Learning a lesson

It was late November and too warm to snow. Brenda* and I were chatting and walking our dogs in the Oberbort, Gstaad's affluent neighborhood. Behind dark green evergreen hedges, mammoth chalets stood vacant, their shutters closed, as they are for most of the year. My dog Bizzi was free to roam and sniff the scents under every tree and bush. Brenda kept her aging and deaf terrier on a leash.

We were deep in conversation about the beauty of life, when we came upon a chalet that stood close to the road. A gardener was trimming the hedge in front. All of a sudden, a woman appeared from behind that hedge. She had immaculately coiffed shoulder length grey hair.

“Do you always walk your dog off the leash,” she asked me in perfect English.

“Uh…” I managed to utter. “Yes, uh… sometimes.”

“Well, I have a very dangerous mean dog,” the woman said. “You're lucky he’s not out today.”

I didn’t know what to say. Brenda and I kept walking.

“Is your dog mean?” the woman asked me, as we passed her.

“No,” I said.

“Well, you should keep your dog on a leash then,” she said.

“You should keep your dog on a leash,” I retorted, my back now towards her.

A door slammed behind me. We walked a few steps in silence.

“We are on a public street,” Brenda said. “She cannot tell us what to do on a public street, and if her dog attacked ours, she would be the guilty one.”

“Yes!” I said. “She was wrong to threaten us.”

We walked in silence a little longer.

“Was Bizzi on her property?” I asked. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yes, he was,” Brenda answered. “Just a little. I think he just went about a meter in.”

“Then, why didn’t she just say say so?” I said, feeling my cheeks flush.

I then realized that the woman had been trying to set a boundary. She had been upset with good reason. My dog had crossed her property line. Had she said: “Please keep your dog off my property,“ I would have apologized and moved on. Instead she had asked me a personal question (which I had answered - mistake #1), and then she had threatened me with her nasty dog (which I had managed to ignore), and then she had given me unsolicited advice, telling me how to walk my dog (which I had copied and thrown back at her - mistake #2).

In the future, I will remember to walk Bizzi on a leash whenever walking through the Oberbort or when I am distracted. Most importantly, I will try to keep my serenity when dealing with angry people.

*name changed to protect privacy

Well-meaning relatives

As I sat down at the "Stammtisch" or local's table at a restaurant to drink a tea while waiting for my son to come out of his drum lesson, I recognized her as the old lady I had given a ride to a week prior. She had been walking past my friend's house on her way to the next town, five kilometers away, while my friend and I had been chatting on the street. I had been struck by her healthy appearance. After exchanging pleasantries, I had offered to give her a ride, and she had accepted even though she had seemed fit. In the car, she had told us how she walked to the neighboring village every day, that she was a grandmother of five, that she lived in a house "up the mountains" and that she had spent her entire life tending cows.

Today, sitting in front of a tall glass of beer, her sparkle was gone.

I asked her how she was, and she said, "Not so good. Today is moving day."

I asked her what she meant. She said that her family and the town powers-that-be had decided she could no longer live alone in her house, the home she had occupied for the past fifty years. This was the place where she had nursed her dying husband and raised her children. Now, she was forced to leave it to move into a one-room studio in the newly-built assisted living center. In a slight wail, she went on the explain that her daughter-in-law did not allow her to bring any of her furniture.

"I ran away," she said. "I couldn't bear to stay in that cold place one minute longer. I will not sleep tonight."

Here was a grandmother getting drunk because of loneliness and sadness for having to spend her first evening alone in a strange place. Although, she was clearly upset, I noticed that the more she spoke, the better she appeared. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly time to pick up my son, but I couldn't leave this woman alone. I had an idea.

"Would you give me a tour of your new home?" I asked.

"Would you really like to?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

"Yes, I've heard good things about the new center, and I am curious to see how the studios are," I responded.

So, she finished off her beer, and we both payed our drinks. She got in my car. I picked up my son and drove him home (explaining in English what we were doing). She knew many of my neighbors, including the veterinarian who lives down the hill from me. "I was his assistant for a while," she said.

I liked her new home. It was light, airy, modern and well-heated. For an hour, we tested her new phone, the lights, and the electric curtains. She showed me the furniture that wasn't hers.

"You see this brown coffee table? It's not mine. I have a perfectly good one at home, but they wouldn't let me keep it," she said.

