by Meredith May
The Pacific Ocean peeking through the walls of Garrapata Canyon in Big Sur, on the drive to Grandpa’s apiary.
A typical cabin in Palo Colorado Canyon, Big Sur, where Grandpa made the bulk of his honey deliveries.
The dicey mountain drive to Grandpa’s beehives in Garrapata Canyon, Big Sur.
Grandpa in his Garrapata bee yard, mid-1960s.
A family party at the Grimes Ranch, one of Big Sur’s earliest homesteads. Grandpa and his cousins kept beehives here.
The seaside cow pasture at the Grimes Ranch. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
Honeybees sculpting wax honeycomb. (Photo by Kendra Luck)
When I was seven, Dad mailed a plane ticket and I flew by myself to Rhode Island to visit. We hadn’t seen each other in two years.
Dressed as a hound dog for Halloween, complete with a pair of my granny’s pantyhose on my head, with my ballerina-bodyguard friend Hallie at Tularcitos Elementary School.
A trip with our grandparents to California ghost towns, 1983. I am 13 and Matthew is 11.
Playing in the snow in the Sierra Mountains, 1984. I am 14.
Just a small sample of the inventory Grandpa kept strewn around the yard for his plumbing business. Stray cats loved rooting for mice in his piles.
My editor and I kept beehives on the roof of the San Francisco Chronicle building from 2011 to 2014. During this time I drove to Carmel Valley often to seek Grandpa’s advice. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
Queen cells look like peanut shells dangling from the honeycomb. The smaller protruding cells (lower left) contain male drones, and the flat, covered cells on the right contain female worker bees.
Grandpa inspecting his backyard hives in 2012, as usual without gloves. He said he didn’t mind the occasional sting, and he also believed that bee venom prevented arthritis.
Grandpa drove several beekeeping trucks over his lifetime; this one was his last. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
Tending my hives at the San Francisco urban farm, Little City Gardens, 2015. I’d just transferred a new colony into an empty hive and the bees were circling to get their bearings. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
Inspecting a hive for fresh eggs, which tells me the queen is doing her job. The bees store honey in the upper corners of the frame, and the brood nest is in the center. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
The queen, marked with a blue paint dot, encircled by attendants that feed, clean and caress her. (Photo by MaryEllen Kirkpatrick)
Grandpa’s last beehive, Carmel Valley, 2015.
Wax moth and spider infestation inside Grandpa’s last hive. A small colony of wild bees was trying to establish itself in his abandoned equipment, 2015.
A forager returning to the hive with pollen granules packed into concave “pollen baskets” on its hind legs. Pollen serves as protein for the colony.
Hugging my brother, Matthew, after we scattered Grandpa’s ashes into the ocean from the Grimes Ranch in Big Sur, 2015. (Photo by Jenn Jackson)
Franklin Peace, 64, in his favorite deck chair, where he liked to sit and watch his bees return home in the evenings, 1990.
ISBN-13: 9781488095450
The Honey Bus: A Memoir of Loss, Courage and a Girl Saved by Bees
Copyright © 2019 by Meredith May
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