Telling the Bees

There's more to this story than just telling the bees, but this is regional as well.

I grew up on a family cattle farm. We had a tradition of telling the breeder bull about all the family goings on, so he could be comfortable knowing we had it all under control.

It was partially superstition and partially just so the bulls we used never got aggressive with family. You'd take him a bucket of corn or sweet feed and then tell him the bullshit that was going on.

I don't understand the romanization of slums. It's not about poverty. Cleaning up after oneself doesn't require a lot of money, but it does require a certain sense of pride. Oakland would not be any less diverse if it didn't smell like piss (the article's words, not mine). Don't believe me? Visit a predominantly Asian trailer park (they exist). But somehow to a certain kind of young writer the culture of decay is so appealing.

I bought my hive from Khaled Almaghafi's shop on Telegraph, after capturing a swarm that parked in my orange tree. I wish it worked out better, as there wasn't anywhere in the yard with enough sun to keep a bee hive happy.