And in her sleeping area, she pointed to her bed.

"I have such wonderful linens, and they gave me these," she said pointing to the wine red sheets. "And MY bed has a footboard on which I can stretch my calves when I have cramps. This bed has no footboard."

Her cell phone rang and one of her friends offered to come over, which was good because I was late for book club. So, I took my leave, leaving her smiling. Her sparkle was back, and I was glad.

While driving away, I thought how amazing life was and how coincidental the two meetings with this old day had been. Why were her relatives so bossy? Why wasn't she allowed to keep her furniture? I vowed never to be so controlling in my life. Were her items antiques and therefore valuable, or were her relatives embarrassed about her stuff? Maybe her furniture was really old and shabby. Nevertheless, I thought she should have been allowed to keep her stuff.

On our walk today...

Despite yesterday's blistery north wind, my son Oliver, our dog Bizzi and I managed to go out for a walk.
Five minutes into our stroll, and while passing a farm, Bizzi yelped.
"Bizzi touched the electric cow fence," Oliver said.
I think Bizzi's eyes are going (he's nine years old after all), because on more than three occasions, I've seen him running after what he thought were cats in the fields only to be chased by a growling farm dog, or only to find a spool of electrical wire or a water bucket.
On the downhill part of our adventure, Oliver decided to test the speed of his bike as well as its braking ability. When I finally caught up with him, he showed off a bloodied knee.
Further down the road, the way was corded off. A herd of cows dawdled on their way back to the barn munching on a luxury chalet's hedge. Two neighbors chatted next to their parked cars, while waiting for the road to reopen. The rosy cheeked farmer, an expectant father, smiled and said hello, as he walked by.
Oliver and I played soccer and the ball went into our oil burner repair man's garage and got stuck under his car. Luckily, the oil burner repair man witnessed this and invited us into his garage.
Just an ordinary walk in the Swiss Alps.

Driving on mountain roads for health

All in all, living in the mountains has its advantages, except when things go wrong and you need to see a specialist. Visiting such a doctor involves a one-hour-plus drive on curvy, sometimes icy, mountain roads.

Recently, I damaged my shoulder by undressing and ended up with adhesive capsulitis or "frozen shoulder". The injury occurred in November but it wasn't until January that I finally went to our family physician. The x-rays showed a four millimeter bone in my joint. Afraid to hurt my shoulder any further, I stopped moving my arm. Big mistake! One week later, I couldn't move my shoulder at all.

To find a reputable orthopedic doctor, I had to leave the Alps. Now, after three trips down the windy road to Bern and an MRI, I know what I must do: three times per week physiotherapy and daily exercises. One problem is that all the physiotherapists in our area can only offer me one appointment per week. Grrr… I guess that's the subject for another post. Do people in the mountains really hurt themselves that much?

Spreading the black gold

Newcomers are shocked when they witness the spraying of "Gülle" or the black liquid cow shit and piss, considered gold by local farmers.

So what's going on?

In the olden days, farmers mucked out their stalls, scraping the liquid and solid cow excrement into wheelbarrows and dumping the mixture onto a pile outside. Problems began when farmers increased the size of their herds, and the shit piles grew. Run-off from these piles contaminated the ground water and made people sick.

To solve this problem, the government began requiring the installation of tanks to collect the black smelly, liquid manure. This liquid--which gets particularly stinky after stewing all winter long--is then pumped into a movable tank that is strapped to a tractor and sprayed onto pastures. As you can imagine, the stink is violent.

The benefit is that the spray feeds the grass without going deep enough into the ground to pollute groundwater. Much evaporates before it even hits the ground.

It can be quite a nuisance when you are planning to eat lunch outdoors, as for example, on an Easter weekend, a neighbor's favorite time to spray Gülle.

Our dog doesn't mind at all. He looooves going into the field after it's been sprayed. I haven't actually seen what he does in there. Don't really want to know.

Interestingly, farmers usually spray a few hours before rain comes, as the liquid can have a burning effect on grass. So, the spreading of Gülle is a useful precipitation indicator.

And the perennial debate continues: city people with secondary homes in the country complain about the stink, and the country people explain the importance of nutrient cycling. It reminds me of people who build homes next to airports and then complain about the noise. I just have to remember not to plan eating lunch outside on Easter weekend… a small sacrifice to pay for living in a chemical fertilizer-free area.

