One spring day, once the flowers have begun to open, a bee willhover(盘旋) and zip through your yard and dive-bomb your picnic table. While you're thinking about avoiding an attack, that bee is focused on something else entirely: me.
A honeybee has about six weeks to live. Today, like most days, her task is to fly as many as three miles from home, stick her long, straw-like tongue into a hundred or so flowers. When the bee has had her fill, she'll fly home. There the bee will deposit what she has got into the mouth of one of her co-workers, who will relay it to another, and so on for about 20 minutes, until the mixture is ready to be placed into the comb. Then she and her 50,000 or so mates will hover in the dark all night every night, flapping their wings to create hot, breezy conditions to remove the water from the mixture. Several sunrises later, they will seal me off in a golden cell of beeswax. In her lifetime, our bee may visit 4,000 flowers, and yet will produce only one-twelfth of a tea spoon of me.
The average American consumes nearly a pound and a half of me every year, in tea, on toast, and beyond. If I do say so myself, I am a timeless treasure. Literally--I never go bad.
Unfortunately, my good health is not guaranteed. The problem lies in the growth of industrial agriculture and the use of pest control chemicals, as well as changes in weather patterns, all of which reduce the number of flowers bees have to visit. I'd appreciate your letting your own garden grow just a little wild. My future depends on all of us fostering spring and summers wild flowers, thus helping the bees, who give so much--to you, to me--without ever asking for anything in return.
