When I drove up the road there was CW leaning on his truck and contemplating the house. He had already checked out the bees. (The hole leading to the hive is right about where the top of the photo is at the back corner of the house.) As I came to learn, he embodies the simplicity that drew me here. He didn't turn around when I drove up and parked, just continued his reverie.
He wore a faded blue workshirt with "C w" embroidered on a patch. Yep, just call me CW he had said. A big softspoken guy. He and his truck looked like they had been around forever. He wasn't in a hurry either. We just stood in silence.
He reminded me of an aboriginal chief I met in Candada from whom I learned the value of silence. He judged me on my ability to just BE. Not to have to fill the time and space with words, not to have to push forward an agenda, how to wait for what needs to be said.
"I like your house," he offered and shared that his home in Bellville was similar, built in 1857, and in his family since. He doesn't expect it to pass out of the family as the kids and grandkids could never let it go either.
He showed me where the bees were in more than one place and gave me an idea of what may be behind the siding (a lot!). His knowledge was deep. How he worked, "the old way," removing one piece of siding at a time from the bottom in order to expose the hive without angering the bees and slowly advancing until he found the queen to transfer to a new hive box. Once he did that, all the other bees would follow to the new location. He would harvest the honey, then disinfect the walls with bleach so they wouldn't return.
He's not a beekeeper by trade, just many years of practice, and he only gives his honey away since he doesn't have commercial facilities. He will set out a can for donations tho, and for him that is enough. I think it will be a fascinating process. And since he has now schooled me on how to behave when attack -- don't run and flail your arms like a did -- just stand still, and since my eleven stings should be about gone by then, I will be ready.
We took a long tour of the house. Long because he stopped to contemplate every room. He never told me about what was bad. But like me, saw only the promise of restored elegance and stability. When he walked back to his truck he continued his slow and even contemplation and I don't think he wanted to leave. We talked about the newly mown grass and my need to take that on again soon. When I mentioned I had inherited a lawn mower but didn't know if it worked, he pulled it out, poured some gas in it and started it. Listened to it, looked it over and then put it in the back of his truck so he could tinker with it in his shop.
When I offered to pay him up front if he needed me too..."Naw, I trust you. We will work that out later."
It is the kind of experience that reinforces my decision and my delight in being here. And we start tomorrow!
He wore a faded blue workshirt with "C w" embroidered on a patch. Yep, just call me CW he had said. A big softspoken guy. He and his truck looked like they had been around forever. He wasn't in a hurry either. We just stood in silence.
He reminded me of an aboriginal chief I met in Candada from whom I learned the value of silence. He judged me on my ability to just BE. Not to have to fill the time and space with words, not to have to push forward an agenda, how to wait for what needs to be said.
"I like your house," he offered and shared that his home in Bellville was similar, built in 1857, and in his family since. He doesn't expect it to pass out of the family as the kids and grandkids could never let it go either.
He showed me where the bees were in more than one place and gave me an idea of what may be behind the siding (a lot!). His knowledge was deep. How he worked, "the old way," removing one piece of siding at a time from the bottom in order to expose the hive without angering the bees and slowly advancing until he found the queen to transfer to a new hive box. Once he did that, all the other bees would follow to the new location. He would harvest the honey, then disinfect the walls with bleach so they wouldn't return.
He's not a beekeeper by trade, just many years of practice, and he only gives his honey away since he doesn't have commercial facilities. He will set out a can for donations tho, and for him that is enough. I think it will be a fascinating process. And since he has now schooled me on how to behave when attack -- don't run and flail your arms like a did -- just stand still, and since my eleven stings should be about gone by then, I will be ready.
We took a long tour of the house. Long because he stopped to contemplate every room. He never told me about what was bad. But like me, saw only the promise of restored elegance and stability. When he walked back to his truck he continued his slow and even contemplation and I don't think he wanted to leave. We talked about the newly mown grass and my need to take that on again soon. When I mentioned I had inherited a lawn mower but didn't know if it worked, he pulled it out, poured some gas in it and started it. Listened to it, looked it over and then put it in the back of his truck so he could tinker with it in his shop.
When I offered to pay him up front if he needed me too..."Naw, I trust you. We will work that out later."
It is the kind of experience that reinforces my decision and my delight in being here. And we start tomorrow!