‘I don’t feel like a millionaire’: A father-son duo’s secret to success

Byron Bay beekeepers Cedar Anderson, 42, and his father Stuart, 68, have translated their non-invasive honey-extraction process into a runaway global success. Yet the secret to a sweet life, they say, remains a simple one.

Cedar Anderson, left, and Stuart: “I told Stu at the outset that if our success ever came between us, I’d give it all up.”Credit: Paul Harris

Cedar: My father is an anomaly for the level of freedom he allowed me and my older brothers. His method of parenting was to keep out of our way and to offer praise and encouragement when needed, never criticism. I first experienced anger from an adult when I was a teenager. Confused, I went to Stu, who said, “It’s their anger, not yours.” That assurance – that I don’t have to take on other people’s negativity – has stayed with me.

We lived in an intentional community [a modern-day commune] on 65 hectares in the hills north of Lismore. Every morning, Dad would walk us over the mountain ridge and down the valley to our community-based school, where parents were the teachers and creative thinking was encouraged.

Dad’s a mechanic, electrician, builder and plumber rolled into one. He was shown how to fix things by his father and can make anything work. He helped us build a go-cart, by recycling an old generator engine, mower and bicycle parts, which we loved riding to school.

Dad taught me to understand how things work, and how to fix them. You need confidence to be a successful inventor; I gain confidence by making stuff work.

“Our brains are wired so similarly, we seem to bounce off each other in a way that neither of us can do alone.”

During the decade that we were working on Flow Hive, from 2005 to 2015, we didn’t have much money. When our old Toyota HiLux broke down, we came up with the idea of running it on vegetable oil. Before long, we were running two cars on oil from the local fish-and-chip shop. People would feel hungry when we drove past!

Dad might say something is good enough, whereas I’m more persistent. I’ll work through the night on something finicky. Like carving tiny pieces of plastic into honeycomb shapes for the Flow Hive frames using tools I’d made that look like dentists’ implements.

The crowdfunding for Flow Hive went nuts: $17 million in eight weeks. Our money worries were over, but suddenly we had to deliver 24,500 units. I’d never experienced stress or worked in an office before; I’d just gone where the wind blew – teaching paragliding, the occasional Greenpeace gig. Under pressure, I drew on a valuable life skill Stu had instilled in me: just figure out how things work and how to fix them. That’s how we set up the manufacturing process and delivered the units on time.

I told Stu at the outset that if our success ever came between us, I’d give it all up. Our day-to-day life has changed, but not our relationship. Where once we had the time and space to dream, now we have a calendar full of meetings, and yet we still find time to work in the shed. I relish those days. Our brains are wired so similarly, we seem to bounce off each other in a way that neither of us can do alone.

My partner Kylie and I are trying to instil that same freedom of thought in our kids [son Jarli, 7, and daughter Mella, 4]. When Jarli asked for a quad bike recently, I bought a broken one so we could fix it together.

I certainly don’t feel like a millionaire - and neither does Stu. He bought an electric car in 2019 after his old one caught fire, but I’m still running my HiLux on vegetable oil from the chippie. Family holidays are local, often just camping with Stu and [his second wife] Michelle. Fraser Island is still about as far as we get.

Stuart: “Bubby” was nearly six weeks old before we found the right name for him. We called him Cedar because his blond-red hair reminded us of red cedar trees. Every morning I’d walk him and his brothers to their community learning centre. The journey usually took about 20 minutes but if I let Cedar set the pace, it would take hours. For him, being such a dreamy kid, the journey was as interesting as school itself. One of his favourite activities at school was “pull-aparts”, where they’d dismantle a washing machine, say, to figure out its workings. I encouraged my kids to build things.

My parenting style allowed the consequences of the boys’ decisions to shift back to them as much as possible. With Cedar, I could get cross about the burn-holes in the carpet from the soldering iron he’d often leave on, the dirty dishes or not being ready for school. But I’d think about the bigger picture and ask myself, “What’s important in this moment?” I preferred to focus on ways to nurture his extraordinariness.

“I’d think about the bigger picture and ask myself, ‘What’s important in this moment?’ I preferred to focus on ways to nurture his extraordinariness.”

Flow Hive exploded onto the beekeeping scene. Some beekeepers, despite not even seeing it, reacted with suspicion. They thought we were making a skilled craft look easy. But beekeeping, like any animal husbandry, is a skill that can be learnt. Initially, Cedar felt overwhelmed by the negative commentary but, to his credit, he decided not to take on the orneriness of a bunch of grumpy old beekeepers. His attitude became, “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it.” We never said our invention was for everyone.

Obsessed with our crowdfunding success, journalists asked us what houses, cars and lifestyles we were going to choose. I didn’t want to change anything: I was, and still am, very happy to live a simple life.

As Flow Hive CEO, Cedar has less time to work in the shed and, when he does, there are usually interruptions. On the flip side, turning our invention into a business means we can now afford the tools we need to continue to innovate. And we’re more confident in our ability to invent and come up with novel ideas. We’re currently working on new inventions in beekeeping and ways to restore the bees’ habitat.

I love working on design problems with Cedar. He has infinite persistence and an eye for detail, whereas I tend to say, “That’s good enough.” Our understanding is extraordinary. When we’re working on a problem together, it often takes just a word or a few pencil strokes to convey an idea. We’re so in tune, our minds somehow lock; it feels, weirdly, like I can go inside his brain. Whenever we play Pictionary as a team, we just blitz the competition!

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