No, really. I’m sure you think you do, but you don’t understand: my mommy is the best mommy.

My mommy taught me how to cook, and sew, and do my own laundry, and how to make crafty things, and how to shop smart, and basically how to function as an adult. My mommy has given up so many things she wants so that we, her three obnoxious, annoying, embarrassing children, could have whatever we needed. We didn’t always get what we wanted, but often we did. We were more spoiled than we should’ve been, and a lot of that came out of things that Mom wanted.

I want to wish everymommy a happy Mother’s Day today, but I most especially want to wish my mommy one, because she is the bestest mommy of everty-ever, and y’all better recognize.

I loves you, Mommy! <3

We shouldn’t have to make gay marriage “legal.” It shouldn’t be a governmental matter. No marriage should.

I firmly disagree with this statement, made in regards to Andrews v. Andrews, 188 U.S. 14 (1903)

Although marriage, viewed solely as a civil relation, possesses elements of contract, it is so interwoven with the very fabric of society that it cannot be entered into except as authorized by law, and it may not, when once entered into, be dissolved by the mere consent of the parties.

I feel the way many other Americans would, if they realized exactly what a marriage license declares: your marriage is a three-way affair. You, your spouse, and the government, are all parties to your marriage. You’ve entered into a contract with the State when you sign that paper. The legal implications of this are horrifying.

For the majority of history, marriage was simply a private contract between two parties, which was then reigstered/acknowledged/nodded at/verified/authorized/okayed/etc. by any regulatory bodies (the Church or the State, or both). Can we get back to that, please?

Can we kick the State out of ALL marriages? Can we tell them their job is to recognize and record marriages, but not to legitimize them? I think that would be the ideal solution. Everyone could be married, and no one would have someone else’s morals forced down their throats.

I don’t want to deny anyone their happiness, and it’s not a Christian’s place to legislate morality–we’re to showcase our morality, not force it on others. Christ didn’t force anyone to choose; He lived a His life in His way, and gave people the information they needed to choose for themselves. If that’s good enough for Him, why isn’t it good enough for His followers? I also don’t want the State in my marriage, at all. I have a firm disbelief that anyone but my future wife and I have any say in my marriage, so there’s no need for a third wheel.

What are your opinions on this subject? Discuss in the comments below, but be mindful of others’ viewpoints. This blog is my home, and I will not tolerate bad manners in my home.

=Further Reading=

“Taking Marriage Private,” an Op-Ed article by Stephanie Coontz, via the New York Times

I tried this last year. And the year before that. Actually, every summer I spend with my friends instead of at home sees us all swear to work out more, get back into the shape we once were. Fighting shape.

I’m not saying we were masters, by any stretch. What I’m saying, however, is that we could hold our own in a scrap, and that led to a confidence that changed the way we saw ourselves, which changed the way others saw us. It was nice.

Since then, life happened. Life happened and we got caught up in it. We got lazy, we got lethargic, we got pudgy and slow and round. We’ve been trying for years to fix it.

This year will be different.

This year, I’m sticking to it, just so I can keep up. See, the plan is to get back into martial arts. It’s been a long, long time since any of us could enjoy a good sparring match without running out of breath before it got started. My friends have decided on a new style each they’d like to try, and if I’m not in shape, I’ll never keep up with them.

They’re all doing weight training on expensive machines, but I’ve never much cared for complicated equipment. Part of the reason is that they’re usually hard for me to figure out, but mostly it’s that if I lose access to them, my routine suffers. This year, I’ve decided to get around that problem by focusing mainly on bodyweight exercises.

I found a nice beginner’s routine over at NerdFitness (what can I say? the site’s name called to me) that I’ll be doing three days a week starting Monday. This workout is a bodyweight circuit that you’re supposed to do as many times in a row as you can. I tried the circuit once tonight, as a test, and was completely winded by the end of it. If I can get it up to the three circuits suggested by the end of the summer, that alone will be a great improvement.

I signed up for a few different free workout tracking websites, too. They’re all over the ‘net; Google is your friend if you’re trying to find them. I will mention that I joined one of them simply because it’s supposedly “social,” and that’s the sort of thing that will keep me motivated. Strangers laughing at me, I mean.

In addition, this will drive home the healthier eating habits I’ve been trying to settle into the past few months. I just attempted making my first batch of yogurt; I’ll let you know how that turns out tomorrow.

For now, it’s time for bed. I have a long day of warming-up to do tomorrow before next week’s workouts trample on my spirits like so many elephants on clown corpses. Wish me luck!

Now, at first, they’re all supportive. “Follow your dreams!” they say. “Write the best book you can, and I’ll buy three copies!” they promise. They rally behind you, tell all their friends you’re working on some great project, spread the word to your extended family. It’s amazing the amount of help they are.

