Feather II

I volunteer with a group out in South Dakota called Re-Member. If you've read my blog before, you are probably already familiar. If not, in short, it is a group that works on light construction projects in one of the financially poorest counties on the continent. They also do some amazing cultural awareness programs.   Anyway, I am on the Board of Directors as well, and we are in the midst of a capital campaign to build a permanent presence on the Rez to continue our work until we aren't needed anymore. We have finally broken ground at the new location, but we still need financial help to get the project finished. None of the money for Feather II comes from the programs we already run. If you have other questions or want to help financially or with a visit, please contact me! Here is an e-mail that was sent out today...   Working with the Oglala Lakota Oyate on the Pine Ridge Reservation, S.D.

Hi John, We're making history at Re-Member, as the first building goes up at Feather II, our new permanent home on Pine Ridge. Our shared goal - to live and work alongside the Oglala Lakota people is being realized - thanks to your help.     To date, we are roughly 1/3 of the way to our $1.5 million goal. Your support is critical to our efforts, and your support has helped us achieve the milestone we are celebrating today.   Construction has started on our first facility at Feather II, but there is more to do. $25 is important $25 a month for a year is huge $25 a month over three years will help ensure the successful completion of this incredible project Please donate online today or mail your check to Re-Member, PO Box 8278, Grand Rapids, MI 49518. Visit our Feather II project page to learn more about the ambitious plans - and dynamic opportunities - that Feather II will bring to our program. Ted Skantze Executive Director Any help would be great! even at the $5 or $10 a month level, it all adds up! Even sharing the link to this blog post or to the Re-Member website could help. Please take some time to consider what you could do to make a difference today. Thanks friends!

BEE - utiful!

Yesterday, the Boyo and I drove up to Hackensack, Minnesota to pick up our package of bees. It was a four hour drive to get there, filled with great conversation and lots of anticipation. We arrived at the Mann Lake LTD store/factory at 1:00 and were greeted by a swarm of people.

Employees made up about half of the crowd, and people picking up their bees the other half. We were given a receipt and sent to a different part of the property to pick up our package.

There were tables stacked with packages of bees, but surprisingly absent was the loud buzzing I was expecting to hear. Mostly it was the rustle of wings that sounded like softly crinkling cellophane. We were given our package and got on the road. The whole thing took about twenty minutes.

This is our package at home, ready to head up to their hive on the hill. I was quite shocked to learn from the nice people at Mann Lake that our single package contained anywhere between 10,000 and 15,000 bees! Never have I had so many pets, although to be fair I will probably not cuddle them too much.

When we got them home we gave them a spray of sugar water (in the blue topped bottle there in the photo) and got our bee suits on to get them into their hive.

Now. In the grand scheme of things, I don't fear bees. At least not in the ones or twos I usually see them in. And I know full well that they probably, more than likely, almost certainly will not sting me while they are out and about foraging for pollen and nectar and such. But I have never been in the presence of 15,000 of them all huddle together before, and as the Wife and I were on the hill getting ready to introduce them to the hive, my heart was thumping madly!

We uncapped the swarm and pulled out the little queen box. Inside was our Queen, Her Royal Majesty Queen Beatrice Blue. She has a blue dot on her back, making her much more recognizable to new-bees like me. She went into my pocket to keep her warm. Then came the rest of the girls.

My heart was flip flopping as my lovely wife gently poured the mass of buzzing into the hive box. I was skeptical at first when I heard that there were upwards of 15K of these little things in that box, but they poured out like clowns from a car. A seemingly never-ending stream of bustling, buzzing nightmare fuel. Yeah... I had some nerves hitting me at that moment. Even though we had sprayed them down with sugar water to both give them a snack and wet their wings (wet bees don't fly), a small cloud still rose from the box surrounding us as we worked. I believed there were fifteen thousand at that moment, because the bottom of the hive box was awash in little bees, and thousands seemed to be buzzing around us.

My amazing Wife was remarkably calm through the whole thing. She has no fear whatsoever of them. I was truly impressed. So we efficiently closed up the hive and I tried to think what else we needed to do before we left them alone.

