Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.
For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.
The Honey Bee: A Business Parable About Getting Un-stuck and Taking Control of Your Financial Future
180Overview
A business parable that teaches the value of cultivating multiple streams of income—the surest, most achievable means of creating generational wealth.
The Honey Bee tells the story of Noah—a disappointed, disaffected salesman who feels like his life is going nowhere until the day he has a chance encounter with a man named Tom Barnham, the beekeeper. In his charming, down-home way, Tom the “Bee Man” teaches Noah and his wife Emma how to grow their personal wealth using the lessons he learned from his beekeeping passion.
Full of concrete lessons delivered through chapter after chapter of engaging vignettes, each of which includes actionable advice for new or aspiring entrepreneurs. Workbook-style sections at the end of each chapter help bring the lessons home, including questions to help you apply the lessons to your own business, and links to rich digital resources for even more information on how to get started creating your own multiple streams of income.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781632992420 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Greenleaf Book Group, LLC |
| Publication date: | 10/07/2019 |
| Pages: | 180 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.41(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
THE BEEKEEPER
When the tire blows, I'm composing my resignation letter in my head.
It's become my favorite way to pass the time on long drives, and this stretch is a particularly painful one. I don't know if it's the potholes or the lack of anything to look at but trees, but the further I drive, the less happy I am.
No doubt that's why I'm in a darker mood than usual, and debating whether to open the letter with Dear Asshat, or To the Douchebags Whom It May Concern. Both have their appeal, and both are, as far as I'm concerned, true.
I've found that the take-this-job-and-shove-it fantasy is particularly helpful on bad days. And this is definitely one of those. Not only am I going home empty-handed, but it's also bucketing rain, which is going to make a terrible drive just that much longer. It just gives me more time to dwell on a job I can barely tolerate, but from which I can never seem to escape.
When the tire goes, I'm so deep in the daydream of quitting that it takes me a moment to realize what's happened. Before my brain connects the dots between the loud noise and the sudden sideways lurch of the car, the back end is already breaking loose on the wet pavement.
I fight the skid, pulling the wheel first one way, then the other as the car fishtails wildly. Through the blur of the wet windshield, the pickets of a guardrail sweep through my vision.
In a heart-pounding few seconds, it's over. I limp the car to the shoulder. There's a wobbling, scraping noise from the back that doesn't sound good. I squint through the rain, over the guardrail: It looks like a drop.
I loosen my fingers from their death grip on the wheel and take a deep breath. That was close. Just a few extra feet and I might have been upside down at the bottom of a ravine. For the first time today, I feel lucky.
It makes me realize how stupid the job-quitting daydream is. I'm never going to do it, so why do I bother? It's like one of those dreams where you win the lottery. When you wake up broke, you just feel even worse than usual. I should just feel grateful to be right-side up on the highway, my heart still beating.
My heart slows and I slump back in the seat. The rain splatters the windshield in between the thumping sweeps of the wipers. My feeling of gratitude fades as quickly as it came.
Not a good day, I think.
* * *
I pull my roadside assistance card from my wallet. There's no point in changing my own tire in this weather. I check my phone. No service. Great.
Outside, the rain is still coming down. I don't have a raincoat or an umbrella, just my suit jacket. It's better than nothing, so I throw it on, pop the trunk, and step out of the car into the rain.
The trunk, of course, is a jumbled mess of sample cases and crap, and by the time I get things shoved around enough to get at the spare tire, I know that the suit jacket actually isn't better than nothing. It's the same as nothing. I'm soaked right through.
When I finally discover that the spare is flat, I'm beyond frustrated. I scream into the gray, rainy sky, and slam the trunk lid. I climb back into the driver's seat, sit in a puddle of water, and wonder, Why me?
* * *
Things didn't start out this way. In the beginning, my job selling medical supplies was great. The pay was high. Training was a priority. There were lots of perks and elaborate company events. I felt this sense of upward mobility — of possibility.
For a while, the job was every salesperson's dream: high margin, steady demand, and a product that helps people. What more could you want?
