erupted which screamed at me to get within a 3 foot radius of the nearest bathroom ASAP. However, the sinister evil selfish twin of that instinct won the battle because canning jars just so happened to be on the way. I prodded at him a little, trying to make him (and myself) believe that he didn't really need to throw up, but those efforts were immediately thwarted by the sudden and all too familiar dry heave reaction he countered with.

I quickly glanced at my surroundings, for something, anything with which to catch the inevitable looming spewage. Canning jars in a sealed box were a no-go, however darting my eyes to the left, it just so happened that the canning supply aisle was parallel to the trash bin aisle! I grabbed the first one without a lid that I saw, no matter how oversized and bright cherry obvious red it was, and just in time too. Out it came. In all its liquidy strawberry smelling glory. And I caught every last drop in the ginormous red bin.

He exclaimed that he felt "much better!" So, like a good mother on a mission would, we paraded the trash can through the store grabbing the last item on our list on the way to the front and the checkout counter. I then regaled the less than amused cashier of the woeful tale assuring her that I the heroine, had thoughtfully grabbed this massive red bin and struggled to not let so much as a single drop touch their precious floor ,while she shriveled back in recoil as if it were nuclear waste sure to kill us all and called for "maintenance". Not even so much as a half hearted thank you? C'mon!

When maintenance finally arrived, gloved up and ready, she was glancing around at the floor (obviously looking for a puddle or some sort of mess) to which I then quickly chimed in that I had caught all of the material needing to be "maintained" in this red plastic bin. She was thrilled! "Thank you so much for not getting it all over the floor!" she exclaimed. Finally! Vindication!

We strolled out of the store, heads held high, basking in the moment, that is until my son asked why it was that he couldn't have a doughnut....

The one that got away

Seems like regardless of whether I am present at my farm, I cannot escape farm life. My son and I took an 8 mile bike ride this gorgeous Sunday to a nearby park and playground. After a long bout of "all tuckered out" play (score 1 for mommy) We set out on our 8 mile trek back along the back roads. Suddenly the path became a tad bit bumpier than usual and I noticed 3 different sets of fresh hoof (obviously horse) prints. Not by any means an uncommon site, especially in these parts, except for maybe the set of ultra tiny prints to the far left.

It caught my attention just enough to keep an eye on the road perhaps a little further ahead than I might have otherwise. We rounded a bend and in the distance, I could make out what looked like two riders, boasting bright green vests. I could have been wrong, we still were quite a ways back, however as we closed in, not only were the extreme neon-ness of the vests confirmed, but so were the tiny set of footprints to the left. A small donkey walked slowly, freely, beside the brightly decorated caravan.

As we approached, I could make out the words sprawled across the back of the vests, "horse in training," it warned, "please slow down." Well, I was a bike, heading in the complete opposite direction as the wind was and carrying a now sleeping, dead weight 4 year old, needless to say I felt pretty confident in the fact that I was retaining a more than acceptable speed. I held my pace and let them know of my intent to "pass on the right hand side". Apparently, the donkey took notice of us first, and thus alerted all other parties involved (as well as anyone who happened to be onlooking) by bucking, snorting, "hee-hawing" and taking off in an immediate sprint.

I apologized as I passed exclaiming, "its just us, sorry!" (because who can be angry at a mother and her sleeping child) and while I then slowed my speed to show that I meant no harm, the donkey, did not. He rounded another bend and was out of sight. I could hear nothing, the wind was beating my ears like ocean waves against the shore, and I felt somewhat responsible for the occurrence, though, who walks a DONKEY without a tether down a public road? (Not bitter, just sayin). At any rate, I put heart and soul to the pedal and went after the misguided donkey.

I caught up and slowed, he slowed, countered, and took a stance, and though I spoke kindly, gently to him, he fired back up and RAN. He even offered up some of his extra awesome skills, by half attempting to jump in the ever present run-off ditch, and then jumping RIGHT back out as if saying, "psyche. sucka's." I was sorta at a loss. Was I supposed to make shift some sort of lasso and subdue this anarchist beast like a good "cowgirl" should? OR. Was I supposed to let him run himself ragged until he just couldn't. While that SOUNDS sooooo great... it is not just "he" who would be doing the running, and ragged-ness. He already had a "one up" he was solo.