Then it struck me... Queen Beatrice was still in her box in my pocket. So we opened the hive again and I carefully hung the queen cage from one of the frames. I had replaced the cork in the end with a marshmallow, giving the workers something to eat while they freed their monarch. We closed it up again and walked away, leaving a great many (to my mind) buzzing around outside.

We put a little grass plug in the "entry reducer" as instructed, to give the queen time to feel at home without leaving. I felt a little nervous about the bees left outside for the night, but when I checked on them this morning they were still bunched up where they are in the picture and seemed pretty happy.

Today it was time to remove the grass plug, check to see if the Queen was free of her cage, and check on their sugar water and pollen patty. I went out by myself this time and as soon as I opened the hive my heart went into overdrive.

Bees. Everywhere. The cloud around me made last nights group look pitiful and weak. The bees seemed to be buzzing quite loudly, and I was certain that they were signaling each other to attack.

As I removed the pollen patty (plenty left, by the way) I watched in dismay as the queen cage sank slowly into the mass of bees between two frames.

I was barehanded, as I had been the evening before, because I can't seem to grasp things well with the gloves on. But I did have the smoker fired up. So I squeezed a few puffs of smoke into the hive, as I've seen others do on TV and YouTube videos I had watched. The bees buzzed louder, but didn't seem to do much of anything else.

I took a deep breath and figured if they were going to sting me anyway, I might as well get the work done. So I carefully removed two frames, checking each one for Beatrice, and set them aside. Then I looked down into the small space and spotted the queen box lying on the bottom of the hive. Between it and me was 9 and 5/8 inches of bee covered frame, just wide enough to stick my hand down into and grab the box. My bare, bare hand. Which looked unnaturally pale and pasty. Which shook ever so slightly with a mixture of adrenaline and fear.

I held my hand over the gap and peered in again. The bees were making chains with their bodies across the gap. Other bees crawled busily across these bee bridges from one side to the next. The gap would be filled with bee bridges in minutes, I thought to myself. So I took a deep breath and held it, prepared for the stinging of my poor hand, and gently pushed my fingers into the breech.

I don't know how many people have felt the sensation of bees on the front and back of their hands. Covering every centimeter. Wiggling and jiggling. Little feet and wings setting off every nerve ending in my outstretched appendage. But let me tell you, it was all I could do not to run screaming. But I did it. I got that little queen box trapped between my two middle fingers and slid it gently out of the hive.

It was empty! Queen Beatrice was loose in the hive somewhere! I peeked in again and by sheer luck of the bee-ginner, I spotted our little queen bustling about on the frame, surrounded by her court who were following her every move. She looked content. The bees around her looked content. I was feeling relieved to have seen her.

I rebuilt the hive and closed it up. Then I went a few feet away, to the stairs leading from the hill, when something amazing happened. (Amazing to me, at least)

Not a single bee followed me, and I had not been stung or attacked the entire time I was on the hill. I pulled off my hood and sat down on the stairs to watch the bees.

The hive was covered. Bees everywhere. There were bees flying in great circles above the hive. Bees crawling at every angle on the hive. Some even buzzed around me. But none attacked.

I have read a LOT on bees since this project started becoming a reality. I read time and time again about how gentle honey bees were, and watched videos of people working bees in short sleeved shirts and hoods. Now I am finding out for myself that the bees are pretty gentle. It is one thing to read about it, another thing entirely to experience it. I am in awe of those little machines. My respect for them, I imagine, will only grow as time goes on and I gain more experience with them.

For now, my job as a beekeeper is to wait a week and let them settle in, then check to see that they are making comb and that Beatrice is laying eggs. The first of many thousands, we hope, that will lead to a strong, healthy colony.

Welcome to our yard little bees! We are glad to have you share the land with us! PS, the garden will be going in soon, so if y'all want to hang around there and pollinate all the veggies, I'd be completely OK with that!

Bees Knees

So,

It seems to be the Shaffer Way to get into new things and projects and such. This time, in an uncharacteristic twist, I was not fully responsible for heading in another new direction!

