We weren’t sent here for the Honey
The second 2200km road trip to Florida was the first one with a purpose. We traded driving to get there in one day, but we had the van if we needed to stop and rest.
We wanted honey, orange blossom honey, and we were willing to temporarily trade the Michigan December snow to get it. Lot’s of it.
One trip, lot’s of honey, all for several years worth of mead making. This was a trip of trust. Trust in someone we only met once and only saw briefly.
The Motivation
We met him just a couple of month’s earlier at an autumn farmer’s market. We had been talking to a market vendor selling his Michigan wildflower honey.
“Wildflower,” he said. “Clover and whatever else was in bloom.” More matter of factly than apologetically. But we can always choose how to interpret some else’s tone, and the best interpretation is usually the one that portrays them as friendliest.
We wanted a gallon. He had quarts. We bought four.
With two quarts each, we turned around to be unexpectedly greeted with, “making mead, are you.”
Not waiting for a response, the small man continued, “that’ll do. It’ll ferment. But won’t taste very good.” Said with an air of distinction and conviction that sorely contrasted his disheveled appearance.
Emphatic, but not enthusiastic, he caught our attention, and we listened. “Orange blossom is what you want. Orange blossom makes the best mead.” He went on like an absent-minded professor. Content in his conviction, having captivated an audience.
“Make whatever you want, but orange blossom is the best honey for making mead,” he’s making everything as clear as possible.
We looked at each other, having not spoken a word during that whole conservation. Looking back to a near empty aisle flanked by eager vendors hoping for one last sale in the increasingly chilly Michigan fall. He was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe we should get some orange blossom honey. Is that even a thing? I’ve never even heard of it. It’s certainly not my go to honey in Michigan.
The Journey
“We’ve just entered Florida.”
“How much deeper?”
“Let’s keep driving. It’s a long peninsula. Plenty of orange groves.”
We keep driving.
“We’re getting to the end. Miami and then the Keys.”
“Let’s pull off here.”
She kept driving. “Which way?” She asked.
“Turn left,” I said.
“How far?”
“Turn left here.”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“I’m dowsing for honey.”
That hard right turn tore the two passenger-side wheels right off the pavement. If the g-forces turning into that parking lot didn’t prepare me for space travel, then the abrupt stop surely would have. The middle of the parking lot will do just fine.
“You have no idea where we’re going. I’m done driving. You drive.”
“Sure, I do. We were going left. Twice in a row.”
“You drive.”
So, drive I did, in circles until I was told to stop. It was a very scenic roundabout.
I found a parking lot. However, I didn’t think being able to see Ft Lauderdale’s beach was bring us any closer to beekeepers or orange groves.
I looked for a store that seemed most likely to let me peruse their phonebook.
“Here’s the phonebook. Watcha looking for?”
“Oh, just some honey.” I try to sound innocent.
“We got honey on that shelf, right there.”
“I want lot’s of honey.”
“That shelf right there is full.”
“… in gallon jars from beekeepers.”
“Four quarts makes a gallon, and that honey gets delivered by beekeepers.”
“Orange blossom honey.”
“That’s wildflower honey. Everybody likes wildflower honey.”
Finally, I thought! I didn’t drive down here to buy wildflower honey from the local grocery store.
The Destination
I don’t why I choose one with no advertisement, but I routinely do. Just a business name, a number, and an address. I wrote down all three.
I try to hand her the note with the number. She hands me her phone, instead. “You’re calling.”
So, call I do. “Do you have any honey.”
“We sure do. Wanna come by and get some?”
“We sure do.” My mirroring goes unnoticed.
“Let me give you directions.”
I read off the address from the phonebook.
“Yes, that’s it. Here’s how you get here.”
I’m resigned to nodding, and alternating between “yes,” and “got it,” while trying to follow along on a far from fully fanned out map. I end with a “got it,” followed by a “Thank you. See you soon.”
“Do you know where we’re going now?”
I point to the address. She refuses to navigate. I gesture in the general direction of north by northwest. She reaffirms her role as innocent bystander. I deny trying to smuggle out microfilm containing government secrets. My denial offers no comfort.
“I swear, I followed the directions.”
“This is a residential neighbourhood. None of the lots are large enough for beehives.”
“Here’s the street name. Now all we need is the number. Will you help me look for it?” She crosses her arms.
I pull into the driveway of a non-descript brick one-story house.
“Coming up to the door with me?
“Sure.”
We’re led into the house by an elderly lady. Down the hallway, and into a bedroom.
“The honey’s in here?” I ask.
“No, it’s in the garage.” We’ll get to it in a minute.”
She introduces us to an even older gentleman reclining in bed next to an oxygen tank. “He’s the beekeeper.” (Fifteen years later as I now write this down, I cannot remember his name.)
We spend the next three hours leaning in to hear him speak as he tells us of learning beekeeping from his grandfather in Hungary. Seeing WWII at a young age.
He shared his recollections of a very special plant that his grandfather would carefully let the bees pollenate when no other plants were in bloom. His grandfather liked having honey purely from that native Hungarian plant.
He came to America as a young person. Settled into Florida and starting a new beginning as a beekeeper. He found a plant in the New World that had the same properties, or at least reminded him, of his grandfather’s special plant. The Saw Palmetto.
He routinely mixed saw palmetto honey with orange blossom honey. He would drive up state with his bees to pollenate the saw palmetto plants and bring back that honey. That mixture is what he had for us today.
His story was winding down. He thanked us repeatedly until he fell asleep mid-gratitude. Our eyes had been getting waterier the whole time.
She led us just around the corner into the garage, and shut the door. “He’s been wanting to tell his story for a while, but nobody has time to listen. Everybody’s busy with their own lives. Thanks so much for listening.”
She showed us three gallons of orange blossom-saw palmetto honey. “How much of it do you want?”
“We’ll take all three. Is there more stored somewhere else?”
“No, this is it. He had been driving up state to pollenate the saw palmetto this season even after the doctor’s said he shouldn’t. He doesn’t listen to them. They didn’t expect him to live this long, but he did. Thanks again for listening to him. That meant a lot to him.”
We took our three gallons and left through the garage door. Outside in the sunshine, we looked at each other with tears in our eyes:
“We weren’t sent here for the honey.”
