Unexpected Encounter

I ran into my great-grandfather at the movies last week (The Secret Life of Bees), and I must admit I was a bit startled because Grandpa Alva died when I was a teen.

Grandpa was a beekeeper and it was his starthistle honey that sweetened my childhood cereal and made biscuits the best part of supper. His honey was light, lighter than anything I’ve seen or tasted since, and its flavor was clean—bright but not sharp, faintly floral. All the other honey I’ve ever come across has some mysterious bit of cloudiness in it that makes it glow both in the light and my mouth, but Grandpa’s honey sparkled. It was crystal clear and in direct sunlight it almost looked white.

I’ve spent the past few days trying to remember the sequence of the film, the ways it parted from Sue Monk Kidd’s novel, the scenes I liked best, but I keep returning instead to the ache I felt while watching that first beekeeping scene. I can’t remember who first showed Lily Owens what a frame full of honey looks like because all I could see was Grandpa in his bee hat, smoker at his feet, carefully lifting the frame from the hive’s top super. And I wish I had been Lily right then so I could have worked with Grandpa as he cared for his bees, so I could have asked him questions about the labor that occupied his hands and mind for much of his life, and so I could have tasted his honey, one last time.

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edited November 21, 2008 —
One of my uncles just emailed this pic of Grandpa Alva and his bees. Photo taken by my great-grandmother.