Archive for: November, 2004

Bridge to Opportunity

Nov 29 2004 Published by under Uncategorized

Dans les champs de l'observation le hasard ne favorise que les esprits prepares.
(Chance favors the prepared mind.)
- Louis Pasteur

As a west coast native, the only times I ever heard of the Brooklyn Bridge was when someone was trying to sell it to me. In fact, as a kid, I was most impressed by the Tacoma Narrows Bridge (the only interesting feature in the disgusting little backwater of Tacoma, in my estimation) because the original span, a suspension bridge nicknamed "Galloping Gertie", was captured on film as it disintegrated under moderate winds in 1940, several months after its completion. Thanks to that film, collapsing bridges haunted both my daylight and twilight hours for years to come. But by the time I attended college, the "failure" of the original Tacoma Narrows Bridge lost its ability to inspire terror but instead, was transformed into a source of fascination. As a learning opportunity, it was used by my Physics instructors with great effect as a warning against ignoring natural resonances of building materials.

So I became a young adult who never gave the Brooklyn Bridge a second thought, indeed, I never had a reason to contemplate whether it was real. So it probably does not surprise you to learn that it wasn't even the first NYC bridge that I saw. In fact, the first NYC bridge that I saw was the sleek and modern-looking George Washington Bridge (nicknamed the GW (or "Gee Dub") Bridge), which captured my imagination as I fell asleep to the spectacle of millions of tiny twinkling lights tracing its graceful curves against the night sky outside my bedroom window. But after I joined the Shorewalkers, a group of people who routinely walk around Manhattan and across its bridges, I not only learned more about all of NYC's bridges, but I was influenced by my fellow Shorewalkers' passion for the Brooklyn Bridge in particular, so I enthusiastically added it to my growing list of NYC rambles to complete.

So I was quite pleased when I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time in my life. Despite the fact that I enjoy planning things, this event was absolutely spontaneous. I was returning to Manhattan on a Sunday afternoon one month ago after grooming the rascally Amazon parrot, Rocky, who lives in Brooklyn with one of my "bird clients". Happily, this visit put enough cash into my pocket to feed my own parrots and myself for several weeks so for a few blissful hours, I forgot my worries. The sun smiled in the robin's egg blue sky that curved overhead, the wind stroked my face lightly and I fell in love with NYC yet again. Energized by the unexpectedly good weather and by my windfall, I suddenly felt more like my old self than I had in months, and one of the many things that my old self enjoys doing is exploring.

I was seeking a shortcut to the subway and soon was sauntering along a paved sidewalk I had never traveled before. It was bounded with concrete barriers and it ran down the middle of a wide busy street, dividing traffic by direction. I followed the sidewalk as it veered gently to the left and suddenly found myself facing the Brooklyn Bridge rising up in front of me, golden with sunlight while Manhattan glittered in the background like a handful of jewels.

I walked along the boardwalk as it rose above the traffic, feeling curiously energized and optimistic as I approached the Brooklyn Tower that framed open sky. The bridge itself is suspended from two towers constructed of rough-hewn granite blocks that provide a solid gothic look and feel that contrasts powerfully with the slender steel span that they support, an elegant partnership between nature and man. I touched the ponderous spun-steel cables that appear to be as delicate as spider webs when viewed from a distance. How many millions of other people, living and dead, touched these cables during the past century? Who were these people, where are they now? I stopped to look down at the crowded roadway and at the steely water below. I marveled at the height of the thing.

On my left, Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty were visible while on my right, the Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridges completed the famous "triplet" of great NYC suspension bridges that span the East River. As I approached the Manhattan Tower, I recognized the Chrysler Building's elegant spire poking up through a misty gap in the forest of blocky mirrored buildings. I took my coat off and felt the wind pushing against my body. Great Black-backed gulls soared effortlessly next to me. Even though they were more than one hundred feet above the East River, they were so close that I could almost brush their plumage with my fingertips. In my exalted position on the wind-swept wooden deck of the bridge, surrounded by these exquisite masters of flight, I felt I was flying, too.

Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, experiencing its trembling vitality from my toes to my nose, it is obvious that this bridge is more than just a physical structure, more than a paragraph in a dusty history textbook. True, it was the first bridge constructed between the huge and growing metropolises of Manhattan and Brooklyn, which relieved their dependence on ferries to shuttle commuters across the East River. But more than that, it was a monument to optimism, a memorial to opportunity and the accompanying risks and rewards. For example, the city of Brooklyn, seeking to expand its economic influence and to increase its real estate values, invested heavily in the construction of this bridge. During construction, the bridge provided jobs for approximately 1000 men, most of them (and their familes) were new immigrants whose lives and futures were forever changed. After completion, the Brooklyn Bridge was the first physical link between these two great cities, reaching from city hall to city hall, a harbinger of the day when all five neighboring boroughs would be united into the grand and vibrant municipality that we know and love today. The bridge also manifested the reawakening national optimism, its completion signalled that America was once more looking toward the future, that the terrible wounds incurred from the Civil War were finally healing.

But the bridge was not without its demands: It claimed the lives of roughly 27 men, beginning with its chief designer, John Roebling, who died mere days after construction was initiated. Roebling's son, Washington, stepped in and micromanaged construction of the bridge until he was permanently incapacitated by an on-the-job injury several years later. But with the spectre of bad luck hanging over it, the bridge was also generous; it compensated for this loss by providing unprecidented opportunity to Emily, Washington's wife and intellectual partner who had studied engineering, primarily to assist her husband.

Initially, Emily Roebling was viewed as a go-between her ailing husband and the politicians, workers, and the press, but thanks to her poise, excellent education, commanding knowledge of the bridge and her masterful politicking during her 11 years as construction supervisor, she came to be viewed as the chief engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge. Although Emily had never intended to become an engineer (in fact, she later completed her law degree at NYU and became an ardent promoter of Women's Rights), she was the first woman to address the American Society of Civil Engineers and is widely credited to be the first female field engineer. During opening ceremonies in May of 1883, Emily and her husband Washington were honored as deserving equal recognition for the completion of the bridge. But fifty years later, it was Emily Roebling's outstanding achievement and dedication to the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge that was immortalized with a plaque installed on each tower, for without her, it would not have happened.

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* The facts cited here can be found on this webbed resource, The Brooklyn Bridge Website.

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My Village

Nov 22 2004 Published by under Uncategorized

Like all bloggers, I read other people's blogs when I have time. Some blogs leave me with the impression that the author's world is rather sparsely populated, that the author is the only bright shining star in an otherwise nearly empty universe. So I wonder sometimes if my blog entries make it appear as if I too, am living on an island populated with only a few shadowy figures who occasionally stumble into my stories like strangers bumping into each other at a movie theatre. In reality, this is not the case.

It is true that I lead a fairly solitary life devoted to my research, writing and to my birds, but I make it a habit to get out once or twice each week to visit "my" local watering hole where I sip beers and talk with whomever shows up that night, watch a little TV and read newspapers. So in addition to making friends based on mutual interests, I have also managed to develop a network of friends through my watering hole, which reveals more about these people, about their kindness, generosity of spirit and their ability appreciate (or ignore) my eccentricities than it reveals about me. I don't want to compromise my friends' privacy in my blog, but since Thanksgiving is fast approaching, I will give thanks for what I have, and I do have an amazing wealth of friends.

One of my many "watering hole friends" is a former high school English teacher who could not a find a job after graduation so he moved to NYC and became a building superintendant, or "super". Our favorite topics of conversation are poetry and food. Two weeks ago, we discovered our mutual fondness both for gadgets and for eggs. He was appalled by my lack of gas for my stove and my lack of cookware, so a week later, he surprised me with a cute little electric egg poacher/boiler and an interesting assortment of egg-opening accoutrements. This egg poacher produces the perfect breakfast of hard-boiled eggs that I carry with me in my coat pocket.

Another friend is a pianist who works as a piano tuner for Steinway. Our coversational topics are many, but music and musicians are primary themes. He is very proud of his daughter, a talented actress, and he brings his friends to see her performances. He recently brought me and several of his friends to the closing night of one of her shows, a collection of very engaging Roald Dahl-like monologues. Later that evening, we met the entire cast and ate dinner with them at a nearby kitschy restaurant called "The Trailer Park". The Trailer Park prepares the best tater tots I've ever had (the drinks weren't bad, either).