I found out pretty quickly when the company abruptly changed hands. It turns out there's a lot to want. You can want a job where they don't change your territory just when you've finally built some decent relationships. Where they don't change the commission structure every time you feel like you're starting to make a buck. Where your best customers don't get clawed back and become corporate accounts as soon as your hard work starts to pay off.
Now, the whole thing feels like one big bait and switch. And yet I keep showing up every day. On the worst days, like today, I write my resignation letter in my head. But then I show up the next day like some sucker in a rigged carnival game.
Part of it is the carrot: They keep dangling an account executive title just out of my reach. That would mean more money and less time on the road, which would be great news for both me and my wife, Emma.
The other reason I keep showing up — the thing opposite the carrot — is the stick. I can't leave. I need the money. I don't have a fancy degree or fancy connections. I don't have a fancy trust fund. What I do have is a fancy mortgage that we can barely afford. Leaving feels like financial suicide.
I can't stay. I can't leave. I chase the carrots, but they're always dangled just out of reach. I fear the stick, which makes me feel trapped. I feel like I'm getting nowhere.
There's a loud crack of thunder, and lightning brightens the gray afternoon. Despite it all, I laugh. Right now, I literally am getting nowhere. I check my phone again. No signal.
I'm about to get out and start walking when a car pulls up behind me, its headlights washing over me in the rain-darkened afternoon. I squint in the rearview mirror, but I can't see anything in the glare.
The headlights turn off, and I realize it's not a car, but a pickup truck. One that's seen better days, from what I can tell. I'm about to hop out and save whoever it is the trouble of getting out into the rain, but they beat me to it.
I say they, because there's no way to tell whether the person climbing out of the pickup truck is a man or a woman. They're shrouded from the neck down in a bulky white suit, topped with a sort of floppy white helmet. For the briefest moment, I wonder if I'm about to be abducted by aliens. Sure, Noah. An alien in a beat-up old Ford.
Okay. So it's not aliens. But what's with the spacesuit? A darker thought strikes me: What if it's a serial killer? The spacesuit looks like one of those white forensic outfits psychopaths use to keep from leaving evidence.
Suddenly, my crappy sales job doesn't seem so crappy. Suddenly, I'd give anything to be back on the road and feeling grateful for my ever-shrinking commission check.
A white-gloved hand knocks on my window.
I push the button, lowering it a crack too small to let in rain or aliens or serial killers.
"Well hello," says the warm, slightly raspy voice of an older man. "You look like a fella in need of a better day."
* * *
A few moments later, I'm tucked into the warm cab of the old pickup truck, with most of my thoughts of aliens and serial killers left behind. The truck is at least three decades old, but it's clean and seems to be idling smoothly.
"Thanks so much," I say. "There's no cell service here. My spare is flat. I guess I need a tow."
The man pulls the strange white helmet off his head, and I see that it isn't a helmet at all, but more of a floppy hat with mesh over the front. Underneath the getup is a man who looks to be in his late 60s. Fit, with a healthy but lined face. One that shows its years but carries them well.
"I had a spare like that once," he says, setting down the hat. I think he's joking, but I can't really tell. Then he looks directly at me and I see the twinkle in his eyes.
"Tom Barnham," he says, pulling off a white glove and extending a hand.
"Noah Mason," I reply. "Thank you again. Is there a phone near here I could use?"
Tom shifts the truck into gear, and we pull away. "Yessir," he says. "We'll have to go to my place, though. Nearest cell tower is a ways off."
I watch out the passenger window as we drive past my car, and I feel another pang of uncertainty.
"Don't worry," Tom says. "Your car will be fine here." He tugs at the zipper that extends down the front of his white jumpsuit.
"What's with the outfit?" I ask.
"It's for the bees," he says.
"The bees?"
"Was just on my way to pick up a hive when the storm came in," he explains. "Otherwise you might be sharing this ride with a few thousand other hitchhikers."
"You're a beekeeper?"
Tom seems to ponder this. "After a fashion," he says. "Although you might better say they keep me."
I don't quite get this, but before I can ask what he means, the old truck's engine sputters and then backfires. I wonder if I'm about to be stranded for a second time at the side of the road.
"Don't worry," Tom says. "She's never let me down."
