Flowers on 29: Mile Marker 10½

How the Perkiomen Trail Took My Land (and I Made It Bloom)

2024 Sunflower bucket. I learned I have a favorite bucket.

Let’s get right to it: part of my family’s land was taken by eminent domain to make way for the Perkiomen Trail. The Weirman family had been living on & farming this stretch of land for generations, long before anyone thought to slap on some spandex and bike through it. We didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet when Montgomery County came calling with survey stakes and legal forms.

If you are not clear about what eminent domain means and how it can possibly come to impact a multi-generational property, here’s a short, short version.

One day, a government official shows up and says, “Nice place you’ve got here. We’ll take it.” That, dear landowner, is eminent domain—the government’s legal right to take private property for public use, whether it’s for a highway, a school, or a “scenic” drainage ditch. The kicker? They do have to pay you “just compensation,” though opinions often differ wildly on what “just” actually means.

You can’t exactly say no, but you can negotiate—or at least frown very hard while signing the paperwork.

Eminent domain: it’s the real estate version of “it’s not personal, it’s infrastructure.”

But like most things that get planted with good intentions and a heavy hand, the trail grew—literally and figuratively.

A (Slightly) Bitter Beginning

The Perkiomen Trail, owned and operated by Montgomery County, Pennsylvania came with a vision of community and connection. For many local families, though, it also came with loss. In our case, it meant watching a piece of our history disappear under gravel and bike tires.

There was the added concern at the time (in the 90’s) that our Grandmother was living in the house at the time. She was an independent lady and while she was used to her sewing customers coming and going to drop off & pick up sewing repairs, the thought of strangers walking feet from her back door 24/7 was a breach to safety & privacy that we were not quick to sign over.

It’s hard to let go of something your great-great-grandparents built, especially when it disappears with the stroke of a government pen. For a while, every cyclist that zoomed by felt like a reminder of what we lost.

From Land Grab to Love Affair

Time does what it always does—it moved on. And so did we.

What started as a controversial construction project has become a beloved local treasure. The Perkiomen Trail now stretches through woods, towns, and fields, offering space for reflection, recreation, and really good dog watching. And somewhere around mile 10½, right where my family once grew corn and tomatoes, you’ll now find something just as colorful: rows of flowers, grown by hand and heart.

I have quite a few not so nice stories about trail trekkers, but I would rather focus on the positive. I have the regular dog-walkers who stop to chat about how the flowers are going. I have some bike riders who I may see once or twice a year and they stop to catch up. I even have some of my grandmother’s customers from back in the day who stop to tell me that my grandmom would be proud of me and the hard work I am doing. How about we try not to cry in front of all the others, ok?

Welcome to Mile 10½

My flower farm, Flowers on 29, sits right along the trail. It’s a one-woman (and some reluctant sons and some guest appearances by my parents and friends) operation rooted in love, grief, stubbornness, and dirt under the fingernails. After unimaginable loss, flower farming gave me purpose. And now it gives a little something back to the community, too.

(Trigger warning for my friends & family - you can skip this part). In 2006, I had my first baby. She was the cutest baby girl and I am biased, but she was an easy, happy baby. I was doing my best as a working mom (teaching high school full-time) and I was lucky enough to have my family (thank you, Stace!) helping me to care for her while I worked. My daughter was diagnosed with cancer when she was 5 months old. She died when she was 17 months old. I had twins 10 months later and one of my twins also was diagnosed with cancer (not hereditary) and died a few short months later. Let’s fast forward 5 years and I have an unruptured brain aneurysm and brain surgery while pregnant with baby number 4. My husband dies suddenly on a Thursday evening in 2021…it has been A TIME! And now…over years and much work and searching, I have fought back through growing flowers and sharing joy.

People walk by and smile. Kids point from bike seats and yell “sunflowers!” Old and new friends stop and talk. Some days, it’s just me, 10,000 weeds, and the sound of sneakers hitting gravel. Other days, it feels like this mile marker is a tiny hub of human connection.

The Sunflowers Are Coming

This summer, I’m going big on sunflowers. They’ll be blooming from mid-June through August, bright and unapologetically cheerful. If you’re strolling or pedaling past, you’ll see them reaching for the sun and probably attracting a few bees—and more than a few Instagrammers. Over the past year, people have asked for the big field again. I hear you, but I was figuring some things out. Last year I was all hand tools and we had a killer drought. This year, I’m bringing back the wow factor thanks to my “birthday” present of a rototiller and some actual rain (maybe too much at times) so far this Spring.

