Betsy Beekeeper's Arc

Chapter 5 of 6

Betsy left the skep on the porch and went back to her wooden boxes. She worked through the afternoon checking frames, marking queens, filling jars with honey that tasted good enough but not great. Every jar she sealed, she thought about Morris. She loaded three crates into the truck bed that evening — eighteen jars packed tight in straw. The buyer at the co-op had asked for a delivery by Friday. Betsy stacked the crates and tied them down, then stood looking at them in the fading light. Morris's jars probably never rode in the back of a truck like this. His probably went straight to specialty shops with hand-written cards explaining the traditional method. Hers went where honey always went — bulk orders, fair prices, nothing special. Betsy drove to the co-op and carried the crates inside. The manager counted the jars and counted out bills until the stack sat between them on the counter. Forty dollars a jar. Seven hundred and twenty dollars total. Good money for good honey. The manager asked if she'd be at the fair next month. Betsy said she would. He mentioned Morris had already reserved the premium booth. Then he pushed the bills across the counter and thanked her for the delivery. Betsy took the money home and pinned it to the board above her workbench with a single thumbtack. She stood back and looked at it — orange bills fanned out like something won instead of earned. Morris had his skeps and his blue ribbon. She had her boxes and her truck and her steady orders. The pink flowers were still growing at the far end of the field. Her relocated hives were still producing. She pulled the skep off the porch and carried it back to the shed, setting it in the same corner where dust had covered it for five years. Then she walked to her wooden boxes and opened the nearest one. The bees hummed inside. She'd answer Morris her own way.