Bees buzz our heads as I lead Dad down to the hives. A short but steep hill confronts us and for the first time he does not refuse my steadying arm. This is new territory for us, and we tread carefully.
We are in the pastoral Catskill Mountains of southern New York, near Callicoon Center, where Dad has nine hives and a tiny cabin to hold his beekeeping supplies. A deck looks over the five acres of pasture. A nearby dairy farmer spreads manure on the property, and the country air is suffused by the earthly aroma of smoldering cow pies.