Then, it happens. Whether it’s because they’ve finally read what you’ve written, and either don’t approve or understand, or because the novelty of your novel has worn off, you suddenly notice a sharp change. The reaction ceases to be “Where can I buy a copy? Can I review it online?” and rapidly changes to something more negative, more insulting. They start bringing you home newspaper clippings from the Classified section, telling you about opportunities on Craigslist. They start sending you links to “work-at-home” websites, referral programs, envelope stuffing jobs. They genuinely think they’re helping.

What they don’t understand is that they aren’t helping. They’re still investing, they’re just investing in your failure instead of your success. Every time they drop a job application on your desk, they’re telling you that you can’t make money doing what you love. Every time they IM you a link to some work-at-home, get-rich-quick scheme, they’re reinforcing every single doubt you have about this career move. Not that you needed any help worrying that you wouldn’t make it, but these people are going to make sure you get the picture.

Yes, I understand I’ve been unemployed for the last five years. I’m fully aware that this economy is rough, and it’s hard to make a living doing anything right now. I appreciate that you’re worried about me, and my precarious income. However, please understand that this is my job, now. You supported me when I started this, knowing that it’s been my life-long dream, and I fully intended it to become my life’s work. I’m not going to require you to continue to support this decision, but I will ask that you at least understand that I am working. I’m making phone calls, blogging, spending time connecting with potential fans, and pecking at my keyboard to get these stories out of my head so they’ll stop driving me mad. This is my job now, and I’m not looking for another.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t try to make a bit of coin here and there with my other hobbies. It doesn’t mean that I won’t accept side jobs for a little extra income now and then, because God knows I need it. What it means is that I work for myself now. It’s hard, it sucks, and I’m dirt poor. It’s nerve-wracking, and it’s most likely the single hardest thing I’ve ever attempted. But it’s mine, and I love it, and as much as it frazzles me when I don’t make a sale every week (which would be an amazing feat at this point in my marketing strategy), or when I don’t see the hit counter on my website climbing into the double-digits after every post, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

—

In related news, I’ve been considering attempting to monetize this site in some non-advertisement ways. Part of me feels that, as an author, my book and art sales should make up the bulk of my website-based income. Part of me, however, knows that I have at least four or five other projects on deck that I can’t afford to fund yet, and that this site costs money to run. I have a few ideas–re-evaluating my marketing plan, issuing a limited-edition, hand-annotated and signed version of my first book, offering short story anthologies for micro-payments, populating my Etsy store, etc.–but I wanted to ask you, my readers, for your opinion on something else.

What is your opinion on a “Donate” style button? Is it too much, or is it an acceptable way to offset hosting costs? Would it be best as a donation button, or would it function better with some kind of incentive in exchange? Would your opinion change if you knew exactly where the funds collected were being spent (whether on hosting, on hiring illustrators, etc.)? Please, let me know what you think in the comments. I’d value your opinions, and at the end of the day, keeping you happy is ultimately what will keep a roof over my head.

Much love. <3

“Mel, I’m coming!” Her abductors were easily twice his size. Donovan had no combat training. This was going to get interesting, and in a hurry. He glanced around his quarters quickly, searching for anything that would give him an advantage. His choices were limited–a scattering of musical instruments and art supplies–as was his time. He gripped the neck of his favorite cello and stormed after the pretty girl with the auburn curls.

His bare feet slapped the cold, metal floor with a force that sent waves of pain up his jarring legs. Halfway there. Donovan’s doubt began to rise. He’d never been in a fight before, He was quite sure the bulky men, in their bulkier armor, would make short work of him. He’d ruin his prized possession, and still be of no help to Melisandre. Twenty more feet. Her next shriek squelched all doubt, and solidified his purpose. He would save her. He had to succeed. There was no other option. Ten feet.

Donovan lept, choking up on the neck of the cello. His grandfather had given him this cello before his death; it had been in his family for seven generations, hand-crafted by an ancestor in the early Twentieth Century. It had been through an immigration, three World Wars, four economic depressions, and seventeen weddings. It was a piece of history; every scratch told a story, every nick held a moral. This would be its finest hour.

He felt a twinge of guilt as it connected with the first guard’s helmet; the disharmonious twang of the strings being unseated rang in his ears like an ancestral disappointment. When the guard fell, releasing his vice grip on Mel’s arm, he forgave himself, and swung it over her head in the other direction. The body had shattered upon the first impact, showering splinters across the corridor. This second attack had less to work with, but Donovan’s fury made up the difference. Cracking what was left of the instrument across the facemask of the second guard, he fell backward, leaving Donovan to catch Melisandre as she followed. She buried herself in his chest, sobbing with relief, and he allowed himself this moment of contentment–he’d earned it.

The scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils with lavender blossoms as he rested his chin on the top of her perfect head. She hugged him tightly, crushing his ribs in the single most agreeable pain he’d ever felt. She clung tightly, squeezing a sigh of happiness from his lips. Donovan pulled her closer, drinking in the warmth of her back against his hands. He caught his breath, and thanked whatever powers controlled the stars that he’d been able to save her. The crack of a single shot tore through this air of perfection, and brought him crashing back to reality.

They were still after her.

He pried her from him, pushing her backward and shielding her with his own body. He gestured to the floor, and they knelt as one. He grabbed one of the unconscious guard’s guns, returned fire, and they fled down the hall. Running as fast as their legs would allow, Donovan continued to blast the path of their pursuers. He regretted, now, in this heated moment, never taking the optional firearms course when he came on-staff at the station. It was only a mining station; sending probes to pull useful materials from the nearby asteroid belt, refining them, shipping them to the captains of interplanetary industry. Surely, he’d never need to use a gun. Surely.

The next trigger pull emitted nothing more than a “click.” He was out of ammo. He’d forgotten to pick up the extra power packs in his haste, and cursed himself under his breath. Their pursuers, five men in the same foreign armor, were catching up quickly. “Hold this,” he told Melisandre, thrusting the empty gun into her hands. “We may be able to get another pack soon, if we’re careful.” He turned, leading her down another corridor, buying them a few precious seconds of invisibility. The corridor opened into a processing facility. A narrow catwalk circled the vast, round room. A single handrail ran the circumference of the walkway, the only thing standing between the door and a fifty deck drop into the smelting chamber. It would take them time to determine where they’d gone. They were safe for now.

He turned his attention to the neck of the shattered cello, still in his hand. He’d seen enough spy films on the Stream to know what he had to do. Working the pegs deftly with his fingers, he unstrung the neck. While the body had broken, sending the sound post and bridge flying into the night, the strings were made of sterner stuff. One by one, he unwound the metallic cords from their ebony homes. Donovan then wound them–first the C, then the G, then D, and the A–into tight coils, stuffing them quickly into his pocket. He broke the remaining bits of the body from the neck, streamlining it into a beautiful club, marbled with history and love.

He pried a control panel’s cover loose from its housing, and began to scrape it along the pegs, tapering their ends. Most of the station’s walls were covered in thin aluminum sheeting; easily punctured with the proper application of force. Donovan discovered this when he’d turned too quickly in a hallway and punctured a bulkhead with his equipment, and they’d taken the repair cost from his salary. He pushed two pegs into the doorway, about three inches from the deck, starting the holes before kicking them home. He wrapped the C string, the thickest of the four, around the pegs, securing them with a knot his grandfather had shown him on a fishing trip. The pair moved around the circle about three yards before he repeated the process, this time tying the G string between the handrail and a single peg. The D string was fastened to the handrail alone, and Donovan fidgeted with its loose end.

They hid in the next doorway, one of five entrances to this observation platform. This room was the convergence of five paths, filled with as many observation stations, to ensure that the new laser smelting technology on this station was running at acceptable levels. Normally, no fewer than four technicians were in here at a time. Tonight, however, it was empty save the fugitive couple in their nightclothes.

A shout echoed from the path they’d taken. Their pursuers had discovered their trail. Running two abreast, the first pair didn’t even notice the tripwire. At their speed, when they connected with a musical “twang”, they went sailing headfirst over the railing. As their screams died down, the other guards stepped carefully over the offending string. They had, however, only expected one trap. Connecting with the second string sent the next row sprawling, crashing to the catwalk. Donovan lept over one, fastening the makeshift noose of the D string around his neck, and flung him over the railing. He left the other to regain his footing, while he shot toward the only standing member of the attacking party. Cracking the gorgeous ebony across his helmet with a fury he didn’t know he possessed, Donovan sent another to meet his fate.

Kneeling down, he looped the last remaining string around the neck of the slowly-standing guard. Tightening the precisely engineered garotte, he demanded answers. “Who sent you? Why are you after my Melisandre?”

A bolt cut through the air, finding its mark in the guard’s chest.

“He’d been so looking forward to retirement.” The voice came from Mel’s direction, but it wasn’t hers. She’d been bound by another squad of guards while he’d been fighting. Their commander, an unarmored officer, lowered his pistol. “I really did train them better than that, I promise. Half a million credits each; that’s what it costs to train these men. And they’re outsmarted by a boy with a crush. Clearly, I need to re-examine our methods.”

“What do you want from her?” Donovan was frantic. If this man was willing to kill his own men, he was sure they’d end Melisandre as soon as they got what they wanted from her. He couldn’t let that happen; he’d been so close to getting her out safely, he couldn’t abandon her to this officer’s whims. “What possible importance could she be to you?”

