The best of EcoWatch, right in your inbox. Sign up for our email newsletter!
By Marlene Cimons
Mark Lilly, 59, grew up and still lives in West Virginia. He spent three decades as an insurance adjuster, often talking to people struggling through the decline of coal. At the end of some very long days, he would escape to his bee hives. "It was therapeutic," he said. Life in coal country may no longer be what it once was, but "the bees haven't changed," he said.
Lilly has since retired from the insurance business, but he still tends to his honeybees. He now is using what he learned from these insects to help out-of-work miners and others hurt by coal's demise. He's turning them into beekeepers.
Lilly sees beekeeping as a way for longtime Appalachians to preserve their connection to the land and to earn extra money during lean times. Some might even be able to support themselves and their families on income from bees.
"Most of the people in these coal towns are very open to anything that involves the outdoors and nature," Lilly said. "Many of those who lost jobs in the mines are now working lower paid jobs because they don't want to leave. They are tied to the land. We have an opportunity to go back to those communities and provide them with a new skill and some additional income, so they can stay where they want."
The Appalachian Beekeeping Collective, as it is called, was funded by a grant from the Appalachian Regional Commission, a federal-state partnership that supports economic opportunities for the people of central Appalachia. The project is part of Appalachian Headwaters, a nonprofit that restores streams and forests harmed by mining and retrains coal workers for new jobs in sustainable industries.
"We want to reforest old mine sites and recreate the native forest ecosystem that would have been there if it had not been strip mined," said Kate Asquith, program director for Appalachian Headwaters. "We started to look at ways we could do economic work out of that reforesting, and beekeeping came naturally. You have to bring in pollinators and honeybee hives are a big part of that."
Joe Lovett, an environmental lawyer and Appalachian Headwaters board member, agreed. "We love it here and wanted to do something to help the region recover and to create jobs that support people for the long term," he said. "Beekeeping is one of those. It's not only a sustainable job, but makes people aware of the natural world."
Lilly believes in approaching people in these communities with an understanding of their culture. "The coal fields [are] an area where environmentalists are seen as bad people, so we don't use that word," he said.
"When we talk to them, we don't tell them that this is about the environment. I ask them, 'what do you eat?' and they will say fruit and nuts, among other things. Then I tell them, 'Look at this insect. This insect is important. Without it, you wouldn't have those fruits and nuts,'" Lilly said. "I tell them that what we do affects the entire chain, and they begin to understand. You then see this person grow into caring about the environment, although they still wouldn't call themselves environmentalists. We are taking the first steps to helping them see that the environment is a really good thing."
Beekeepers inspect the honeycomb. John Farrell
In January, Lilly will teach the 35 people from southern West Virginia how to raise and manage bees and how to produce honey. Appalachian Headwaters plans to expand that number to 85 the following year. The novice beekeepers will learn how bees breed and behave within their own society. They also will learn how to keep their hives healthy. The biggest challenge will be to overcome their fear of getting stung. Lilly has lost count of his stings over the years, but said he's gotten used to it.
"I won't tell anybody you'll never get stung," he said. "That's a fallacy. But as they become comfortable with it, it becomes easier. The swelling and redness and itchiness decreases over time. That was always the worst part. You'd get stung and it would itch for three days. Now I get stung in the morning, and by lunch I can't tell where it was."
The Appalachian Beekeeping Collective plans to process, market and distribute honey. The ultimate goal is to bring millions of dollars into the region and provide income for hundreds of Appalachians. The new beekeepers will receive hives either for free or at a reduced price, depending on their income.
The eventual goal is to have thousands of hives flourishing in the area. Debbie Delaney, associate professor of entomology at the University of Delaware, who helped establish the collective's first 500 colonies of bees last summer, predicted that "in that area of West Virginia, if they do things right, they should be able to get close to 200 pounds of honey off of each hive."
Honey sells from $3 to $25 a pound, depending on whether beekeepers use chemicals to raise the insects, Asquith said. "Our beekeepers won't be using chemicals, which adds a lot of value to the honey," she said. The collective will process and store the honey in a large processing facility. The structure is the site of an old camp owned by coal companies that thousands of miners' children attended.
"When I was there over the summer, at least twice a week somebody would drive by and say, 'I went to camp here 50 years ago. This place means so much to me.' So it's really a special spot," Delaney said. "There's so much rich history there."
All of those involved in the beekeeping collective recognize that the region needs time to recover, but this project represents an important step in that direction. "We spent a lot of years scarring the land," Lilly said. "Now we will begin trying to heal some of those scars."
Reposted with permission from our media associate Nexus Media.
EcoWatch Daily Newsletter
By Mark Mancini
On Aug. 18, Iceland held a funeral for the first glacier lost to climate change. The deceased party was Okjökull, a historic body of ice that covered 14.6 square miles (38 square kilometers) in the Icelandic Highlands at the turn of the 20th century. But its glory days are long gone. In 2014, having dwindled to less than 1/15 its former size, Okjökull lost its status as an official glacier.
By Alex Schwartz
Among the many vendors at the Logan Square Farmers Market on Aug. 18 sat three young people peddling neither organic vegetables, gourmet cheese nor handmade crafts. Instead, they offered liberation from capitalism.
I’m a Psychotherapist – Here’s What I’ve Learned From Listening to Children Talk About Climate Change
By Caroline Hickman
Eco-anxiety is likely to affect more and more people as the climate destabilizes. Already, studies have found that 45 percent of children suffer lasting depression after surviving extreme weather and natural disasters. Some of that emotional turmoil must stem from confusion — why aren't adults doing more to stop climate change?
For the past seven years, the Anishinaabe people have been facing the largest tar sands pipeline project in North America. We still are. In these dying moments of the fossil fuel industry, Water Protectors stand, prepared for yet another battle for the water, wild rice and future of all. We face Enbridge, the largest pipeline company in North America, and the third largest corporation in Canada. We face it unafraid and eyes wide open, for indeed we see the future.
By Mara Dolan
We see the effects of the climate crisis all around us in hurricanes, droughts, wildfires, and rising sea levels, but our proximity to these things, and how deeply our lives are changed by them, are not the same for everyone. Frontline groups have been leading the fight for environmental and climate justice for centuries and understand the critical connections between the climate crisis and racial justice, economic justice, migrant justice, and gender justice. Our personal experiences with climate change are shaped by our experiences with race, gender, and class, as the climate crisis often intensifies these systems of oppression.