By Esther C. Baird. First published in the Ipswich Local News June 30, 2025
I was scrolling through Instagram — which, for me, is mostly a steady stream of cute dog videos and supposedly easy-to-make meals — when a new post popped up.
“Can’t wait to sell our own honey at Mosher’s Honey Company!”
It was a photo of large boxes and jars of honey sitting in some tall grass. The post was from my friend, and I was instantly excited.
“You’re a beekeeper? Do you have hives and honeycombs? Is this in a peaceful meadow where you can feel soothed by the buzz of bees?” I peppered her with rapid-fire questions.
“Yes!” she replied. “We just bought the small apiary behind Tillie’s Farm Stand in Peabody, and we’re bringing it back to life.”
I instantly knew, as May and June were swallowing me into the massive high school graduation machine, that visiting a small apiary in Peabody was exactly what I needed. I told my husband that I planned to visit, and he stared at me.
“Do you really think that getting a tour of a bee farm during the busiest time of the year is the best idea? Is the potential addition of ‘late-onset bee allergy’ worth the risk?”
He had a point.
But what was more harrowing: a bee hive in Peabody or trying to find party supplies, now that Party City is closed? The possibility of a bee sting or trying to pick up Raising Cane’s on opening day in Saugus? A small chance of honey in my hair or the dead certainty that it would rain for 13 straight Saturdays in a row?
The odds of the apiary were ever in my favor. So I showed up.
Sure enough, behind Tillie’s Farm is a giant field, and way in the back stood the hives full of bees, each one containing multiple frames where the magic happened. My friend’s husband, who manages the apiary, began to blow some smoke around to lull the bees into a peaceful state. Then, he slowly began to pull out the frames.
And there they were! A whole moving, busy-yet-peaceful tray of bees. He pointed out where they laid the eggs, where eggs were about to hatch, and where the honey was.
“Go ahead — stick your finger in there and get some honey!”
“Like right into the swarm of bees?” I clarified, thinking of my husband.
“Yep!”
So I did … slowly. And I pulled my hand back with a blob of honey on it, which I promptly consumed. It tasted like warm summer days and sunlight, something I hadn’t personally experienced in months. Was there a way I could be busy planning graduation … and also peaceful? Did it require me to hire smoke blowers? Party City never sold those. Maybe that’s why they closed.
As I was savoring, I noticed one slightly larger bee with a blue dot on the back. I pointed it out.
“Ah, good eye! That’s the queen! Blue dots are painted on queens from years ending in 0 or 5.”
It was a system that worked for bees, and I appreciated the blue dot fashion choice, but I was out on the color-coded aging system. I couldn’t fathom what I’d wear as a child of the 70s to identify myself. A shag carpet?
Just then, a bee in the upper left corner began to sort of shake. And then more bees began to shake.
“Look! They are doing a waggle dance!” he said.
“A waggle dance?”
‘Yes. It’s how they communicate where the best pollen and nectar is. See! The dance is spreading. They are all talking about where to get the pollen.”
I realized that this could be the answer to the months of May and June. I’d waggle out a message that my friends would copy, and we’d find ourselves at Costco, source of the nectar of the moms. My dance would say, “The chips are on sale in aisle four. And across from them, you can buy a canoe if you need a fast escape in the rain!”
So, that’s my strategy until the sun ever comes out (or school finally ends). Learn from the bees: stay busy, remain peaceful, and dance with friends.