I gave chase. Call it instinct, call it drive, call it "annoyed because I would be home by now", call it whatever you want. I followed that donkey for miles, and then, we all came to a "cross roads" of sorts. A truck was headed our way, the donkey, my sleeping son, and I were headed its. And a road, a left turn, suddenly became a pop up option. "donkey" diverted. Took his sweet time, but finally, last minute (truck almost met his face) turned down Brockett. "brockett road", I quickly committed it to memory, and just as quickly rounded my bicycle ( and STILL sleeping son within) and headed back towards the "loud vests".

The good thing was, I was riding "like the wind", the bad, it was polar opposite of where I really needed to be heading , and I knew at some point soon, I was going to have to turn back around. Finally, I could make out the shapes I was looking for in the distance (thanks also to the aforementioned vests). The closer I got, the more unsure I became. They did not have beaming, "we're so glad to see you" faces. Not even close. I would liken the expression to more of an annoyance, ( either that or severe constipation).

I dared speak anyway, and somehow breathlessly managed to force out, "he turned down Brockett..." Which was met shrewdly with, "ya know if you would have stopped, he probably would have just come back to us." I wondered where it said that on their vests. "He's not our donkey anyway, so it doesn't really matter." And for a split second I was glad that my son was asleep so he wouldn't see mommy sucker punch a "horse in training" in the back of the knee. I shook that thought off quickly. I apologized and added that it mattered to me.

I think they then understood that I had gone to a bit of trouble to try and right the situation, they offered up that the donkey lived on Brockett road, was very smart and more than likely just headed home. I thanked them and whirled my bike around, back into the angry wind. One of the riders called after me, "we just wanted to see you work a little harder." I waved and smiled. And I guess with that, we made our unspoken amends.

I guess I will never know if the donkey made it safely home. While my son, kinda gets the short end of the stick, because he will never even know that any of this ever happened.

Hive is where the heart is... ?

As I sat there listening to my voicemail message I thought to myself, "Where do these people find me?" But I already knew the answer, Craigslist of course. I got a phone call yesterday afternoon, not unlike one I had gotten in the past. Bees. Someone has a hive and wants to "re-home" it and thought because I make cute little mason jars filled with honey, and bees MAKE honey, that maybe I might be the person to do that. Well, that and maybe they just don't want to actually pay someone else to do it (yes there are ACTUAL pros. who do this) I visited one such site as a matter of fact, I wont quote the exact price, but it was more than 399.99, AND the kicker is they then sell the honey.

What Jedi mind-type trickery is this madness? Do they finish the job, turn quickly grab a top hat and wand and with a quick and ever so smooth slide of hand, jar a little with some comb, produce it from behind their back, and exclaim "oh but this is MAGIC HONEY" and then sell it right back to the person who called to get rid of it in the first place? This is either PURE stupidity, or evil genius. The jury is still out.

At any rate. These bees were "in a tree", different from a camper but still,  I did a "fast forwarded" play by play of the last extraction's events in my mind and quickly decided a very strongly unanimous NO.  Besides, to get the queen, I would need to cut the tree down. To which I then picked up the phone and readied myself to relay all of this to the person on the other end. Enter Mr."C".

He cussed like a sailor, and rightly so I suppose, I mean he DID run a beachside maritime shop. I identified myself as the "person you called about the bees in the tree." I believe that the "Oh yeah!" would have been the only PG words that I could draw from the weaved and very colorful one sided conversation that then followed. However, somewhere in the midst of the "offensive" language, he mentioned, in passing, that these bees were not actually INSIDE any tree. Merely swarming around a branch. He muttled on, but, as if placing one finger to his quick-to-offend lips and whispering "shhhhh" he had me at swarming. Suddenly my tone, and approach changed.

He happily agreed to send pictures of just what I might be dealing with, and I decided, Valentines day or not, to not get my heart set on actually being able to do this so soon. The pictures came through and they were glorious! The comb was pure white,  the colony nestled at the bottom of their masterpiece like collected water droplets and the best part was, this was all in fact on a very thin, very accessible looking branch! Realizing quickly that it was already Friday, and supposed to be perfect weather to do this sorta thing Saturday, I agreed.