J is a set designer and producer who enjoys distracting me from my job woes by giving me enough tickets to plays that I can also share them with my friends. So far, he has given me second row seats to White Chocolate and Naked Boys Singing! (the guys in Naked Boys Singing! are gorgeous, they really are buck-nekked and oh yes, they really can sing, too). J's boyfriend works at Carnegie Hall so I have been promised tickets to performances there too, although none have materialized yet (but my hopes are high).

I made some friends while I was working, too. I particularly enjoy swapping tales about men and traveling adventures with G, a security guard for my former employer. Last year, she graciously invited me to spend Christmas Eve with her family, and it was one of the best I've ever had, despite the fact that I cannot speak Italian (several of her siblings speak English though, and her mother is well-versed in the universal language of food=love). Of course there is F, another security guard for my former employer, who is convinced that I will be a fabulous professor and provides me with access to his extensive network of contacts. I have also spent several evenings with him, complaining about the academic job market (oops) while he patiently dispensed drinks and food.

Several other friends, L and her roommate C, invited me to breakfast at their apartment several times, including a Christmas Day breakfast last year. Then there is A who invited me to fun events such as the honey harvest as I reported earlier, who accompanied me to some Upper West Side bars to watch all the presidential debates on TV and who bought me several nice dinners (and wonderful desserts) that I still think about.

I have met many wonderful people through the wonders of Craigslist, too. G is one of my "Craigslist friends" who, together with her boyfriend A, purchased my ticket to the Hallowe'en show put on by the Cathedral of St. John the Divine (described in an earlier blog entry), and then purchased a wonderful meal for me after all the ghostly shennanigans were over for the evening. In return, I share part of my abundance of tickets to plays with G. Two more "Craigslist friends" whom I will mention here are K and T. K lives in Virginia and T lives in Colorado so we have never met face-to-face. Despite this, K mailed a care package of several loaves of her delicious homemade chocolate-chip pumpkin bread to me a few weeks ago. One loaf still resides in my freezer, waiting for Christmas. T and I first noticed each other because of our mutual fondness for firemen but we quickly realized that we have much in common. We call each other frequently to discuss our philosphies of life and our respective job search woes, so I was excited for her when last week, she finally landed her "dream job" in a medical profession.

J is a recently unemployed computer programmer and a longtime friend of mine whom I met because of our mutual love and admiration for our companion parrots. Two months ago, J invited me out to a fabulous dinner in Hoboken, NJ, which is located just across the Hudson River from NYC. I still think fondly about that dinner (I ate too much, ahem) and the conversation that evening while NYC stood silently behind us, a sparkling, orderly galaxy contrasting against the deep blue velvet of the heavens.

And last but not least is RL, a former roadie for Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Neil Young and a variety of other famous musicians, and his wife, A, a retired Broadway actress, who seem to have adopted me as their daughter after knowing me for nearly two years. They both are firmly convinced that I need to be fattened up (this is a common thread amongst all of my friends, despite my protestations) so they have made it their mission to feed me almost beyond my capacity while providing companionship and clever insights about books and a variety of other topics.

So as this holiday season approaches, I will give thanks for what I do have; friends. I will try my best not to be too distracted from my friends by my frustrations and despair with my circumstances. If I begin to feel too badly, I will lighten my mood by drinking a toast to each and every one of my friends. If I manage to persevere, it will be due to my little village in the heart of this Big City.

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NYC Taxi Cab Story

Nov 19 2004 Published by under Uncategorized

I finally have a NYC taxi cab story of my very own!*

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, in reality, it was a dark and windy night. I was on the Upper West Side, crossing the street with the walk signal, reveling in the sight of thousands of angrily snorting orange taxi cabs being held at bay by a single catsup-colored light. All of a sudden, one mustard-colored blob broke free from the herd and stampeded wildly towards me. It barely missed me in its eagerness to pull over to the side of the road to pick up a passenger that never materialized.

My side of the road. Right next to me. Hrm.

The people walking nearby commented in surprise at my brush with death. I commented in surprise, too, although my comments are not printable here. Suddenly, Xena, Warrior Princess took possession of my soul. Uh-oh, possession by fictional superheros means trouble.

Xena, Warrior Princess stepped up to the cab, yanked open the passenger's side door and spit on the front passenger side seat. This is the seat where the cabbie stores his personal things when there aren't any passengers tackling each other to sit there.