A winter avian death

What do you do when your beloved pet parakeet dies, and it's 20 below outside? Answer: Stick him in the freezer.

This is what we did a few Februaries ago when my then seven-year old son found a barely breathing "Blue" on the floor of his cage. Carefully, my son picked him up and held him in his cupped hands. Within an hour, Blue was dead. During the ensuing hours, my son continued to hold him, as he walked around the house. Finally, he placed Blue in a shoebox and stowed it under his bed.

A day passed, and I didn't know what to do. Blue deserved a proper ceremony and grave, but there was at least a meter of snow covering the frozen ground outside. I couldn't bear the idea of handing the box to the town recycling and animal carcass man, like I had done with Peter rabbit.

The next day, I recounted my story to girlfriends over coffee, after which one Canadian joked: "Stick him in the freezer."

So, that's what I did when I got home.

Three months later on one glorious May evening, I made the following announcement: "Today's the perfect day to bury Blue."

The children and I dug the grave, and once Blue's shoebox was in the ground and covered with dirt, I read the pet burial prayers I had found on the internet, and my daughter placed a bouquet of Forget-me-nots on the little mound. She painted a rock with a blue cross and the words "RIP Blue" and used smaller rocks to make a crown around the grave. We then transplanted more wildflowers onto the grave. To complete the ceremony, my son played a song on his trumpet.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains in a golden glow, my children frolicked in the garden. It really felt as if Blue had finally gone to heaven.

A mountain commute

So what does my commute look like in the Swiss Alps?

After a typical routine that begins at 6:30 a.m. and that includes feeding the birds, the dog, the children, and trying to remember each piece of ski equipment needed at school that day, I usually have to scrape ice from the inside and outside of my car's windshield and windows. And that's after having to shovel it out from under a few meters of snow. At around 8:10, the children have climbed into the car and the house's front door has been locked, we depart, heading down our icy, snowing driveway, and steep, one-lane road that is more than often coated with ice.

At 8:17, we arrive in the neighboring village, the kids jump out of the car, and after saying "bye mom", they head off carrying their school bags and ski gear. I turn around and head to the next village, where I usually park in spot number 59 in the underground parking. I insert four francs forty in the central meter, then head out onto the Promenade. It's a chilly yet peaceful walk. The luxury shops will not open for another half an hour or more. The farmer wives set up their food stands, while a portly dark-haired waiter wipes off café tables and puts out ashtrays. A lawyer in a long dark overcoat and round spectacles walks in the other direction, and a street worker in orange reflective rain gear uses a long-handled stick to pick up garbage. Further up, another worker wearing a wide black brimmed hat scrapes ice on the road to free up a street drain.

When I finally sit down in front of my three oversized computer screens, I feel refreshed and ready for the morning's work. I could be anywhere... New York... San Francisco...

After four hours, it's lunch time. I put on my coat and return to Swiss village life. A banker and his girlfriend sun themselves on a bench, smoking cigarettes, smiling, and nodding as I pass by. There are tourists milling about, strolling in and out of boutiques, and the farmers wives are busy selling their bread, cheese, and cookies, and fresh vegetables in summer.

I stop to buy some cookies.

"Wie geht's Diana?" asks Erika, one of the farmer's wives.

"Gut, danke und Dir?" I respond. Meanwhile, a banker I've seen before collects change that Erika is handing him. He counts it. I make a joke about bankers counting money and ending up with more money than they started with. He doesn't laugh, but smiles and heads into the bank. I feel guilty for teasing him. UBS is going through a hard time.

After paying for my cookies and extending greetings to Erika's husband (a mountain guide and one of my father's friends), I find my car free of ice and head back to my house in the mountains, where my little dog will greet me with much happiness.

Dog eats mouse, including tail

The idea crossed my mind to share a video with you of my dog eating a field mouse. I decided against it.

I know it's gross, but you have to understand that mice are a problem in the Swiss Alps, and my dog is being very useful in playing a part in controlling their population. I just wish he had left me the tail, so I could have taken it to the commune and gotten my one franc.

Farmers confirm that this year has been particularly good for mice and bad for farmers. It seems the field mice have taken over and dug up entire fields, leaving their annoying mounds of dirt everywhere.

I am still wondering how my dog can still eat his dog food...

