You set up your first Langstroth box and receive your first swarm. About 20 minutes later, after being airlifted to the best hospital in the state, you wake to discover that you are deathly allergic to bee stings. (You didn't know; you'd never been stung before.)
You've set up your backyard hive, and you start to develop a presence, first at the neighborhood block party, where your honey is handed out for free with a brochure explaining your objectives. Your neighbors are…tepid about having hives in the neighborhood as they stand around with their Splenda-laced iced teas.
You prepare several nights before for the city's largest Farmer's Market. Then you're stung—thrice—the night before and you show up at your very expensively-purchased stand with a face full of pus and a customer base full of reservations about buying your honey. But many people try your free honey sticks and take your business cards.
You're the one they call when a swarm needs to be taken away and placed elsewhere. You make just about all your money doing this, raising bees on your land, selling wax to the local pagan women's group and selling your good supply of royal jelly to the various holistic doctors in the area.
There are no more 5am calls, since you don't get swarms anymore; you're the one requesting them. You have several acres of land, several hundred hives of various kinds, employees who take care of the bees and their hives, and your very own C.P.A. to handle the money-side of the business.