Our 6 1/2-year-old entrepreneur, Ellie, is quite adept at extracting honey from her grandfather’s bee hives.
By Lana Pierce
I’ve interviewed many children over the decades, but none quite like Ellie. Her story is, of course, her story. But her theme belongs to the child in all of us: having one thing we like to do that, maybe, not everybody will understand.
It was in one small question—and her exquisitely honest answer—that it occurred to me that the worries of 6-year-olds mirror the worries of 16 and 26 and 46, and 86-year-olds.
Will people understand what my passion is? Will they at least appreciate it? Or will they simply scratch their heads, or worse?
At 6 years old (and a half, she will have me remind you), Ellie already has her own line of honey, gleaned from her grandparents’ honeycombs near the edge of Garland County. I asked her if her classmates knew about her early success. “I don’t tell them,” she whispered. “They wouldn’t understand, I think.”
She asked me what I like to write about. I told her I won an award and a lot of money writing about fireflies and my grandfather once. “I used a fake name when I wrote it,” I whispered. “My friends wouldn’t really understand what I like to do either…”
And that’s when our interview took off. She will have you know, by the way, this article will also win awards and make a lot of money. “Maybe” as much as her honey makes!
Most readers are already thinking about some long-ago summer when a grandmother or grandfather took you under elderly wings and taught you their secrets. Something you learned that your friends didn’t necessarily learn. Maybe you bragged. Maybe like me and Ellie, you just kept it a honey-sweet secret unto yourself.
Leaning across a dark metal table, she tells me in hushed seriousness all the closely-held secrets she knows so far. Bee workers are lost without their queen. If she’s sick, they are confused. If she dies, it could spell the end of their efficient honey factory. They don’t want to sting people. They only hurt you when they think they are protecting the queen, their home, or their honey.
Her protective suit, so adorable and tiny, mirrors that of her grandfather’s, Bill Bradbury. After retiring from Hot Springs Fire Department, he turned much of his attention first to gardening, then to beekeeping. Together, they’re curating a fledgling business.
As Ellie grows older, she hopes to take on more of the responsibilities. For now, Bill and his wife, Nancy, are the marketers and sellers. Ellie assures me, however, that she will learn those aspects of honey soon.
There are rules about bees, she instructs. “First, never kill or attack them.” Many humans assume that bees are out to hurt us without reason. She tells me that is not the case. Nonetheless, she always wears her PPE (personal protective equipment)—the signature white suit and mesh hood that protects her from the anger of the bees.
Even angry bees, she promises, are “cute and important.” All they know is pollinating. They have a job to do and nothing stands in their way. When their job is done, that’s when Ellie’s job begins. Suiting up, scraping the hives to procure the honey, then bottling it for sale. It is, as I’ve heard, a “cute and important” job. Despite her age, she is up to the task.
Currently sold out, Ellie insists she will continue to stay ‘busy as a bee’ to gather more and more honey. In the meantime, keep an eye out for her jars. Rumor has it, her honey is the bee’s knees.
Lana Pierce is an awkward girl who doesn’t always tell her friends that she writes things. But she’s a fan of honey and Ellie, and now, she’s a fan of bees.