* * *
As promised, the old truck runs smoothly. I feel strangely relaxed, despite the day, and find myself happily chatting with Tom. After a few minutes, I realize I've been rambling on.
The truck backfires again. I guess there's not much money in bees, I think. It would take a lot of honey to buy a new car.
Then the truck slows, we turn into an opening in the trees, and I abruptly change my mind.
CHAPTER 2THE HONEY TRAP
The transition is so fast it's almost disorienting. One moment we're driving a washboard country road, staring at a tangle of forest, the next I'm on an immaculately maintained laneway, curving through what must be 20 acres or more of perfect green lawn. The crushed limestone laneway rises in a series of small hills across the estate. Perfectly manicured trees spaced in even intervals run along each side of the lane.
To either side, wide expanses of lawn stretch away to a distant tree line. To the left, a wide river winds its way along the edge of the clearing before tumbling into a small lake. A group of deer feeds in the trees along the water's edge.
On the right, a carved wooden sign reads: TRIBUTARY ACRES.
As we crest the slight rise of the driveway, I immediately see the source of the name: A half-dozen or more small streams emerge from the trees to carve a winding path downhill, then merge to form the river that flows down to where the deer stand, grazing.
Ahead, the road curves and then rises again. There, at the top of the estate grounds, a sprawling modern building perches at the edge of the hill, its front face almost entirely glass.
The house itself is huge, but it's been carefully designed to nestle into the hill, fitting into the contours of the land, rising in some areas, falling in others. At one point, the grounds flow over an entire level, creating a living roof under which nestles an enormous glass-fronted atrium. Long strands of flowered vines and greenery sway over the edges, and I can see the quick movements of birds darting from one bloom to the next.
As if to emphasize the contrast, the old Ford backfires loudly before continuing to chug up the hill.
The laneway curves beneath the glass walls of the home, and climbs again to emerge behind the house, where a bay of garage doors stand open to the sun, which has just begun to break free from the clouds.
Each bay contains a car, and I recognize many — ranging from the exotic to the practical. A classic 1950s convertible sparkles next to a new SUV. A sleek, futuristic roadster lurks beside a pair of motorcycles. One bay stands empty. Tom pulls the old pickup inside and shuts off the engine.
"Home sweet home," he says.
My mouth simply hangs open. Sweet indeed. Maybe there's money in bees after all.
* * *
Tom steps out of his white bee suit, hangs it on a hook, and then leads me through a door, where we emerge on a high walkway overlooking the enormous glass-fronted atrium I saw from the drive. It's a huge, open space — kitchen, living room, dining room and more, all in one cavernous room.
It's beautifully decorated, but my eyes are drawn to the glass wall that spans the entire front of the space. The view is incredible. An infinity pool sparkles in front, and beyond that, the grass rolls in waves down to the river.
In the distance, the last of the storm moves across a series of low mountain ranges. The clouds have mostly departed, and the sun's rays scatter in humid beams across the sky.
Wow.
"The rain's over," Tom says. "Let's open this place up."
He walks to a long bar at one side of the room. He picks up a tablet from the bar top and slides his finger along the screen. There's a soft click, then a whirring sound. I turn toward the sound and watch in awe as the entire glass wall begins to slide open. Within moments, the room is open to the outside. A warm breeze blows in, waving the greenery that hangs from the mouth of what now feels like a bright, modern cavern.
I'm so captivated by the sight that I don't even hear Tom call the tow truck on my behalf.
"Earl says he'll be a couple of hours yet," he says, coming out from behind the bar. "Apparently you're not the only one in need of a tow."
I manage to tear my eyes away from the view long enough to thank Tom again for his rescue efforts.
"Don't mention it. You're just lucky I didn't have a truckload of bees," he jokes.
I'd almost forgotten about the bees.
"Earlier," I say, "when we were in the truck, you mentioned that you were a beekeeper, but the bees keep you. What did you mean?"
Tom doesn't reply, but stands with me and stares out over the green expanse of lawn.
"Starting to clear up," he says at last. "Feel like giving me a hand with something?"