“This, my boy, is corporate espionage at its finest. That new tech of yours is something we won’t be able to get our hands on for at least three years, if we do it legally. I need an engineer who can recreate it. Our intel has this little lady, Melisandre deVaulle, as the most capable engineer on this tiny station. Obviously, you can see why we’d want her.”

“She…she doesn’t have access to the plans. Her commendations…they’re all things I’ve done behind her back to try to impress her. Make her look better.” He spoke the truth, but this was the first Mel had heard of it. She’d wondered why she’d gotten so many merits on her shifts when Donovan worked just as hard, and got nearly none. Now she knew. “Take me instead. Please. I’ll give you whatever you want, just…let her go.”

The officer pondered the trade. “It won’t be easy on you; you’ve killed five of my men. There must be payment for that.”

“Kill me if you must, but–”

“Oh, no. Pain, sir. Pain is the prime mover of the State, the ultimate lubricant of the tongue. You will suffer, immeasurably, but never so much as to damage the precious information you can give me. Pain will ensure you hold nothing back to try to save yourself, or this poor little wisp of a thing. And when you’ve told me everything you know, we’ll hurt you more, just to be sure there’s nothing else. Pain.”

Donovan winced. Charging to your death for a woman you loved was easy; the suffering would end quickly, the state would be temporary. But torture? Torture would be the true test of his adoration. How much could he withstand for her? Knowing his mind would reel, his body would be racked with fire and pain, he’d be brought as low and pitiful as he could be–was his love for Melisandre strong enough for that?

Yes. It was.

“Fine. Just, let her go. Give me twelve seconds at a terminal, under supervision, and I’ll pull everything you want. Just…leave her.”

“Very well,” the officer replied. Release her.”

Tears spilled out of Mel’s green eyes, down her flawless cheeks, catching momentarily in the cutest dimples in the solar system. “Donny…don’t…I…don’t do this for me.”

“I have to, Mel. I love you.” He felt like the most noble, stupidest man in the galaxy. Tear-filled goodbyes never sounded this corny on the Stream, but he was sincere. She tore toward him, crushing his ribs in another embrace as her tears soaked into his nightshirt.

“I…I love you, too.” The light from the smelting laser reflected from her glistening eyes, and she leaned in. It was the most perfect kiss Donovan had ever known.

An alarm sounded. Donovan rolled over, and slammed his hand onto the endtable, where his clock usually stood, but the noise continued. He wiped the sleep from his eyes as he sat upright. “Ugh. That dream again? I have got to get this girl out of my mind.”

He pinpointed the obnoxious noise. It was an incoming call. He hit the control on the remote device, and the screen illuminated the darkness with the cutest green eyes and auburn curls. “Hi, um, is this Donovan Terrish?”

He suppressed a smile, and covered himself quickly with his blanket. “It is. What can I do for you?”

“Well,” she stammered, her dimples winking into being. “I have a problem, and I know we work in the same department, so I thought you could help me out. I have a big date tonight with one of the guys in Processing, and he’s dreamy, and…” She realized she was rambling. “I just wondered if you could cover my shift? I can’t find anybody else that can…”

It was 0500 on Donny’s only day off for the next three months. Mel’s shift started in an hour.

“Anything for you, Mel.”

Seriously. My family decided that, in addition to the chickens, ducks, rabbits, and goats, we needed bees. To be fair, it was decided a year ago, since bees are low-maintenance, high-production workers, and grant us three very useful products: honey, a sweetener that never spoils; beeswax, best-smelling candle, salve, and balm ingredient one can find; and propolis, a resin with numerous medical uses. This is all aside from the fact that honeybee stings are supposedly for arthritic pain relief, they’re amazing for pollinating a garden or orchard, their buzz is very soothing, and they’re just damn cute.

With a pear orchard, brand new cherry trees, loads of clover, veggies in the back, and a flower garden in the front, our three new hives will have a veritable smorgasbord from which to make that sweet, sweet golden honey. The choice wasn’t simply for the good of farming, though; there can also be a bit of money to be had from the little buzzers. Honey sells well at local farmer’s markets, and I’d be lying if I say the thought of turning a coin from their little yellow labors hadn’t crossed our minds. While I could write an entire post (and probably will, soon) about why honey is one of nature’s superfoods, this post is about the installation of the bee packages.

My father ordered the things he couldn’t make (hive tool, frame foundations, bee suits, smoker, etc.), and then he and my brothers built our hive bodies. I believe they’re called Langstroth hives; square, stacking hive boxes filled with a number of removable frames. Ours are ten-frame hives, meaning that inside each box are ten open frames, spaced for maximum convenience to the beekeeper, without neglecting the needs of the bees. It is these frames that support the comb, in which the workers store food and the queen lays her eggs. Each hive consists of a stack of these boxes, a bottom, and a top. The exterior surfaces are painted to protect them from the weather, but the interiors are left unfinished so as not to introduce unnecessary chemicals to the bees. Our boxes, of which my family made four, are painted white.