Because I am not an especially slobbery person, mine was not a very impressive spitball. But nonetheless, I autographed his spare seat right there with my very own special wet spot.

I slammed the door (cabbies HATE this) and walked away quickly down a one-way street. Wrong way for him. Heh.

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* This is the "Third Jewel" of my NYC horror story repertoire and it fulfills my official "Triple Crown" requirements of true NYC horror stories that everyone must experience before they are considered to be real New Yorkers. These horror stories include one each about rats, cockroaches and cabbies. Thanks to my great luck to live in Harlem when I first arrived in NYC, I was blessed with a truly disgusting rat story in that first week after I moved in. Then I sublet an apartment on the Upper East Side where I earned the "Second Jewel" in my "NYC Horror Story Triple Crown"; this time, it was the first of MANY horror stories about cockroaches that would turn your stomach. (It is interesting to note that while I lived on the UES, I also experienced several "bonus horror stories" involving marauding centipedes -- all of whom I named "Maria" after the woman whom I sublet my apartment from -- and I also experienced quite a few horror stories about the landlord from tenement hell). The "Third Jewel" of my "NYC Horror Story Triple Crown" -- that cab horror story -- remained elusive until now because I use cabs only rarely since I've lived in NYC ... the reason for this is that I'd rather spend my limited funds on alcohol instead of cab rides.

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Empty Exoskeleton

Nov 15 2004 Published by under Uncategorized

As you probably are all aware by now, I am unemployed and have been so for more than one month. Because Unemployment Insurance (UI) benefits pay only enough to keep my modest rent and a couple other basic bills paid, I must work a variety of "odd jobs" to keep myself and my birds fed, to purchase necessities such as toilet paper, soap and cleaning supplies and to pay for access to public transit. So even though I am currently unemployed, I hold a greater number and variety of jobs now than I've ever had at any one time before. (Am I the only one who sees the irony of this situation?)

One of the "odd jobs" that I keep myself busy with is co-teaching a course in molecular evolution for a nonprofit organization. Molecular evolution is a new field of research that uses supercomputers to analyze DNA sequence data collected in the lab to clarify evolutionary relationships between organisms. The goals of this two-year course are to provide a strong exposure to cutting-edge evolutionary research to 20 "motivated" NYC area high school sophomores and juniors and also to assist them with their college applications. The first year of this course consists of lectures and lab experience which serve to build the necessary skills and knowledge so the students can select an appropriate lab to pursue a real research mini-project of their own during the second year. This course is an outreach program designed by my institution and funded by the National Science Foundation (NSF) and several other agencies, and it is also supported with private funds provided by several community members. Students are accepted into this course on a competitive basis but no fees are collected from them.

Despite the fact that teaching for this course is a voluntary position for graduate students and postdocs seeking more teaching experience, I somehow managed to convince the Program Manager to pay me a nominal fee for my contributions. I have guest lectured this course for one year. Last winter and spring, I presented four lectures and team-taught four labs for this particular course. This autumn and winter, I am team-teaching four labs and I also am updating, troubleshooting and redesigning these labs for the Program Manager -- something that involves a lot of writing and at least a little thinking. If all goes according to plan, I am scheduled to be re-hired to give a few lectures and team-teach some labs for the winter-spring 2005 session.

Even though I am much more interested in teaching at the university level than in the highly regimented K-12 system where I would be a poor fit, I genuinely enjoy the kids with whom I work. They are all bright and most of them are eager to explore a career as a scientist. Of course, since few or none of them have ever met a scientist before, I was pleased to discover that they greatly admire me, a boost to my ravaged self-confidence. I am proud to be one of the people whom they look up to for guidance as they begin their long journey towards their careers. But often, simply being with "my students" provides me with a happy distraction from reality, especially during these gloomy days when three or four job rejection letters arrive daily in my email and snailmail boxes.

So imagine my pleasure when one of last year's graduates of this program visited the class. He is now a senior in high school and like all HS seniors, he is keenly aware of his promising future and his eagerness to move on to the next step is barely contained. Despite the fact that he does not yet know what sort of research he wishes to pursue, he plans to become a career scientist either at a major research university or perhaps at a pharmaceutical company. He was so full of joy and hope and excitement that I was momentarily spellbound. Listening to him, I could see myself in his eyes, I could hear my voice in his words, and in one heart-wrenching moment, I was stunned to realize that he has what I once possessed in abundance; hope.

