Honey Runs

Some of my fondest memories of childhood involve time spent with my dad. Saturday mornings were my favorite, because it meant running errands with him--to the bank, to the auto parts, a stop at Grandpa and Grandma’s, and maybe even lunch at Sutter’s Bakery & Restaurant.

As you can imagine, these times were special to me, because it meant one-on-one time with my father. During our drives to these errands, he often recounted stories of his childhood and teenage years, stories that soaked into my mind and helped to shape my imagination.

As a teenager and young adult, my life became busy with school, friends, work, and extracurriculars, and consequently, errands with my father were not as common. But there was one errand we still did together: honey runs.

You’ll search the internet and the dictionary in vain, if you try to find the term honey run. It’s a term my father coined, and it means an excuse to take a drive together, to talk together, to share ideas, and maybe, if we remember, to buy a jar of local honey.

Honey runs typically took place at night, after Dad returned home from work and we had dinner.

“You want to go on a honey run with me?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say, as I get up to put on my shoes.

We get into his Ford Ranger, a white Scottish Terrier positioned on the console between us, and drive to Gagetown, just northwest of the village, where the beekeeper lives.

I relish these times with my dad, especially the summer honey runs with their golden Michigan sunsets.

I roll my window down and put my arm out the door, the warm evening breeze gliding over my hand. Fields laden with tall, green corn stalks raise their proud heads in the afterglow of the setting sun.

As Dad drives, we talk about our day, what went well, what we hope not to repeat tomorrow. We comment on the latest political news, talk about things of the Lord, point out deer we can see in the distance, and discuss the latest family news from down state, Florida, Tennessee, and Indiana.

My favorite conversations during honey runs were those where we talked about the things of tomorrow. Dad talked about ideas he had and what he hoped for, but more often he asked me about my own. Ideas about college and career. Dreams of travel and experiences, of a wife and family.

Sometimes, sitting across from someone at a table or in a living room can make intimate conversations difficult. You’re looking at the other person’s face and analyzing their reactions to what you are saying. It wasn’t that way with honey runs.

On a honey run, you are sitting side-by-side, looking out the window. Your words are directed at each other, but your eyes look out at the fields and houses passing by. I have never been inside a confessional booth and never will, but I imagine that it is, in a way, a similar experience to a honey run, except that honey run conversations are about hopes, not sins.

Before either of us knows it, we are at the beekeeper’s home, where we pull into his driveway and visit the self-serve honey stand by the road. Dad pulls a jar of honey out and puts the money into the little lock box, and we begin our drive home.

On honey runs, driving home rarely meant going directly back to the house. Often, we would drive up and down streets in the village, where we talked about the town and its history, of memories we have there, of people we miss seeing sitting on their porches.

"I remember riding bikes with my friends down there when it was Fort's Store," Dad says. "We would buy as much candy as we could."

"Can you see what's playing at the Cass next week?" I ask.

Dad looks over his shoulder at the theatre's poster and reads the name off. I make a mental note to go see it.

Sometimes, we would drive down River Road, the lazy Cass River below, meandering its way to the west.

The distant sound of horse hooves can be heard in the distance. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. The dim and eerie glow of an Amish buggy’s lantern grows brighter, but no less eerie as the sound of the horse’s canter draws closer. The buggy glides by, its driver raising his hand in a friendly “good evening” salute.

Eventually, we turn on to Shabbona Road and make our way toward the little, white house on Lightning Hill, a warm glow coming from the kitchen window above the sink. We park in the driveway and wrap up our conversation.

“Thanks for letting me talk about these things,” I say to Dad.

“Thanks for talking to me about them,” he replies. “I always enjoy hearing what’s on your mind, and I’m always here for you to talk to.”
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Honey runs are a thing of the past now that I live away from my family, but I can’t help but think that the world might be a better place if more fathers took their children on honey runs of their own.

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