Originally, we’d decided to start with one hive. After consulting with beekeepers, we decided on two. The reason for this is that, in the event one colony fails for some reason, the second can be split among the original hives. With only one, if the colony fails, we’re out a good deal of money, twelve-thousand bees, and we have to wait another year before we can get a new package. The family built four boxes so that they could have two hives two boxes tall–the convention being that the bees need two full boxes of their own for food storage and making baby bees. The day before we purchased the packages, my father told us he’d decided to get three packages instead.

This news came as the four of us (myself, my father, and my two brothers) were finishing filling the frames with beeswax foundation. The foundation has a honeycomb patterned texture that gives the bees a head start on making consistently “pretty” combs, from what I understand, so they can make efficient use of their space. Since we’d planned on only two hives, it was decided to start with three one-box hives, and simply build more boxes as necessary. This is possible because bees will fill the space they have, preferring to expand upward whenever they can. Starting with these one-box hives will give our bees a chance to build outward, filling the box, and then upward as we build new boxes. (These boxes are properly called supers.) As long as we finish building new supers and filling them with empty frames before the bees crowd the boxes they’re in, this plan should work out to our advantage.

We purchased our bees locally, which is something I would suggest for any aspiring apiculturist whenever possible. My father went to high school with a member of the local beekeeping association, who gave Dad some pointers and hosted the “bee boot camp” he went to earlier in the month. Since it’s within driving distance, the bees would (theoretically) be less stressed than had we ordered them via airmail, and if we had any problems or questions, we could always call the individual we purchased them from. Besides, supporting local business is the best thing you can do for your community and its economy.

Driving home, we weren’t sure what to expect. The three packages of honeybees were full, appearing to contain more than the 12,000 insects per box we were told to expect. Then again, I never could win those jellybean counting games, either. Three “extra” honeybees decided to hitch a ride on the outside (presumably simply bees that didn’t make it into the box), so there were live, loose bees buzzing around the inside of the enclosed van.

Once we arrived, my uncle Brett (who is also our next-door neighbor) popped over to watch the process. We live in my grandfather’s old house, which sits on a few acres that’s split between my father and his brother. Daddy J used to keep bees, apparently, because my uncle and father reminisced about stepping on them a few times during their youth. Brett didn’t much want to help so much as watch from a safe distance.

Earlier in the day, Dad had placed the hive bottoms off the ground (they’re sitting on wooden pallets, at the moment) to keep ground moisture and critters away from the bees. The hive bodies went on top of that, full of frames, and then the tops were added. Everything looked ready. Once we brought the bees home, however, there were a few more steps to ready their new houses for them.

First, we had to install entrance reducers. A full-size honeybee hive is usually between 40,000-60,000 bees, from what I understand. These packages, however, are only around 12,000. The colonies in the packages, therefore, are at about 20% of their typical strength. With that 20% workforce, however, they’re expected to build a whole new home from scratch. All their free time for the first few months will be spent making beeswax to build comb (which are used both to hatch new bees, and store honey), sealing up every possible alternate entrance with propolis, and still trying to make enough honey to survive the winter. These bees will be far too busy to guard the entire length of the entrance, until they fully furnish their new home. Entrance reducers are small pieces of wood or plastic that do exactly what they say on the tin–they reduce the size of the entrance to make it easier to guard against predators. This gives the bees a little less to worry about while they’re frantically shopping at Ikea for new desks.

The next step is to install the syrup feeders into the entrance. Yes, I know we just reduced it, but the reducers left room for the syrup feeders. Er, rather, we broke them until they did. There are many different ways to feed bees, from pail feeders to bowls of hard candy, but we chose the entrance feeders because it would allow us to feed our new colonies without disturbing them as much. For the first two weeks, you want almost no contact with the inside of the hives; the more you disturb them, the longer it takes to finish the work. Entrance feeders are located outside the hive, and cut down on our interference until they can get settled in.

At this point, we unloaded the bee packages and set them to one side. Each package is a wooden frame with mesh screen on two sides. The top is sealed with a soup-can full of syrup to feed them during transport. We installed them one at a time, since there were a limited number of suits. We took turns–Dad and my brother A.J. installed the first, my brother Codie and I installed the second, and Codie and A.J. did the third. We probably could’ve done it with one person each, but it was our first time, and we like sharing that sort of thing anyhow.

