The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

there is anything else I can do,” she said to Stan. She moved toward the door.

“Actually, we were just looking at a map of the valley,” Stan said. “You know most of the orchardists, don’t you?”

She nodded and moved toward the map.

“We’re trying to figure out where they’ll start spraying. We know the county puts them on a schedule, and that it is wind-dependent. Do you have any idea how they decide?” Stan said.

Alice nodded. The permits came through her department, she said.

“Smaller outfits will do their own spraying and can start anytime after April fifteenth,” she said, thinking of Doug Ransom. “But the larger orchardists have to file a permit with the county and note their preferred day. We make a schedule dependent on the wind forecast.”

People nodded, murmuring.

“Who do they usually start with?” Stan asked.

“It changes from year to year,” Alice said, and unslung her bag from her shoulder.

“Why don’t we look it up?” she said, pulling her laptop from her bag.

She logged into the system and clicked through to the spray schedule. There it was, neatly color-coded and organized by acreage. Because it was one of Nancy’s few tasks, it gave Alice extra pleasure to capture the file and email it to herself, cc’ing Stan.

“It’s all there,” she said, logging out of the system. “Dates, times, and addresses.”

Stan pulled it up on his computer, and those sitting closest to him leaned in.

“They’re starting two weeks from tomorrow,” he said. “With Randy Osaka’s orchard in Odell. That’s one of the biggest.”

He looked up, triumphant. “We can be ready by then, can’t we?”

The group nodded, murmuring in agreement.

“Let’s get organized,” he said. “Starting with the master task list—legal, community outreach, and media.”

Alice rose and tugged her computer bag over her shoulder. “I’ll let you get to it,” she said, and moved to leave.

“Back to work?” Stan asked, walking her to the door.

“No. Actually, I just quit!” she said with a laugh.

“Wow! Sounds like there’s a story there?” Stan said, cocking his head. “You happy about it?”

“Never been happier,” Alice said.

“Well, don’t rush off, then. We can use your help.”

She was glad to stay. She cataloged a list of the orchardists she knew, ranked in order of those who might be receptive to the group’s message. Their goal was to force the county to abandon the SupraGro contract and revert to one of many less toxic herbicides approved by the local coalition, which was made up of the Hood River Watershed Alliance, Portland Riverkeeper, the outdoor school, the organic growers’ group, and a long list of residents, including doctors and nurses from around the valley. Alice told them about the beekeeping group’s petition. She figured she could talk them into joining the fight.

Stan asked her if she’d be willing to approach some of the orchardists. Alice agreed, noticing that at least three of them were also beekeepers and had been at the meeting when she spoke. She was sure they would listen. Others would be tougher, but she would start tomorrow, dropping in on them and talking to them face-to-face. She knew that when needed, she would call upon the memory of her generous father, whom everyone had loved.

She looked at Stan and these other people who were working together to protect this lovely place they all called home. She thought of her little house in the dell, where Jake and Harry would be waiting for her. They were her—what were they? “Employees” wasn’t the right word. Jake had called himself her apprentice. Friends, she settled on. They were her friends. Her funny, bumbling, and inspiring young friends. Alice Island, it appeared, could have regular visitors when the drawbridge was down. She thought of them as she drove south toward the mountain, toward the dell, toward the bees, and toward home.

22 Swarm Warning

From these considerations, it is evident that swarming, so far from being the forced or unnatural event which some imagine, is one, which could not possibly be dispensed with, in a state of nature.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

Harry Stokes was a man transformed. At the dinner table Alice observed that his customary reticence and stammering had disappeared as he evangelized about his newfound religion of kiteboarding. Usually the first to finish his food—bent over his plate and shoveling with an eye out for seconds—he now let his dinner grow cold as he sketched the physics of kiteboarding on a napkin. He explained the wind window, the layout of the kite, the power of the lines, and the movement of the board across the water. To Harry, it was nothing short of magical, she could see.

Alice watched him, amused, this usually bumbling young man who’d found confidence in such an unlikely place. Jake smiled at him and shook his head. Harry was as surprised as they were. He relayed how his hands had been shaking as he walked away from Jake and out onto the sandbar behind Yogi.

“I thought I was going to hurl, dude!”

Jake laughed and banged his fist on the table. Alice frowned, and Harry ducked his head.

“Sorry, Alice! But man, I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of all those kids. Yogi said he can have me staying upwind and tacking in two more sessions,” he told them, beaming. “He said I’m a fast learner.”

Alice, who had watched the kiteboarding craze unfold in recent years, said, “Well, I think you’re all nuts. Don’t you get all tangled up out there? It looks like chaos.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, it is sort of chaotic. But you just have to hold your line. And people are cool about making room for newbies. It’s a generous crowd.”

Alice noted that she had never heard so many words come tumbling out of Harry’s mouth at once.

“Don’t let me dampen your enthusiasm, Harry. I just don’t want to call your mom when you break a leg,” she teased.

Harry’s smile dimmed.

“Hey! I was just kidding. I’m