Everything is as it should be

"What's your favorite thing about staying up on the alp during the summer months?" I asked the seven-year old farmer boy.

"The sunrises and the sunsets," he replied.

This is why I choose to live here.

In the summertime, most farming families move up to alpine pastures, at or higher than 1,400 meters above sea-level, to graze their cattle on nutritious mountain herbs. The families live in huts using wood fires for warmth and candles for light. They might use generators, but such an extravagance is reserved for the milking machines.

This is a time when farmers make their best cheese.

This is a world far away from XBoxes, computers and other technological devices. This is a world where children have to rely on their imaginations and own resources for fun as well as work. Kids muck out stalls, rake hay, put up fencing, and assist with milking.

I like living close to people whose lives are--for the most part--absorbed in in the evolution of life without hesitation or contradiction.

It’s a simple life.

Here, there is no alienation. Everything belongs. Everything is as it should be.

People often ask me why I've chosen to live alone in such a remote area. They ask me, don't you get stir-crazy? Don't you need shopping, cultural events, and people?

Yes, I admit. Sometimes it's fun to leave the mountains, view an exhibition or go to a concert, wander busy streets, sip coffee in cafés, check out the latest trends and fashions, feel the excitement in the cacophony of traffic and voices. But for daily living, there is nothing more soothing than living in a place where full moons are so evident that you can't help but pause to admire their roundness, their brightness, and the light they cast on ridges and slopes; or a place where stars twinkle above, their splendor still unmarred by light pollution.

How about those sunsets and sunrises? No drama on stage can compare to a morning light illuminating the top of a mountain in a surreal glow. Then, there are the snowstorms that remind us of our vulnerability; and the droughts that remind us to conserve water; and the rain storms that replenish our aquifers and remind us to be grateful.

Even as I've yearned for love, companionship, understanding, and fellowship, I've pushed it all away with petty emotions, plans, and constant questioning. I've let anger or pride cloud my perceptions, and in doing so, I've hurt myself.

As Chinese American author Deng Ming-Dao wrote in his 365 Tao: Daily Meditations:

"We need to let ourselves go, enter freely into the process of nature, and become absorbed by it. If we integrate ourselves in that process, we will find success. Then the sequence of things will be as evident as the coming of the sun and the moon, and everything will be as it should be."

Helicopter flies trees

While driving the other day, I was forced to stop... not for cow traffic but for helicopter tree transport. There are houses here in Gstaad that are so difficult--if not impossible--to reach with trucks that helicopters are used to transport heavy and oversized items, like this pine tree. The helicopter picked it up behind an embankment to my right, flew over the road, and deposited it on the other side. It was very loud... and thankfully... very fast.

Building terraces in the garden

My garden design and labor, complete with stone steps.

The weather this past month has been so glorious that my stone wall/terrace project took most of my attention.  Finding a balance between outdoor and indoor projects is a challenge living in the Swiss Alps.

As you can see, I am more or less finished and just need to find a few more rocks to cap off the tops.

Next, I will plant some sun loving plants. Any suggestions?

Bullying also exists in Swiss schools

"Mobbing" has been on my mind lately. What's "mobbing" you may ask? I, too, was confused by the word when I first heard it after moving to Switzerland. Until that point, I had only associated "mob" with a hostile crowd or with the mafia. Since then, I've learned that the word "mobbing" is used in Europe to describe all forms of bullying, including that done by individuals.

The following behaviors fit under the "mobbing" category:

• Ignoring someone, not talking with that person and shutting that person out of activities (psychological mobbing)

• Calling someone names, making fun of or threatening someone (verbal mobbing)

• Hurting someone, i.e. hitting, tripping, pinching, pressing against the wall (physical mobbing)

• Holding someone against their will, i.e. to lock them up, to hold them underwater, etc.

• Dirtying, damaging or destroying someone's property

• Sending harassing emails, text messages (SMS) or to bullying someone on the internet (E-mobbing)

Everyone has experienced "mobbing" to a certain extent. I was mobbed in the fifth grade after our family's move from Monaco to Newport, RI. I could barely speak English, and when I did, I had a French accent. I wore dresses and patent leather sandals, while other kids wore jeans and running shoes. During the first half year, I walked around with a strange bent-over posture. The reason for my monkey-like stance was that I was afraid of ripping apart scars caused by multiple appendicitis and adhesion operations that had left my abdomen a battleground. Never mind that I had nearly died during a seven-week stay in a Swiss hospital. I was laughed at and ignored. And this was in private school.

