Chicago Honey Co-op

This past summer, a visit to the Chicago’s farmers’ market yielded more than sweet August peaches and heirloom tomatoes. Fresh off the boat (plane) from adventures in the South Pacific, I was looking for info on bees. For three months, I’d heard nothing but bad news as Colony Collapse Disorder dominated New Zealand’s headlines. Fruit orchards in the North Island, which rely on commercially transported apiaries to pollinate their crops (particularly the nectarines of the northeast), were logging record lows in yield as CCD left hive after hive mysteriously barren. In a country of four million, where a murder can dominate the news cycle for months after the event, this bizarre environmental drama was the inescapable talk of the town. But truly, it was serious. When I left, the South Island was one of two places left in the world that had yet to “catch” the verola mite, one of the lead suspects in the mystery of CCD’s mechanisms. I wasn’t the only one curious, either. Back in New York City, at the Meerkat Media headquarters (top secret location), the ‘Kats had gotten wind of the situation, as well. And you know what that means: time to make a documentary!

When I have an agricultural problem to solve, I turn to my market. Chicago’s Green City Market has a number of beekeepers (including some neat fellows from Indiana with the creamiest honey I’ve ever sampled), but at manager Roman’s direction, I turned to the Chicago Honey Coop. This neophyte organization had the dual appeal (to me) of being both a local apiary and a garden-based group. If the bees get bad, at least I could run, duck and hide in the familiar rows of zucchini, sunflowers and snap peas. Phew.

So it was that three hours later, under a blazing August sun, Mike Benson and I drove (windows down, sunglasses on) out to Chicago’s southwest side. Besides the wheels (I only have two, and one of them was flat), I needed Mike’s steady hand and magnificent camera skills to help me take footage. As we pulled up at the formerly abandoned lot where the Coop now gardens, Mike paused. In the silence between us, a low, dull sound rose from paces away outside the car: the unmistakable sound of a swarm. Mike looked at me. I looked at Mike. We looked at the row after row of 130 white bee boxes lined up on the other side of the chain link fence. Not for nothing has this ten year friendship lasted: Mike, with a sigh, got out of the car. “I’m standing from twenty feet away, nothing less,” he said, grabbing the camera bag from the trunk, “You want close-ups, you shoot.”

Our contact at the Coop was Dr. Shamuel Israel. A nutritionist and honey-voiced radio personality, Dr. Israel organized the gardening side of the Coop. In a brilliant arrangement, part CSA and part community garden, volunteers who planted and tended were allowed to harvest, which Dr. Israel used as part of his program to tackle neighborhood diet-related health issues (like diabetes). The plots simultaneously benefited from the presence of the bees, both as pollinators and “watchdogs” when the tomatoes and watermelons got too temptingly ripe for passerby to resist. As wandered the rows, I did notice more bees than usual. Before they seemed a terror, Dr. Israel was quick to point out the benefits of bees in the neighborhood. Fruit trees among these old homes were coming back to bear, he said. As for the Co-op, Chicago’s streets are planted with a lot of linden trees, which makes a light, high-note honey. As the Co-op derives much of its income from honey sales, Dr. Israel pointed out that the gentle flavor had grown popular with their market customers, who also enjoyed the idea of a “city honey” being so sweetly mild.

As the camera rolled, Dr. Israel donned a veiled white cowboy hat, a white jumpsuit, and gloves. He pried open a bee box and drew out the thin, file-folder-like frame where the comb webbed, wet and dripping with wax and honey. The bees seemed equal parts focused and indulgent to this activity, moving in patterns around his head and hands. Bare of protection, I interviewed from a few feet away, although when it came time to sample some of the freshest honey, I ducked in, nervously offering a finger. Part of the Co-op’s program, Dr. Israel explained, is to train folks to beekeep. Don’t be nervous, he said. The chemicals your body releases signal to the bee an increased risk of irrational behavior. That’s what makes them sting.

Coming from a man who trains felons to beekeep, I listened. I took a few deep breaths and stepped forward. The buzzing moved around me in swirls of sound, coming close and moving away from my tingling ears. Like the first dive into cold ocean, I let my body relax. Thinking calm, deep thoughts, letting their tiny bodies glide and duck around me, I felt at one with the bees. They darted, froze mid-flight, backtracked and rolled. As I moved towards Dr. Israel, himself crawling with the creatures, he profered a popsicle stick with a sample of honey on it. I tried it. Light, clear and smooth, the honey was delicious. About forty-five seconds later, the sweet taste of triumph still on my tongue, a bee got stuck in my hair, stung my head, and then with the chemical release of its dying breaths, got a whole swarm after me. A pair of tweezers, an ice pack, and a short panic attack later, Mike, Dr. Israel and I turned to safer things, like vegetables.

You can view the Meerkat’s short documentary “Every Third Bite” at http://www.meerkatmedia.org/?p=1043 Featured at the Media That Matters Film Festival, the Nantucket Film Festival, and written up by New York Magazine, among others, this charming nine-minute piece addresses local beekeepers’ reactions to the larger global issues surrounding Colony Collapse Disorder. Annie, a writer for the film and producer of the Chicago footage, is also the child-actor scout. Her young students, gracious participants and fantastic bee scholars, are now all famous and living in Hollywood, where they regularly drink tea with honey.