I listened and gave him advice and encouragement to pursue his dreams, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of my own inability to find a job in science, indeed, to find any job whatsoever that pays a living wage. I wondered, would I have been accepted into this program if I was a HS student, applying today? Am I truly qualified to be here now, teaching this course and talking with him and his colleagues? If my students knew that I am currently unemployed, what would they think? What sort of example am I for these kids? (am I a fraud?) What valuable lessons could I possibly teach him and his colleagues when I have no visible place in my chosen profession, when I can't even find a job after 16 months and 15 days of actively searching? Furthermore, in view of my life situation, was I lying to him and his colleagues by encouraging all of them to follow their hearts when my own messed-up life is a living testament to the folly of pursuing one's passions?

But, I reminded myself, I don't know what the future holds for scientific research, so how can I predict any student's future in research? Besides, this particular student probably possesses many special qualities that I lack that will make him a better qualified and more worthy scientist than I ever was. Or maybe success has little to do with that sort of thing. Perhaps after all the hard work is done, the ultimate success in scientific research is a combination of timing and good luck? If this is the case, then my troubles are easily understood: Everyone knows that I've never been particularly lucky at any time in my life.

Still warmed by the reflected glow of his hopes as well as my own remembered dreams, I wondered then as I do now if my graduate school advisors realized that my chance for success as a research scientist was ephemeral at best. Should they have warned me about impending disaster if I continued my relentless pursuit of this one impossible (for me) dream? Perhaps my advisors really are like my parents; watching my struggles through narrowed, cruel eyes, laughing while I worked and sacrificed everything to achieve this one lofty goal, then rejoicing at my failure? Or maybe my advisors are ashamed that they ever met me? (I imagine they must be). I certainly am ashamed of myself, of my apparent uselessness, of my impotence, of my complete invisibility.

Thoughts such as these consume me now while I mourn the loss of my career, the demise of my lifelong dream that saved me from my own premature death several times, while I attempt to deal with my mangled hopes that I will ever again pursue scientific research, while I try to rebuild my shattered faith in myself and in the world in general: Will I ever believe in anything again? Should I? Can I? Without hope, without my dreams, without any enduring passion to carry me, who and what will I become?

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Beelicious Hell's Kitchen Honey

Nov 11 2004 Published by under Uncategorized

What does autumn remind you of? For many people, autumn signals a year of hard work, ended. Autumn is a season punctuated with bright warm days filled with the rich scent of freshly turned soil followed with cold clear nights full of honking geese hurrying south under watchful, winking stars. Jumping into leaf piles. Sweet-smelling alfalfa and hay curing in rows in the fields, waiting to be bailed into tidy rectangles and gathered into warm dark barns before snow arrives. Tipis of corn drying in the sun. Unearthing the last potatoes and yams. Delightful explosions of flavor in one's mouth from previously overlooked cherry tomatoes, sunkissed and still clinging to the vine. Preparing long artistic braids of garlic, onions and shallots. Migrating birds. Echoing courtship whistles from love-struck Elk. College football games. Thanksgiving. Eating gifts from the earth; sumptuous mouthwatering feasts prepared from meats, berries, fruits, roots, nuts, grains and honey. Honey?

When a friend, AH*, invited me to a honey harvest a month ago, I was intrigued. Even though I grew up in an agricultural area and therefore am familiar with the practice of beekeeping, I've never witnessed a honey harvest. But when I learned that this particular honey harvest was taking place in Manhattan, that this harvest was collecting honey produced by bees that live and work in Hell's Kitchen, I was fascinated. Like most people, I had no clue that in fact, beekeeping is fairly popular in NYC, so this honey harvest was something that I had to see.

It was early on a sunny but windy Saturday morning when I arrived at the Clinton Community Garden. Today, the garden is a small barely-contained square of grass, flowers, vegetables and trees reaching over broad paved sidewalks and climbing towering apartment buildings. But this plot of land looked very different in 1977, when a mysterious and lonely tomato plant bravely poked its head out of the rubble covering this abandoned lot, and in doing so, inspired an entire neighborhood to plant a garden around it.

