Henry's Honey Hives: A Tribute to Grandpa

 

Some men leave behind wealth. Others, a name on a building or a list of honor. My Grandpa Henry? He left behind something far sweeter—jars of golden honey, a booming laugh that still echoes in my heart, and a legacy of faith, family, and farm that life that runs deep in my family roots. 

Grandpa wasn't quiet, not by a long shot. He had that unmistakable farmers voice— the kind that carries across fields and church pews, often punctuated by a belly laugh that made everyone smile. He was loud in the best ways: in his love, in his stories, in his pride for his grand kids and the life he built. 

He was a man of the land, with soil under his nails and bees buzzing in his blood. His farm was full of magic—rows of honey hives tended with care, hidden asparagus spots we'd visit on his four-wheeler, and a raspberry patch he and Grandma made into a little paradise for us grandkids. He farmed with his hands, but he nurtured with his heart. 

And oh, how he loved those bees. They weren't just a hobby—they were part of him. Gentle, steady, loyal. Just like him. He taught me that honey wasn't just something sweet— it was something sacred. A product of patience, faith, and care. His honey was the best I've ever had. Ad the bees knew it too. They loved him. We all did. 

Sundays meant church—no exceptions. Grandpa's faith was unwavering, just like his commitment to showing up for the people he loved. His home was adorned with rosaries, cross, and faith-filled decor. It wasn't for show— it was who he and my Grandma were. A man who lived for Jesus, served his community, and passed on that spirit to us without ever needing to preach. 

And oh, the stories! Grandpa wasn't just a farmer— he served as a legislator in the Des Moines Capitol. Grandma, the cousins, and I would visit with our parents, proud to sit in "his chair," watching him do what he did best: speak up, serve, and stand tall for what mattered. He carried his love for Iowa and its people into everything he did, whether it was parading around in his Duesey Day float or digging into a big bowl of Blue Bunny Vanilla Ice Cream — always ready for Grandma, himself, or a lucky grandchild. 

After he passed, I wrote this poem as a way to remember him — and to honor the hives he loved so much: 

 

Henry's Honey Hives
You've got a lot of honey hives out on your farm.
Each one unique with it's own charm. 
Henry's Honey Hives will never feel the same,
since the last time they all seemed to know his name. 
Gentle as a breeze they welcomed him with ease. 
Now, up in heaven, each bee leaves only a memory. 
A memory of Henry, oh how sweet he could be.
No other hive will live up to grandpa's name. 
His hives had only the best kind of honey, 
the greatest was only family raised. 
Each bee I see, I'll be reminded of you... 
buzzing and buzzing and flowers abloom...
only the best honey was given by you, 
Henry's Honey Hives will never die,
just like his spirit shining brightly in the sky. 
I can't wait to visit real soon
and remind the bees of the man who was faithful to them all the days through. 
Now, the bees you leave behind will only be your sign, 
that you never really left us, but are only at our sides. 

Rest peacefully grandpa, you deserved the world and every little bee was your little girl. I love you. 

I put my poem in his casket with him for family to read at his funereal, and now he has it forever with him as he lays to rest. 

These days, the bees still buzz, and so does your legacy. One of the sweetest parts? My nephew — my brother's son — was named in your honor. Henry Jackson. A name that carries with it kindness, strength, faith and that unmistakable farmer charm. I see glimpses of you in him already. 

Now, every bee I see brings me back to you. And one day when I tattoo gerbera daisies on my forearm to honor both the ones still here and the ones I've loved and lost — there will be bees flying among them. A permanent reminder that Grandpa's sweetness, his faith, his laughter, and his love still lives on. 

 

You're not gone. You're just at our side now— like a hum in the breeze, a jar of honey on the shelf, or a quiet moment when the bees return to bloom. 

Thank you, Grandpa Henry. For the stories. The hives. The ice cream. The faith. And the love that never quits buzzing.