The Wife has had an interest in beekeeping since high school. So imagine my surprise when during a conversation at a Fleet Farm last summer while we were looking at beekeeping supplies on a shelf, she asked me what I thought about maybe starting a hive.

Now, to be fair, I had mentioned my interest in bees a few times, although it was more putting out feelers rather than seriously considering the idea. After all, when it comes to having ideas that turn the household upside down for a bit, I am the champ. Tearing up half the front yard for a garden, check. Starting my own business, check. Paddling the Mississippi River, RC airplanes, birdhouses...check, check and check.

Yet here was my beautiful wife, finally joining me in the "crazy" idea department!

Start a beehive!?! Even before the shock had dissipated, I agreed whole heartedly. We bought a book on beekeeping for newbies, and the research began in earnest.

We started with the basics. Learning what the parts were called, hive bodies, supers, frames, etc. Then there was learning about the bees. Did you know that there are different races of European honey bees? Italian, Carniolan, Russian, Caucasian... All with different attributes and different behaviors. Which ones will do best in Minnesota? Which are gentle? Which are good producers of the sweet stuff?  So many questions and so much research!

As summer turned to winter and winter to spring, we had decisions to make. Believe it or not, just deciding which hive to start out with can be a challenge. Which company to order from? Assembled or unassembled? Beginner kit or order separate stuff? After all, every beginner kit is different from company to company, and some companies even have multiple beginner kits to choose from! All of them had their pros and cons.

Finally, after being befuddled and overwhelmed by so many choices for so long, we rolled the dice and paid our money. Best price for the most necessaries, etc. etc. And within a few short days, the first part of our equipment arrived on our doorstep.

Our first hive!

We also are now the proud owners of a bee jacket with a mesh hood and some special gloves to keep the little bees from getting to us as we tend to their home. We are still waiting on some other essential gear. A smoker, a queen extruder, another protective suit some tools. Hopefully those will be here soon as well.

We won't be using all of this at once, of course. Once the bees arrive we'll be using the bottom taller boxes, called hive bodies. This is where the our Carnolian Queen will hopefully be laying many eggs and raising new little bees for the future. Then, as our little colony grows, we will add the top, shallower boxes, called honey supers, where the worker bees will pack away that sweet, golden honey for the future.

This first season we will more than likely let the bees keep the great majority of their labors, just to ensure they can winter over well. If they do well and are strong next spring, we will start harvesting the liquid gold! That seems like a long way down the road, but time will probably pass quickly.

So - a new adventure starting at our house! Though I am not looking forward to the inevitable stings we will have to endure, I am looking forward to home grown honey!

We will be bringing a package of bees home on May 2nd and introducing them to their new home. Three pounds of honeybees and their new little queen. (Three pounds is several thousand bees, so that should be exciting!)  I'll post again when they arrive, I'm sure.

My Native Blood

I have some native in me.

I didn't want to make a claim that I had native blood without knowing for sure. So I had a DNA test done. Overall I'm a mutt, pure and simple. But mixed in there is something ancient. Something tribal.

I have some native in me.

I come from a people that followed a herd. The animal gave them everything. Food, shelter, tools, lessons about life. In the old days, before the dominant society took away their freedoms, my people were nomadic. Now they ranch. Live in one place. But still retain the connection to their four legged, furry relatives.The old ways aren't completely gone.

I have some native in me.

I come from a people that, in the old days, lived in lodges made of poles connected at the top, and widening into a large circle where it meets the ground. Tanned hides were used for the coverings, until lighter materials were brought by the encroaching settlers. They were easy to set up, easy to take down, perfect for a nomadic life.

I have some native in me.

In days long before my time, my ancestors roamed free across a land unmarked by borders. Soon, strangers came. At first they were welcomed, traded with, occasionally fought with, but tolerated. Later, a flood of these strangers started building fences. Dividing up the land. Making my ancestors way of life harder and harder. But they adapted. My ancestors fought back, and they died. There were too many invaders. They couldn't stop the tide.

I have some native in me.