So here it is, Valentines day, and after we finished the routine farm chores, my son, our dog and I hopped (well, 2 of us "hopped" Callie, being the odd dog who doesn't like car rides that she is, was lifted and gently placed) in the car and away we went. A little over an hour's drive took us to a tucked away little marina lined with palmettos, palms trees and boats. My son had explicit instructions to "STAY IN THE CAR" no matter what. He was plied with snacks, an ipad and our very protective dog in order to ensure that he did just that. I pulled the car around to the over hang of a thin tropical looking tree and followed the gaze and hand gestures of Mr.C up to near the very top. Sure enough, there it was,  rippled and layered not unlike a white flag waving against the deep blue of the cold Florida morning sky.

He had mentioned that it was about 12 feet up or so but assured me that there was no need to tow a ladder along as he had a lift readily available. One he said he would raise and then step a safe distance away from while I did my work. Smart man. I assembled the tools that I would need, got the hive box situated at the base of the tree and watched my son play with the dog inside the car as I waited for him to pull the lift around. And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw it coming. Yes, it was in fact a "lift". A FORK LIFT to be exact. Mr.C stopped directly underneath where it was I would be elevated to and I stared on somewhat in disbelief, and somewhat in horror, as I watched him then slide an empty wooden pallet over the prongs of the lift and then turn and ask me with a toothy little grin, "think that'll hold ya?" Funny, I was just about to ask the EXACT same thing for reassurance. So much for that.

I guess I must have nodded because he took his seat behind the controls. I de-sheethed my wimpy handsaw and motioned for him to lift er' up. And up I went indeed. I always try and find the silver lining, and in this case, it was that being up this high, I had a very clear view of my son (now honking the horn repeatedly) in the car. The downside... being up this high. On a pallet. Rigged to a forklift.

I began sawing one of the branches that needed to be removed in order to get at the hive and attempt to extract it all in one piece, every now and again checking my son as well as just how much room I had left for maneuvering around the pallet before I plummeted to my death. One such "check" I turned a little to far to get a good eye line of the car and a bee that had come close to inspect my face and had landed on my protective netting got his chance and took it, stinging me directly on the top lip. While it ended up being the ONLY sting incurred during this entire adventure, it was a good one. Kinda like free botox but for only one side of my face.

The initial assessment had put me cutting down the entire branch that the hive lingered on and placing it as one piece inside the hive box. But, with the tiny handsaw that I had, I quickly rethought my plan of attack and decided to use my hive tool to detach the comb in it's entirety (as much entirety as I could anyway). I began to chisel, and on-lookers began to gather. Apparently it's not everyday that you see a woman in a bee keepers smock and galoshes (cute ones I might add) standing on a wooden pallet attached to a lifted forklift and removing an active beehive. I tried to make as much small talk as one could, while maintaing balance and a sense of calmness in handling the bees.

I was IN IT now, in the brood comb (where the queen hides and lays her precious eggs). I wanted to keep this piece as MUCH in tact as humanly possible. It kinda meant life or death for these bees, and in turn, success or failure for me. It was snagged on a twig, they had "webbed" tightly around and they were around it GOOD. I held the comb from the bottom, amidst the busy swarm of bees, as gently as possible with one hand . Planted my feet in a balanced stance as best I could 12 feet in the air and yanked. And just like the one little thread holding a garment together, the comb bent with all of its weight and came to rest gingerly, and in one piece, in my glove. I placed it and its buzzing little tenants softly inside the hive box which I had taken up with me after I had been lowered to swap the saw for the hive tool.

I had her. And if I had her, I had them. The whole hive.

I cleaned the branch and rid it as much as I could of all remaining comb as to entice any stragglers to come looking for their family and new abode. After finishing loading up the car, I looked around to see how many "casualties" we may be leaving on the battlefield. Far less than expected! The loyal colony had faithfully followed their queen to their new home, and now rested snuggly in the trunk of my car.

I handed Mr.C a jar of comb and some of his very own, extremely fresh honey, thanked him, and pulled away with a trunk full of bees and even better than that, a sense that I just may finally be figuring out what it is exactly that I'm doing. At least a little bit anyway.