* * *
Ten minutes later, I'm in a white bee suit of my own, and Tom and I are back in the old Ford, bumping our way down a dirt road that leads from behind the house to a stand of trees in the distance.
As we reach the tree line, I can see there's a small barn nestled into the edge of the forest. Like the Ford, it's old but well maintained. We step out of the truck into the sun, and I stare back at the elegant home a ways behind us.
"You have a beautiful spot here," I say.
"Alice and I spent a long time planning the place," he says.
"I don't mean to pry, but ... is all this from selling honey?"
For the first time, I think I've surprised Tom. His eyes widen, and then he throws back his head and laughs.
"Hell, no."
"Oh." I smile awkwardly. "And the name? Tributary Acres? I guess that's named after all those rivers flowing together?"
"Well, yes and no," Tom said. "As it happens, Alice and I had the name picked out before we even found the place. Finding those streams on the property did pretty much seal the deal, though."
"You already knew the name?"
"My business is called Tributary, Inc. We always figured we'd name our retirement home after it — what with the business paying for it all."
"Why tributary?" I ask.
I follow Tom to the barn, and he pulls open an old wooden door.
"I named the business after my philosophy," he says. "I was always a believer in multiple streams of income. Tributary is just a fancy name for stream."
Tom steps inside the barn, and I follow him into the gloom. As my eyes adjust, I can see the place is full of old farm implements and tools. In one corner, a towering stack of hay bales leans against the wall. Tom walks to a tool bench and begins to root around beneath it.
"Multiple streams of income," I say. "Like having more than one job?"
"Not exactly," Tom says. "Although a job is certainly one stream."
He pulls a wooden crate from beneath the bench. A number of tools protrude from it, including what looks like a tin teapot.
"Most people rely on one source of income," Tom says. "That one source is usually their job. Every week, they get a paycheck — that's money that flows into their account. As long as they keep showing up at work every day, that one stream of money will keep flowing."
Tom hands me the crate, and we walk back outside into the sunlight.
"When it comes to streams," Tom continues, "some have better jobs than others. A doctor might have a bigger stream than a mechanic. The mechanic might have a bigger stream than a barista. But they all share one thing in common: Their entire life depends on one stream. If they stop working, the stream stops flowing. They work to serve the stream. They don't have any choice. In those cases, that one stream can become a prison."
That's exactly what my job feels like, I thought.
Tom walks toward the back of the barn, and I follow behind, my bee suit flapping at my legs. Behind the barn is a small clearing. At the furthest edge lies a collection of wooden boxes with lids that I recognize from photographs. They're bee boxes. Manmade hives.
Tom stops and takes the crate of tools from me.
"In many ways," he says, "bees are like those folks with one job. They're hard workers, gathering pollen and nectar day after day. There are thousands of bees in a hive, each one working to keep the honey flowing. If they stop, the honey stops. It's like a company full of workers. The bees show up every day. They work like hell, and the honey flows."
"Sounds like an honest day's work," I say.
"Sure," Tom says, "and for the bees, I reckon it's fine. They have enough to live on. They have a predictable job to do every day."
Tom motions for me to put my bee hat on.
"But the real winner," he says, pulling on his own hat over his head, "is the guy that owns the hive."
Tom bends to the crate and pulls out the tin teapot. Now I see it looks more like the Tin Man's hat in The Wizard of Oz. Like an upside down metal funnel on top of a can.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Honey Bee"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Jake Stenziano and Gino Barbaro.
Excerpted by permission of River Grove Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION: TWO DISGRUNTLED GUYS,
1: THE BEEKEEPER,
2: THE HONEY TRAP,
3: REALITY CHECK,
4: THE ESCAPE,
5: THE FIRST STREAM,
6: THE STING,
7: THE ANTIDOTE,
8: THE SECOND STREAM,
9: THE BUSY BEE,
10: THE THIRD STREAM,
11: BEES OF A FEATHER,
12: THE RIVER,
13: THE FLOOD,
14: THE BEEKEEPER'S LAST LESSON,
AFTERWORD,
STREAMS OF GIVING BACK,
APPENDIX A,
APPENDIX B,
ABOUT THE AUTHORS,
Customer Reviews