Eventually the land was gone. Claimed by people that didn't respect it. Didn't respect the creatures of it. Didn't respect the sacred sites. Not to long ago my ancestors were forced to assimilate into the dominant culture. Children as young as two or three years old were taken from their parents and sent to boarding schools. They were stripped of their traditional clothes and given clothing of the dominant society. They were punished for practicing their ceremonies, punished for speaking their language. They were taught to fit in with the masses. When they were returned to their parents seventeen years later, they no longer knew the old ways. They could not speak their language. They no longer knew their culture. The dominant culture did everything they could to assimilate my ancestors, make them forget how things were. Make them forget who they were.

I have some native in me.

But some of my ancestors held on to the old ways. They believed that everything around them that the creator had given them had a soul. That everything was interconnected. They believed in many different spirits. Moon, Sun, Ice, Fire. All of the elements had a spirit. They hid their drums and their flutes and their sacred relics. They practiced their ceremonies in secret. Remembered their sacred songs. They persevered. Even when the dominant society collected their drums, clothing, sacred items and tools and burned them in great, flaming piles. My ancestors persevered.

I have some native in me.

In more recent times, in just the last fifty to a hundred years, my recent ancestors fought for recognition from the governments that had tried to destroy them. They fought and were recognized as a sovereign nation. They formed governments of their own and work hard to preserve the language and culture of the people. They are still discriminated against. Still marginalized. Even though their ancestors...my ancestors...were the first people to live in those lands thousands of years in the past, they still fight for the rights of that land, air and water. They fight to bring back the herds that provided so much. They fight to bring back the culture because they know it was a better way to live on the planet. With respect. With honor. With culture.

I have some native in me.

As I learn more about this culture, I am filled with pride and curiosity. I want to know more, learn more about this part of my heritage. I want to learn to play the drum. Sing the songs. Carry the culture forward for my children. I want to track down which tribe I am from, because although there are different languages, traditions and cultures, all the tribes are all lumped into one ethnic group.

I have some native in me.

Though I live in a dominant culture now, I am being awakened to my genetic makeup. In the past, some of my ancestors would deny being native. To pass in the dominant culture because it was easier than facing discrimination and teasing for who they were. I'm guessing that is why I never knew that I have some native blood.

But I have some native in me. Truth.

Probably not what you expect. I am a descendant of people of the Sami tribe. The first people in the far north of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. They followed the reindeer herds and like the Lakota in America, used every part of it. They were there before the Vikings. They lived in Laavus, which looked like tipis. They sang chanting songs called joiks. (Pronounced yokes) They lived with nature, and so believed in the animal spirits, the lessons they could learn from them, and saw similar attributes in themselves.

The biggest difference between the Sami and the Lakota seems to be location. Otherwise the history and the cultures are very similar.

So yes. I have some native in me. First Nation blood from across the Atlantic. I wonder if there is genetic memory? That would explain the connection I feel to the Lakota people specifically. Of course, my paternal line is still being traced, and may end up with some First Nations of Turtle Island as well. But a genetic memory would explain a lot to me. Why I feel connected to a group of people with traditions not my own.

Are we the sum of our parts? Is there genetic memory that can call to me from across the years, making me want to learn the cultures of a people that are my blood descendants? Mysteries. Every question I learn an answer to holds more mysteries. 

The thing is, we all come from somewhere. Whether you want to look far into the past and see where your ancestors lived thousands of years ago, or if you only want to believe where your people came from in the past few generations. The truth is, we all came from somewhere else. Native or Non-Native. Full bloods or "breeds". Black. White. Yellow. Red. Brown. Purple. Green. Doesn't matter.

We are all of one race. Human. There will always be those with minds closed and no ears to hear that believe that their skin color defines them. That where a person is born defines what group of people that child can identify with. The closed mind will believe that all others who are different are bad and out to get them. The closed mind will build walls, real and imagined, to separate themselves from the "others". The closed minds will continue to oppress and be oppressed, because they cannot see past skin color.

But I believe we can do better as a species. We are capable of higher thinking. We are capable of seeing not just skin color, but the ideas of the minds and hearts contained within. We are capable of determining who a person is based on their beliefs. But it is hard to do. Harder for some than others. It takes time, patience, and an open mind. But the rewards of taking that time, having that patience, far outweigh the trouble of the process. Will there still be racism and bigotry? Yeah, probably. Because that is how we are wired. Visual clues show different colors. But I still hold out hope for humans, even against the obviously overwhelming odds we face, that we can come together as a people, and as Sitting Bull, Leader of the Oglala Lakota, once said, see what sort of future we can make for our children.