Taking the top off the hive body, we removed about half the frames from the middle to make a space for the bees. We then sprayed the bees in the package with a simple syrup (1:1 water to sugar) mixture from a spray bottle. This keeps them from flying around all willy-nilly when you open the package. By spraying them with the syrup, they’ll stick together a bit, their wings will stick to them until they’re cleaned, and it generally inhibits flight. Furthermore, they’ll be grooming themselves a bit to rectify the situation, and therefore feeding themselves the syrup. It’s pretty clever.

Prying the wooden cover off the top, we pulled out the soup can full of syrup, and sprayed the bees through the hole again, just to be certain. There was a bit of strapping holding the queen cage to the package. This is where we split up: one person handled the queen, and the other handled the worker bees.

The queen comes in a cage–a tiny wooden box with screen sides–that has three circular compartments. A cork at each end keeps the queen and her attendants inside the cage, one of which leads to a compartment filled with a white candy substance that plugs the hole. This compartment, at one end of the cage, allows for a slow release of the queen. The workers and queen shipped in the package aren’t from the same hive, so if you just dumped in the queen, the workers would see her as an invader and kill her. The mesh sides of the cage, in conjunction with the slow-release of the queen described below, allow the hive to get used to her scent, and adopt her as their queen. The end with the candy plug is de-corked, and the queen cage is suspended, candy-side up and mesh-side out, on the side of one of the frames with a rubber band. The queen (and her attendants) will chew through the candy on one side, and the workers will chew through the candy on the other, eventually opening the hole and letting the queen roam the hive. It’s placed candy-side-up so that any dead attendants don’t block the exit.

While one person is doing that, the other person has the very scientific task of placing the worker bees into the hive. It is a delicate procedure, requiring careful precision and planning. This complex process is achieved by taking a box filled with 12,000 venomous insects and banging on the sides of the box while you shake them out. I kid you not. You seriously just manhandle the package until you dump the bees into the empty space in the hive. It’s like a big, square ketchup bottle that can sting you.

Once all that is done, you gently rake the huge mound of bees around until you can gently set the frames back in the hive. The bees will move, climb the frames, and generally get out of the way as long as you’re careful not to put too much pressure on them. If you squish a bee, it will sting you. If it stings you, it will release pheromones that will tell other bees to sting you, too. So don’t squish the bees.The frame with the queen goes in last, as close to center as you can get it, and the top is replaced once all the bees are safely out of the way.

Mom photographed the project from the safety of the van (she hates bees), and was scared to get too close (she really hates bees). She got a bit of video, too, I think, using her telephoto lens (she really, really hates bees and almost didn’t let us get them). I don’t have any of it, yet, but when I get copies, I’ll upload them to this post.

In the meantime, you get to see the photos I took, as well as a few of the videos. The videos, of course, carry a slight language warning–I was taking them without the safety of a bee suit, and thus, standing barefaced and barehanded among 36,000 insects just violently shaken from a screen box.

Inspection

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Picture 1 of 10

My uncle inspects one of our hive bodies.

Firstly, I’ve always been fascinated with metalworking; smithing in particular. I’ve read a ton of articles on the subjects of blacksmithing, silversmithing, armorsmithing, and bladesmithing. I bought a boatload of blacksmithing and bladesmithing books on Amazon, read a ton of them at the local library, and asked SCAdian friends if they knew anyone who could help me get started. I’ve lurked ABANA forums, and watched YouTube videos. I’ve spent tons of time at junkyards and the like, trying to get my hands on bits and bobs and this and that, trying to get the equipment I needed to get started for years. My folks even bought me one of those teensy anvils!

Secondly, it’s a hobby where you get to play with fire and hit things really hard. It really does sell itself.

So, when my friend told me he not only knew a blacksmith, but had arranged for me to hang out with him for a day? Well, it’s just further proof that I have the best friends on this huge blue marble.

The smith was pretty cool, and around my friend’s age. He showed me how to light the forge fire, get it going, do a few heats, and how to swing the hammer. We talked about our grandfathers, and discovered they’d both served as Seabees in the Pacific in WW2. It’s very possible they knew each other, though we won’t know if the world is that small until we do some research.

He also let me take a turn at the anvil! I made two things. And it was fun. Much fun.

Anvil

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Here's the anvil

I should probably back up a bit and explain that.

If you read my blog occasionally, you probably already know that we started keeping chickens over a year ago. In the spring of 2010, my father decided that “We should get chickens!” He grew up on an acre’s worth of farm, but we didn’t. Along with many men and women in the last few years, we wanted to regain a measure of our independence and our heritage by engaging in making more of our own food. We’d had gardens in years past, but we wanted something more. Something bigger.

In addition to our two laying breeds (Black Australorps and Columbian Wyandottes), we got some sort of meat breed, whose name I cannot recall. Quickly, however, I took to calling them “Zelda Chickens.”

My toes are in mortal peril.

