We got the bug, so to speak, a couple of years ago when my dear friend Chantal, the loyal keeper of my secrets and loving reminder that blood is not thicker than water, got her first hive and became an urban beekeeper in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Chantal, affectionately known as Mistress Beek in beekeeping circles, is the kind of person who will always surprise you, the kind of friend you think you finally have figured out and then, well, and then you find out that she’s raising honey bees…in a city.

Foreshadowing? A treasured keepsake from Grandpap Peters

("Inside the World of the Honeybee", Treat Davidson, August, 1959)

Born and raised in rural Western Pennsylvania, bees weren’t unfamiliar to me. My Grandpap Peters raised bees for most of his life. I have such fond memories of him leading me by the hand to his hives while the too-large helmet and veil assembly bobbled fitfully on my tiny head, all the while assuring me that the bees weren’t going to hurt me. I don’t remember being afraid. The bees would softly land on Grandpap’s hands when he opened the hives as if they were welcoming a friend.

I must confess the inner workings of the hive and its inhabitants were less interesting to me than their product – thick, often dark as molasses, honey. It tasted better than a Whatchamacallit! Grandpap would pull his worn pocket knife from the front of his bib overalls and cut off a fresh chunk of honey-filled comb. He’d scrape the wax caps off and hand me the oozing honeycomb. Fearful of letting any get away, I’d quickly bring the comb to my mouth, tilt my head back and let the warm sweetness coat my throat. Later, I’d think nothing of spooning Grandpap’s honey straight from the jar and into my mouth, blissfully oblivious to the concept of calorie counting or the disgrace of double dipping.

But like most beekeepers I’ve known over the years, Grandpap lived in the country, a two-hour drive from the nearest city. His hives stood just outside a dense stand of trees on a gently sloping hillside, barely visible from his house. I carefully considered this when I made my way to Albuquerque and had the chance to see Mistress Beek’s hive up close for the first time. Her busy hive was just a few feet from her house and, perhaps more importantly, less than twenty feet from her neighbor’s house. The scene was jarring in a way, somehow out of context - like seeing a coworker at the grocery store and for a split second not being able to recognize them. One surreal feeling quickly gave way to another as I fantasized about my own hive in Chicago. What a thrill it would be to step outside (in my pajamas!) and cut a piece of fresh honey-filled comb from my very own hive, while homemade biscuits were baking in anticipation of being slathered in fresh honey. That vision was so real and sweet smelling I made up my mind that one day I would have a city hive of my own. Later that day, I tasted the delicious straw-colored honey that Mistress Beek so graciously shared with me, and I vowed that “one day” would come ASAP.

Now, “one day” is just days away. My husband Greg and I ordered our first hive, which we plan to locate on our second story deck. Grandpap Peters would be as proud as he would be amazed of our urban adventure. He died long before the urban beekeeping movement firmly took root and fortunately, before witnessing the tragic phenomenon known today as Colony Collapse Disorder, which has, in part, inspired urban beekeepers worldwide.

But it’s to Mistress Beek that I owe my deepest debt of gratitude for showing me what was possible; for teaching me that being an urban beekeeper wouldn’t be easy, no matter how easy (and glamorous!) she made it look; and for reminding me how sweet it can be to follow your dream.