Because the Department of Housing for NYC owned this land, the budding gardeners leased it from the city until it was announced in 1981 that this property would be auctioned off. This announcement set off a firestorm of protests and fund-raising activity, even receiving national news media attention. Finally, in 1984, this small community garden was granted permanent parkland status when then-Mayor Ed Koch transferred ownership to the NYC Parks and Recreation Department, an act that was expedited with seed money raised by the Clinton Fund and the Square-inch Sales Campaign.

When I walked through the gates to the Garden, I was momentarily disappointed to learn that their single beehive, a white wooden box that faced east with its back against a vine-covered building, had been disassembled the day before so the honey-filled upper division, called the "super", could be removed. I had wanted to watch the process and of course, I wanted to peek into the lower areas of hive where the queen lives. But I settled for watching the worker bees as they flew into and out of the beehive while the morning sun warmed my back. It was with some amusement when I realized that, with six or seven arrivals and departures every minute, this hive was busier than JFK International Airport. I slowly inhaled the scent of blooming flowers. The combination of the warm sun, the buzzing bees, and the moist, green freshness were hypnotizing.

"Shall we go to see how it's done, then?" Asked AH, awakening me from my reverie.

"Okay, let's go!" I followed my friend on a short walk to a local establishment where a room in the basement had been "honey-proofed" with long sheets of butcher paper covering every visible flat surface. As we entered the room, we saw a man working with his back to us, using a knife to pick dead bees from the rectangular wooden frames that surrounded the sticky honeycombs.

After the bees were removed, he handed the heavy frame to the woman standing next to him, who carefully laid it flat over a large steel pan. She ran an electric uncapper tool over the surface to melt the waxy covering from the tops of the honeycomb compartments. The wax fragments were captured by the steel pan under the frame. Unexpectedly, the light and delicious scent of cotton candy filled the room.

Because honeycombs have two sides just as coins do, this uncapping process was repeated for the other side. After both sides of the frame had been uncapped with the electric uncapper, it was handed to the next person in the production line, who used a manual uncapper that resembled a steel comb to gently scrape the waxy coverings from all honeycomb cells that were missed by the electric uncapper.

After both sides of the honeycombs had been completely uncapped, the frames were placed end-up into the honey extractor that was standing on a nearby table. The honey extractor is a tall round steel drum with an electric rotor inside that spins like a centrifuge. This rotor securely holds up to eight individual frames while using gentle centrifugal force to pull the honey from the honeycombs. Halfway through the extraction process, the frames are turned around and the process is repeated on the "flip side" honeycombs, thereby emptying them completely. The honeycombed frames -- now very lightweight -- were returned to the beekeeper, who replaced them in the super.

Meanwhile, the valve at the bottom of the honey extractor was opened and the viscous golden honey streamed into a five gallon plastic bucket below. This bucket was then placed onto another table where the bottling and labelling crew took over. The freshly harvested honey was subdivided into individual glass jars through an opened valve at the bottom of the plastic bucket. A lid was placed onto each jar, containing one pound of raw golden honey, and then it was wiped clean and a label saying, Hell's Kitchen Honey with a cute little bee in the middle, was adhered to its face before it was placed into a box. These jars of honey are then sold at local street fairs to raise money to support the garden.

After we finished and the empty frames were restored to the super, we stood, exhausted, around the boxes and counting the honey jars while licking our fingers or chewing on bits of honeycomb still filled with honey. All morning long, we had been placing bets with each other as to how much honey this hive had produced. Because honey production depends upon many factors, it can vary tremendously between different hives and years. Generally, a productive beehive produces 100-125 pounds of honey per year, on average. However, some years are bad years; for example, the Clinton hive barely produced 75 pounds of honey in 2002. On this particular afternoon, we were delighted and surprised to discover that one summer of work by 40,000 or so worker bees followed by several more hours of work by two dozen or so humans, was well-rewarded. The 2004 honey harvest yielded 205.5 pounds of Hell's Kitchen Honey, the most ever produced by the Clinton hive.

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* Hedwig the Owl thanks her friend, AH and the members of the Clinton Community Garden for patiently answering her many questions and for generously allowing her to observe and participate in this wonderful experience.

Included with the Best of Me Symphony
Issue 106.

Included with the Big Apple Blog Festival
Issue 18.

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