A few years ago, my daughter also suffered under the effects of "mobbing." She lacked friends. No one picked her to be in their group during gym class. The children pulled her hair, called her names, tripped her, threw her snack in the garbage, stomped on her jacket with dirty shoes, etc. She was bullied, because she was 'different'.

Being the only half-foreigner in a Swiss alpine school, she couldn't speak either German or Swiss German properly. Unlike the others in her class, she didn't have to muck out cow stalls each evening, nor was she required to babysit her toddler-age siblings. Furthermore, she could speak English; pursued after-school activities, such as karate, ballet, ski club, piano, and horseback riding; and she had already traveled by airplane, flying to the USA to visit family every summer.

Things were made worse when she showed symptoms of Attention Deficiency Disorder (ADD). As a result of the bullying, she would cramp up, unable to think or speak properly, and look out the window, shutting herself into a private world. The line between reality and fantasy no longer existed. Looking back, I too as a child had developed a similar defense mechanism. She became depressed, had sleep problems, had stress headaches and stomach aches, increased allergic reactions, and she didn't want to go to school.

After years of therapy, a short stint on Ritalin, and chats with other parents, I am happy to report that things have improved dramatically. Now, my daughter has friends and is better able to concentrate in school. She has not only learned German and Swiss German, she is better able to concentrate and live "in the present."

It was largely thanks to my communications with other parents and the involvement of older, courageous, and enlightened students that things improved. Her teacher wasn't much help. She only reacted when it looked as though my daughter might fail her grade. She pushed for Ritalin use. This teacher didn't believe in my daughter nor in her intelligence, an opinion which she expressed to me more than once. She also didn't want to see what was going on in her classroom. Some older students, who happen to be distant cousins, told me how they had witnessed the teacher simply ignore the bullying; they also said they believed the teacher's constant open criticism of my daughter contributed to the mobbing. Luckily, my daughter now has a new teacher who is supportive and positive, and who believes in her.

Two evenings ago, an expert gave a talk on supporting and strengthening children in our community. We were roughly 20 parents, and we concluded that mobbing does, in fact, exist in our little school. Many parents said they didn't think mobbing was a big problem. They said that mobbing had been around for ages, and that it was normal, creating a "pecking order" among students. They even said that victims were to blame for their treatment. These statements left me disappointed at the apparent intolerance and ignorance in our school.

Mobbing can go too far. Today, I learned that a 12-year-old boy, who has bullied my daughter on occasion, has also been the victim of mobbing at school. Recently, he threatened suicide telling his parents: "When I'm gone, you won't have to worry about me any more." When I first heard about his treatment, I had thoughts that were similar to those opinions expressed the other night. He deserves it after being so abusive to my child, I thought with a little Schadenfreude. That kid has brought it upon himself for by being so mean. My daughter was mobbed for being different, not for being mean. However, after a day of mulling over this problem, I think that mobbing shouldn't be tolerated for any reason.

Luckily, his parents are taking action and calling other parents, asking them to get their children to stop the bullying behavior. The other night, we learned that the only way to stop mobbing is to get large groups of children to mobilize against it.

Have you or your children experienced mobbing? And if so, where?

Latest gardening mistake

Yesterday, I cut and laid landscape fabric on the paths of my vegetable garden to create a weed barrier, tucking the edges under stones.  Then, I spread a layer of wood mulch on top of the fabric. Today, to my consternation, I read on various gardening blogs that the fabric isn't any good, as it prevents water and organic matter (including broken-down mulch) from reaching the soil. Shoot! My dirty little secret is: I put the stuff down around my raspberry bushes and newly planted shrubs.

Has anyone had any luck with this fabric?

Hiking, witch hunts, and Halloween

Today, we hiked a steep wooded path to reach Cholisgrind, a round hill overlooking Saanen. Choli is Schwiezerdütsch for the sir name 'Kohli',  and Grind means 'face'. We planned to eat sandwiches on the top--by the edge of the cliff that strangely resembles a face--the site of century-old witch burnings and prisoner hangings.

My friend and local historian Beat tells me that Kohli might have been the name of a Saanen man, who--having been sentenced to death, (yes, the death penalty existed in Switzerland)--might have had his head chopped off on this hill. Our local historian explained that another form of death penalty was putting the prisoner in a barrel and pushing it over the cliff.

