Total pages in book: 248
Estimated words: 236036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1180(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 787(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1180(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 787(@300wpm)
Little? That’s like stating you’re a little fond of sweets.
Granted, it might require a teensy bit more work than I’d planned, but the poor place had been all alone for a very long time. That thought had me swallowing hard and blinking back tears. If I’d known, I would have found a way to help. Not that I actually had a clue as to how I could have managed to do so, but if I didn’t at least tell myself that, I’d be totally unable to get out of bed in the mornings, much less be determined to make the place into a home again.
I blinked hard a few times and practiced taking deep breaths until the aroma of freshly turned soil allowed me to once again picture what I’d be seeing in just a couple of weeks.
Weeks? How about six months? Of course that puts you out of the planting season so you might want to start looking up recipes on pickling weeds. Or perhaps, dandelion—
“La-la-la-la, not listening!” I sang, yanking another weed free and tossing it over my shoulder. I really needed to look into getting a dog. Or a cat. Or at least some pet so that instead of holding conversations with the pessimist living rent-free in my head, I could chat with a living being who’d wag his tail and be very happy as long as I gave him the occasional bone and a few pats on the head.
Or maybe a goat or two to help with the weeding. No, forget the goats. A bee would be better…
Wait? Why in the world would I want a bee? Bees came with stingers and my palms were currently stinging all on their own, thank you very much, Mr. Wheelbarrow. Blinking again, I realized why the insect had pushed itself into the equation. Looking over what I was considering must have once been the garden, I watched a few bees flitting about, occasionally landing on a vine and a memory bloomed as clearly as the wildflowers that had poked their heads out above the weeds.
Hives.
Not the sort that would make me itch like crazy, but the kind that had once stood in a semi-circle beneath the leafy canopy of what I’d always thought of as a climbing tree. The memory was so vivid I could swear I could not only see the pristine white paint on the hives, but could actually taste the sweet, golden honey harvested from the combs inside. I sat there tracing the flight of the bees while attempting to remember everything I’d ever known about beekeeping.
First, I’d have to find the hives, and if they were in anything close to the wheelbarrow’s condition, I’d probably have to repaint a few. When one of the subjects of my musing buzzed close enough for me to hear what sounded suspiciously like laughter, I shook my head. Fine, I’d repair and repaint all of the hives, but that would be the easy part. The hard part would be to lure the bees I was watching back into the hives. In order to do that, I’d need a queen. And where does one find a queen?
In a castle in a fairy tale?
“No, Miss Smarty-pants, well, yes, but I’m talking about the real world.”
Bees lived in colonies and colonies didn’t have to be contained. Nope, there were plenty of places these bees could choose to call home. All I’d have to do was backtrack when they finished pollinating the flowers and headed home for the day. Oh, and I’d need a few other things as well but I was pretty sure I could find them.
Laughing, I pushed to my feet. I took the time to drag the poor wheelbarrow to what was likely to be its final resting place, which was against the shed wall, before cautiously trying to ease the door of the shed open. It only took a few tugs to give up caution. If there was any animal inside, I’d made enough racket to scare it off. With all the holes in the shed, I wasn’t worried that the only way out was the door that I was now using every ounce of my strength to open. I was sweating a lot and perhaps swearing just a bit when the door finally cooperated and gaped open.
“Please don’t let me see a snake,” I prayed, giving any belly-crawling creature time to uncoil and slither away before I dared to stick my head into the shed. I instantly remembered why I’d walked out of the theater when my date thought it would be a great idea to go see some movie about saws and massacres. Granted, I didn’t see an actual chainsaw, but the hoes, rakes, shovels, and pitchforks hanging like drunken soldiers from hooks in the wall and the trowels and gardening shears on the table against one wall would still make any deranged murderer smile in glee.