Last Year

At this time last year, I was asleep.  I was sleeping on a couch in the room next to Mom's room.  Dad was in her room sleeping on the pull out couch. Steph was next to her keeping vigil, probably catching a few winks here or there.  At this time last year, I was beyond exhausted.  So you would think I would have been sleeping soundly.  But I tossed and turned a bit that night.  At this time last year I was dreaming of a place I often visit in my dreams.  A city, out of which runs a dirt road that goes past a small, grass strip airfield lined with hangars full of my favorite airplanes.  A few miles beyond the airport is a solitary house in the middle of wide open fields.  Iowa fields. Flat, beautiful farm fields.

The house is the same one my grandparents retired to after they had spent a lifetime farming.  In real life, that house is in a little neighborhood.  In my dream, it stands alone.  When I dream of my city, I seldom get a chance to go visit that house.  Often when I find myself on the road, I get distracted at the airport and end up going flying.  Occasionally I'll remember that I really want to go visit the house, and I'll float on past the airport, running with glee to the house.

When I get there, it is always a delight.  Because when I open the door and step inside, the interior is identical to the old farmhouse where my grandparents lived.  Opa is in his chair by the stairs, Nana in a chair next to him, the other room filled with relatives I never knew because they died before I was born.  After my aunt Bobbi died, she appeared there, always sitting on the couch with various critters she loved.  Mandy, Muffin, Tuck and others.  

Last year on this night when I walked in they were all smiling brightly.  I stood in the entry room, and waved.  I seldom get to chat with anyone.  Most of the time it's just a wave and a smile and I wake up.  On this night I didn't.  After I waved, two men came in with another big, plush chair and set it beside Nana's chair. I furrowed my brow and wondered what that was there for.

I looked over at Bobbi with a question.  

"Just getting ready." She said. And my heart hurt to hear her voice again. "It's almost time."

Around this time last year I awoke to my sister gently shaking me awake.  The nurses had been in to re-adjust Mom, and Steph thought her breathing sounded weird.  I rose quickly and went in to look.  Mom's breathing was not right.  We agreed that it would probably be a good idea to wake Dad.  He stumbled over and took Mom's hand. I held her other, and was trying to feel a pulse.  I was waiting for her to take another breath.  Her breathing, in medical terms, had been agonal.  Not painful, just long, long breaks between breaths.  I couldn't feel a pulse.  I waited for another breath. As I waited the slow realization of what had just happened started to sink in.  There wouldn't be another breath.  Steph had silent tears.  Dad looked stunned.  Everything slowed down into one horrible moment of realization.  Mom had died. I looked at the clock.  5:59 in the morning.  I called down to the nurses station and asked them to come check her.  Verify what I already knew.  The nurse had a pink stethoscope. I borrowed it after she checked and listened for the familiar thump of a heartbeat. Strained to hear just one more.  Waited.

Thus began a year of firsts.  

First holidays without a mom.  First birthday without a mom.  First spring. First summer. First autumn and first start of winter.  So many bittersweet firsts.  So many thoughts of "Mom would have loved that". And now, in this early morning, a first year completed since my Mom died.

It has been a year of remembering a great many things she did for me.  A year of trying to figure out how to be without a mom. A year of trying to help Dad find his way in this completely new world.  A year of ups and downs, highs and lows, mostly good times but still lots of not so good times.  A time to think that from now until my time comes, all I have left are memories, pictures, videos.  And while it is nice seeing her in videos, I would do almost anything to hear her voice in real life again.

I am so thankful to still have Dad. I know he is grieving, and I know that I cannot know the depths of his grief. But he knows mine. Almost exactly.  He lost his Mom to renal failure when I was in boot camp for the Marines.  He went through everything that I am now going through. Even though I knew then that he was grieving the loss of his mom, I couldn't fully understand it until last year at this time.  Now I recall how he has lived his life since then and I am thankful for such an amazing role model for these days.

