HeyJaredThe Bandana Journal
The writer Elizabeth Hunter (1945-2022) lived in a cabin in the mountains of Western North Carolina. This is her journal.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 16
- Latest publication
- Sep 29, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Aug 29, 2026
Latest issues
Journal: September 29 (opens the original)
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Beauticians and Bog TurtlesBy Elizabeth HunterThe world is too much with us, late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! —William WordsworthI discovered Wordsworth’s famous sonnet in my teens. I can’t think why I was so impressed with it then — I was hardly in a position to be doin
Feature Article: September 26 (opens the original)
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From The Johnson City PressEarning their WingsBy Elizabeth Hunter<img alt="" class="sizing-normal" height="1180" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Rwv4!,w_1456,c_li
Essay: September 24 (opens the original)
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Of Hives and Honey: A Visit to the Glass BeeBy Elizabeth HunterBee in your bonnet. Make a beeline. Busy as a bee. Standing in a haze of bees in my protective “bee suit,” watching Gary Beecham lift another “super” from one of his four hives, the meanings behind bee cliches came into sudden sharp focus.I knew — absolutely — I did not want the three or four guard bees who had made a beeline for me when Gary began taking the hive apart to find their way past the netting of the bee veil that separate
Essay: September 22 (opens the original)
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Those Amazing BeesBees and bee behavior are astonishing. Here are a handful of examples, gleaned from the books of William Longgood, Sue Hubbell, and from conversations with the Beechams.”Busy as a bee” is an apt phrase — at least where the hive females are concerned. The worker bees (females with atrophied sexual parts) spend their short lives (life expectancy 4-6 weeks) raising young bees, gathering pollen and honey, defending the hive, making propolis and comb, and tending the queen. The quee
Journal: September 19 (opens the original)
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On WingThey materialized in puffs, out of the green, small specks of orange and black riding an invisible current, rising, rising, until their backdrop was not the clear, nearby forested slopes, but the paler ridges of the middle distance, green overwashed gray-blue, rising against the ridged summit of the Blacks, the slate-colored clouds, soaring up into filmy white and finally blue. By then they were higher than the embankment upon which I sat, higher than the gap through which they would floa
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