What you can’t see in that photograph are the thirty others moving at light-speed to make the rendezvous with my feet. They automatically assume you’ve got food to give them, and quickly pack in a density such that you literally cannot walk without accidentally punting a few, no matter how carefully you tread. It’s actually rather humorous; with a light step and slow motions, they’ll actually stunt-fall backward if you nudge them, flying in reverse of their own accord, resembling something you’d see on The Muppets.

They grew quickly, and the time came for these chickens to meet their maker, and meat the freezer. So, my father (in typical Willie fashion) decided that we could make a plucker to save us time; no need to buy one, we’d just craft one in the woodshop. What he needed to buy was limited to materials and a cone.

He decided on the WhizBang chicken plucker. It consists of a drum with a rotating floor with tons of little “fingers” interspersed throughout. The bottom of the drum rotates, and the sides are static; it’s this motion difference that loosens the feathers from the skin. The whole shebang is liberally lubricated with a garden hose, and it works like a charm. Supposedly.

Pluckin' Finger

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This is a rubber pluckin' finger.

We had to guess at the sizing for the drill bit that we needed for the fingers; apparently, Dad wasn’t comfortable whipping out a skinny, short, floppy rubber thing in the hardware store to compare to drill bits. The fingers came in a bag, which came in a box, and reminded me of an old back-and-forth bit I used to hear often LARPing. Also, you shouldn’t thwack people with them; they frelling hurt.

The thing went together without a hitch, though it had a little trouble fitting in the van for transport–we weren’t about to lug the thing up the hill to the house proper. Of course, once we got it there, we realized that the electric motor Dad scrounged for it was less powerful than we thought. The plucker worked, but very slowly. Still, I count it as a success, since only the size and power of the motor limited us.

Ultimately, the whole family showed up. Mom was in and out, watching as much of the process as her tender heart would allow, my uncle and his new wife came over from next door to visit, and my maternal grandfather, Papa, came to give us tips from when he used to care for chickens. It was a very family-oriented day.

Me

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Yours truly, sporting his winter-beard.

(p.s., have a bonus photo!)

PUPPIES!

Fan-fiction is, by its very nature, a “derivative work.” This means that major chunks of the setting, plot, characters, or other element are drawn from a previously copyrighted work. That work is someone else’s livelihood; food on their table, change in their pocket, DVD’s on their shelf, etc.

Because of this, I believe wholeheartedly that if fanfic begins to damage the brand established by an artist, author, or director, they have the right to pursue any legal means available to them to stop the “watering-down” of their IP. If an artist, author, or director requests that you not publish fanfic based on their setting or characters for the sake of their brand image, you should comply with that voluntarily—if you truly love the setting that much, you should want to see it financially successful enough to continue.

That being said, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and fanfic is no exception. It’s an ego-boost for the creator of the IP, and it gives fans a creative outlet to a world they adore. IP holders shouldn’t flip out about every single little piece of fanfic online, and they shouldn’t threaten legal action against every Tom, Dick, and Chekov (I’m looking at you, Viacom) for putting up a fansite. IP holders with fanfic-generating audiences are generally assured they’re going to continue to be successful.

Fans are emotionally attached to their particular fandoms. If they weren’t, we’d have a different word for them. For every handful of Star Wars fans that adored the GCI Clone Wars television show, there’s another handful that thinks it’s the worst thing since Jar Jar Binks, and many Trekkies are still on the fence about the time-altering reboot of their favorite franchise. And don’t even bother trying to mix the two; it takes a special brand of geek to mediate those fights.

I think that a big part of the problem with fanfic is that emotional attachment. The whole concept of “midichlorians” almost caused riots in the streets. The entirety of “The Phantom Menace” (outside of watching Liam Neeson rave-fight a short Scot wushu demigod with giant glowsticks), coupled with continued tweakings of the original trilogy, have basically turned George Lucas from a sci-fi saviour to a fan-hating antichrist. M. Night Shyamalan has lost the entire viewing audience of Avatar: The Last Airbender by not taking the franchise as seriously as its fans do.

What fans don’t realize is that these settings don’t belong to them. They don’t.  No matter what they say or do, there is nothing short of ponying up a dump-truck full of hundred dollar bills that a Browncoat can do to “own” a bit of Serenity’s sky. Fandalorians can dress up and learn mando’a , Trekkies can wrinkle their foreheads with latex and speak tlhIngan Hol til the Romulans stop being pretentious, but no amount of conventions or fan clubs will make Star Wars or Star Trek yours. They still belong to Lucasfilm and Viacom (via Paramount), respectively. Rowling can do whatever she wants to the Potterverse, and there’s not a damn thing any one of us can say about it–it belongs to her.