Last year on the 26th of December, I heard my mom say her final words to me.  At this time last year, she was gone.

I miss my mom. 

Deep Dark Holes

I spent a long summer and lots of the autumn in a deep hole of depression.  Scary deep.  Scary dark.  But I have clawed my way out again.  Without the support of my family, without the assistance of medical professionals, without the time and resources to do so, I probably wouldn't be here anymore.

I invented a new term.  Suicide by apathy.  I didn't really have any drive to do anything.  Even eating, drinking and sleeping left me feeling... Meh. I just didn't care to be living anymore.

But with lots and lots of help and love, and lots of incredibly hard mental work, I am through the tunnel.  I don't ever want to fall back in that hole, but unfortunately, it will probably happen again and again.  Nothing to do but keep doing the work I need to, and keep relying on others for support, which is really, really hard for me.

I like to believe I am self sufficient.  Able to face anything that comes my way.  To a certain extent I am, but I have come to realize that nobody is able to be completely independent.  It is part of the human condition to need other humans.  We are all programmed thusly.

So let me tell you from first hand experience... You are not alone.  It is so very, very hard to ask others for help, but do it if you need it.

It is hard to see out of that deep, dark hole sometimes.  Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to even try.  

But please try.

Reach out.  You'll be surprised at how many people will be there to help.

Fly Away

PTSD sucks.  It sneaks up and takes over, making it hard to function.  When it hits hard I can't do anything. It is hard to get up in the morning. Hard to do anything but sit and stew in my own thoughts.

What really, really stinks though, is reaching a point were I am doing good.  Feeling good. Getting things accomplished. I feel like I am over the whole PTSD thing. Past the crippling depression.

Then it hits again. Bringing to a crashing halt all of the projects I may be working on. I let people down. I let myself down. And it is easy to spiral deeper and deeper without realizing I'm heading down.

Fortunately I have a wonderful wife who can recognize when it's happening. She supports me doing whatever it takes to climb out of that pit.

Well. It hasn't been a very good few weeks. I bottomed out and had a few people pretty worried.

Go do something fun. They said. Even if you can't find enjoyment in it, and even if you usually did get great enjoyment from it, do something. Anything.

So yesterday I did. It was ridiculously hard to gather materials, get things set up to build. This time I used a kit, so everything was already cut, and all I had to do was put it together. I had to force myself to do it.  It sounds stupid, I know. How lazy do you have to be to have something like this be so hard?  And unless you've had severe depression or PTSD or both, it seems like a totally reasonable question.  But I'll tell you something. It is so, stupidly hard to get motivated to do anything!  And if you are like me, you will beat yourself up even more for it being so hard.

But I did it. Powered through an airplane build. Something I usually enjoy.

And, ya know what?  By the middle of the build I was so engrossed in what I was doing, that I started feeling better. I wanted to finish. To get the electronics in (scavenged from another plane). The weather was OK and maybe, if I got it done, I could even take it out for a flight.

By mid afternoon, I had put the last touches on it.  It was ready to fly.  The kids and I headed down to our local farm field to give it a try.

Tossing a plane into the sky for the first time is always nerve wracking.  I just spent hours building and tuning and tinkering. Now, within a few seconds it would either soar into the sky, or spiral in and crash beyond recognition.

Flight controls checked and correct. Throttle up, and give it a throw.

To my great delight, it flew.  I trimmed it out a little, making it easier to fly, and put it through some paces.  High speed, low speed, stalls, rolls, loops, I even cut the power completely and let it glide.  It performed wonderfully.  And as I flew it around the sky, I recognized that I was smiling. Happy.  Enjoying the moment I was in.

My life has become like a maiden flight of new airplanes.  It should go fine. It should just up and fly. But every once and awhile it spirals out of control and crashes.  So far, I've been able to fix it up and try flying again.  But I never can seem to tell when it's going to fly and when it's going to crash.

Someday soon, I hope I can be like the video below. The day may start out shaky, but I will end up flying away.

Enjoy this video of the very first flight of my newly built flying wing