Predicting that the children might complain about the steepness of the climb, I tried to pique their interest by telling them about witches and how they were hunted and persecuted in Europe.

"Were there really witches, mommy?" asked my six-year old son.

"No, not really," I replied. "Not real witches. People were very religious back then. They had no internet, no iPhones, no TV's. They didn't even have newspapers. The only thing they had was the church. They went there all the time. It was the only place that men, women, and children gathered to find out what was going on. So, you can imagine that this might have made people rather one-sided."

I was on a roll. So I continued.

"Let's say there was a woman, who lived alone in the village, and who didn't like going to church. And let's say, she liked to collect wild mountain plants and herbs and mushrooms, cook them in a cauldron, and make soups to cure her aches and colds. Some people might have thought she was strange. Oh, and let's say she could read, which most women couldn't do back then, because women were meant to only cook, clean, and have children. All it took was for a bunch of people to think this woman was strange. And, let's say, something bad happened in the village, like someone had an accident, then, people blamed the woman and called her a witch. Remember kids, when uneducated people get scared and get together in large groups, sometimes they do mean things. Which is why it is so important for you all to go to school and get educated. So, this poor lonely woman was probably called 'strange', and then the people called her a witch. Then, they took her up this very path, which we are walking on, and burned her to her death."

"Those people were dumb," said my 10-year-old daughter. "You can believe in God and not do such stupid things."

It worked. The children were no longer focused on how tired they were but on the conversation. The topic of witches got us onto Halloween.

"Mommy, why is October such a scary month?"

"Because of Halloween, which takes place on the last day of October," I replied.

"But why is Halloween in October?"

"Because the word Halloween comes comes from 'All Hallows Eve' or the evening before All Saints Day. All Saints Day or Allerheiligen is on November 1. It's a holiday in the Catholic Church."

"Not in this part of Switzerland," added Beat.

"It's a day to honor and remember those who have died, especially those who have sacrificed their lives for others," I continued. I went on about the ancient Celts and how they believed that spirits were more likely to visit them on All Saints Day than on any other day of the year. They believed that if you dressed up with a mask that you could invite the nice spirits and ward off the evil ones.

"Why do they use pumpkins for Halloween?" asked my daughter.

"Well, think about it. What's still growing in our vegetable garden?" I asked her.

"Pumpkins!"

"That's right! They are in-season. It was only later in America that pumpkins became part of Halloween."

Our conversation turned to turnips and why they made better lanterns for carrying around than pumpkins, when we reached the top of the Grind, and the children joined Beat, who had turned into an archeologist, and forgot to eat their sandwiches.

Priorities in school

While rain drops splatter and thunder growls in the distance, I slug one cup of coffee after another trying to distract myself with writing. But I just can't concentrate. I think about my daughter and her class, as they bicycle in this horrible weather. I worry about her having a breathing problem due to her asthma. Like any worry-wart parent, I worry that she will fail to pay attention and crash into a moving car or truck.

I am also quite angry about this, as I believe school is for academics and not for riding bikes. Okay... they are going to a special training with the local police, who are going to teach the children the rules of the road and safety information.

On the one hand, I agree that they are learning valuable information. On the other, I think that this kind of learning should be done during sports, and not during math or German class.

It seems that my daughter's school is constantly distracting its students from studies. Last week after school, the kids were required to go door to door to sell chocolates for a Swiss charity. I know of many children who didn't get their homework done, because they ran out of time.

Studies just do not seem to take priority.

Spoiling my neighbor's bees

The other day, my neighbor's husband, who is an electrician-by-day and a beekeeper-by-night, gave me two jars of his bees' honey as a thank you. I had just had a garden gate installed at the far end of my garden, and given him permission to park his car in my driveway and walk through my property. Now he can more easily carry heavy equipment to the hive, located on his brother’s property behind my house.

Further steps I have taken to spoil his bees include:

1. Keeping certain parts of my garden un-mowed to provide wild flowers for the bees;

2. Never spraying insecticide;

3. Planting lavender and other flowering trees, bushes, and plants.

Receiving the honey is great. Knowing that consuming honey from local bees improves hay fever and the immune system. But knowing that I am doing my little part to ensure the survival of pollinators feels right.