The thorns had a rose

By CHRISTINE TAILER
HCP columnist

It was hard work, and I was hot and tired. My bee suit clung to my wet arms.

Sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes, but I could not wipe it away.

The bee veil that kept me protected from the bees also meant that my hands were on the outside of the mesh.

My armor was impenetrable, even to me.

I pushed and pulled the loud lawnmower around and between the hives. I like to keep a pathway cleared behind the row of hives so that I can walk along its length and survey each hive from behind.

When I approach from the rear, the bees do not even know that I am there. They all fly straight out and up from their hive entrances, and never, or perhaps I should say rarely, circle around to the rear. I can crouch safely in my cleared pathway and quietly observe and know that all is well with my bees.

But to keep the pathway clear, it needs to be mowed. It seems that the woods have a way of sneaking out into the field and obscuring my pathway. So, I mow. With bee suit on.

I have learned that the bees definitely do not like the smell or sound of the mower, and perhaps they could sense my hot distress because they attacked not only the mower, but me.

I could feel the ping of their repeated attacks as they plummeted into my veil.

It must have been one of those days because not only the bees, but the woods attacked me, too.

The long, trailing, prickly vines of the multi-flora roses reached out from the woods and entangled the mower wheels and snagged my bee suit.

I was constantly bending to free the mower, pushing forward a foot or two, and then stopping to reach behind and snip off a vine that was firmly attached to my rear.

Every so often, between hives, I would pause.

I could see a steady line of foragers returning to the hives, laden with bright yellow pollen tucked into sacks on their rear legs.

The mowing was slow going, but finally, after what seemed an eternity, I reached the end of the row of hives.

My arms ached and felt as limp as string, and I was amazingly thirsty, but I completed my task, and my bee suit had worked. I had not been stung.

I did have a few scratches from the rose vines, both on my legs and arms, but the suit had not torn.

The thorns had simply penetrated the cotton cloth and lightly etched my flesh.

The next morning, Greg and I went for a walk along the creek.

I smelled a light, sweet scent on the morning breeze. The edges of the road and the creek valley fields were covered with the white blossoms of the multi-flora roses.

I pinched off a handful of the small flowers. I had not noticed it before, but each petal was shaped like a heart. I buried my nose in the flowers.

The scent was very gentle, not overpowering.

I carried my treasure back to the cabin. As we walked up the hill I saw a wonderfully large patch of multi-flora roses just off to the side of the sugar shed.

It stood five feet tall and was easily six feet across.

The full vines trailed down from the edge of the woods and spilled onto the grass.

It reminded me of a white waterfall or perhaps the long, white train of a bridal gown.

As I walked up to the white roses, I could smell their sweetness. I saw one of our bees flitting from flower to flower and gathering the yellow pollen that I had seen them carrying to the hive the day before.

I rinsed off my handful of rose petals and filled a mason jar with water. I put the petals in the jar and set it in the sun.

By evening, the water had turned a light golden brown. I strained out the petals, added a dollop of honey and a few ice cubes.

The taste was as light and refreshing as the scent.

As I sat on the porch swing beside Greg, sipping my rose petal tea, it occurred to me that yesterday’s thorns did, in fact, have a rose.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.