I’m all about artistic integrity; I don’t think authors should write to their audience, but to tell the story as it wants to be told. If GL wants to keep changing Star Wars til he’s a brain in a jar, that’s his prerogative. Having said that, if he wants to keep his fans, he should make non-integral concessions to them. Putting the original theatrical releases of the Star Wars trilogy as “special features” a few years ago was a good start, but keeping the originals in media circulation (BluRay, UV, etc.) would keep fans happy, and continue to make him money hand-over-fist no matter how many times he screws with our childhoods.

By that same token, Karen Traviss (responsible for a good portion of the Fandalorian obsession I’ve seen recently) has a very unfriendly copyright notice. Everything she says on that page is true, and she has a perfect right to say it. Where she failed is that she could’ve said it nicer. I know that she’s trying to cover her own ass, and keep her IP safe from craziness, but if you alienate your fans with harsh language and sass, you become a dick. And we all know how Wil Wheaton feels about that.

George R. R. Martin, author of the Song of Ice and Fire series, feels quite strongly against fan-fiction, citing copyright concerns, and the tragic story of a fellow writer who encouraged it a little too much. On the opposite end, Jim Butcher, famed for his Dresden Files and Codex Alera series, has a very progressive fanfic policy. Others, including Neil Gaiman, are more-or-less on the smiling side of neutral. (To see a longer list, complete with author quotations, you can check this site.)

Another complaint that I have, personally, with fanfic is that it’s so bleeding unoriginal. While amazing fanfic does exist, most of it falls into either the “very predictable” or “romance/smut” categories. I’m sorry, but if you look at a world as massive as Tolkien’s Middle Earth, an organization as extensive as Star Trek’s Federation, an empire as vast as that in Dune, and all you can do is follow the heroes already written, you should spend more time brainstorming. There are too many people in the Star Wars universe to only pay attention to Jedi and Mandalorians.

Want a handy checklist? Let’s write one.

Fans

• Accept that this world does not belong to you.  Attached as you are to the characters, as beautiful as the setting is, you don’t own it. The price you paid for your paperback or DVD is to put food on the creator’s table, not to buy you shares in their imagination. It belongs to the person who created it.
• Be respectful of the creator’s wishes. If they don’t want fanfic, don’t write fanfic. If they ask you to keep it to certain topics, or not to write about certain ideas or characters, follow their rules. They’ve given you a world to visit when this one gets too annoying. The least you can do is wipe your feet at the door.
• Always include a disclaimer in your fanart. Always. Even if they don’t require it, make sure that everyone knows the original creator is responsible for the characters, setting, or whatever you used. Tell people who holds the copyright for what, and where they can find the original work.
• Be original. Don’t write non-parodic fanfic about Pogo and Bam’s quest to take a magic necklace to the fires of Mt. Slightly-Scary. There’s no need to follow the lives of Luke, Leia, or Han unless you can add something unique and fresh to it. Create your own characters, let them fight their own enemies, and let their adventures be unique to them.
• Fanfic is a hobby. It’s crazy that I have to say this, but fanfic won’t make you famous unless it’s officially licensed by the copyright holders. If you’re writing fanfic because you love the characters, the story, the setting, that’s fine. But if you’re good at it, or if you’re writing fanfic because you love writing, then wean yourself off fanfic, and start to develop your own world. Carve your own path, and leave the fanfic for spare time and writer’s block.

IP Holders

• Don’t flip your lid at fanfic. If you’re going to take legal action to stop it, do so. If you’re fine with it, say so. Either way, don’t go nuts over the fact that someone else is playing in your sandbox. A cool head will help you accomplish what you want a lot easier, and fanfic is really just the public’s way of saying “You win at writing.”
• Meet your fans halfway. Let them know what they can and can’t do as fanart. Tell them where they are and aren’t allowed to post it. Give them a standard-issue disclaimer to use. These steps will show your fanbase that you care about them without watering down your IP rights. Fanart is as ever-present as death and taxes, but you have the legal ground to make these stands–if you do, you’ll be better off in the end, both with your legal department and your fans.
• Get involved. It doesn’t have to be anything major, but take time out for your fans. If you sanction fanart, have a contest once in a while. If not, give them something else to do–forums for speculation, street-team responsibilities to help spread the fandom, something.
• Stand your ground, but be open to move. It’s important that you take a stance for clarity’s sake, and it’s important to hold to that stance, but never close your mind to the possibility of changing your position. Some people loathe fanart, and come to love it; some go the other way.
• Be public. Don’t hide your legalese or your fanart policy in a back corner of your site somewhere. Put it in a very prominent place; make sure your fans know where they stand. Ignorance of the law may be no excuse, but an informed fan will make better decisions.

All this said, I think I like Jim Butcher’s approach. It seems like a good compromise for everyone involved. I may have to adopt something similar. Stay tuned.