I hope the flowers (especially the sunflowers) make you smile. I hope they remind you that beauty can grow from complicated beginnings. And if they stop you in your tracks, I hope you take a moment to enjoy them.

A One-Woman Show

There’s no team here. No crew. No interns named Susan (sorry Momma) who make beautiful spreadsheets and refill your coffee while you deadhead zinnias. It’s just me. Me and the land and the flowers and, on very special days, a well-timed rain system.

So if you see me out there looking tired or sunburned or confused by a shovel, wave. Or say hi. Or yell something encouraging. I may not respond because my music is BLASTING! Trail kindness is real, and I feel it every time someone stops to say, “You’re doing something beautiful here.” I truly cannot tell you how much it means to me. Even the unsolicited advice, the comments on my musculature, my age, or the questions about what my husband does for work (ugh). I think we all move too fast and slowing down to enjoy some nature (even on instagram - @msecurtis btw) can turn your world around.

Photographers, Stay Tuned

If the sunflower field shapes up the way I envision, I’ll be offering hourly photo session bookings for photographers—for a small fee. Think golden-hour lighting, wide open space, and rows of dreamy blooms that don’t require trespassing or coaxing a toddler into standing still for more than four seconds.

Details will be posted on Instagram (@msecurtis) and at the flower stand. No goats in the frame unless requested.

Yes, I Have a Venmo

Is it weird to ask for tips on Venmo? Maybe. Am I doing it anyway? Also yes.

I have been asked to tip for everything lately and most times I’m like, you know what? Yes. I’m all about hard work and how rough this life can be for anyone at any time. Heck. You cannot look at me & know that I have lost 2 of my children to cancer and I am also a widow. Neither of these things are a financial asset. So I lift up my fellow hardworkers and life is toughers…if the spirit moves you…tip away.

Flower farming isn’t free. Seeds, compost, fencing, water, and caffeine all cost something. If my flowers have brightened your walk, lifted your spirits, or made your kid squeal with delight, consider tossing a tip my way. Every little bit helps keep the flowers growing and the dream alive.

Venmo: @msecurtis

And if you’d rather just smile and walk on by? That’s enough too. We are all enough and we are all doing the best we can with what we’ve got. (I’ve got some pent up emotions and a dash of ADHD. You do you.)

From Controversy to Community

This land has a complicated history. What was taken has been transformed. What was painful has grown into something joyful. And what was once just a trail through our family’s fields has become a place of connection.

So thank you for passing through. For noticing the flowers. For cheering on the quiet labor that blooms each season along Mile 10½.

I hope you’ll come back soon.

Marigold Mayhem: Fighting Deer, Learning French (Marigolds), and Hoping for a Blooming Miracle

You know that moment when you’re standing at the edge of your field, holding an absurdly large bag of hopefully someday to be bright orange & yellow marigolds and thinking…This is either going to be beautiful or completely useless? Yeah. That was me a few weeks ago. Thousands of French marigolds now form a sunny little army around the perimeter of about 1/2 of my flower field. They’re my bold, fragrant, no-nonsense line of defense against the deer who’ve decided to treat Flowers on 29 like their personal buffet.

Will it work? No idea. But in my imagination, it looks great and gives me something to hyperfocus on as I pull one blade of grass at a time to give these baby marigolds space to grow while I also spray the perimeter with Deer-Off like I’m seasoning a salad. Don’t eat the deer-off, but it doesn’t smell like it would taste bad. Am I luring more deer with this stuff? Amazon, don’t fail me now.

Let’s learn together, shall we? I have not gone all in on marigolds like this before. In fact, I only know we’ve grown them here before because I have photo evidence of a very sweet little boy of mine standing next to some. I had brain surgery. (This is my go-to excuse when I cannot remember things. The truth will set you free!)

Meet the French Marigold: Small But Spicy

First off, the French marigold (scientific, fancy name: Tagetes patula) isn’t actually French. Ugh! We colonized nature. Shocking. (That was sarcasm.) It’s native to Central and South America, but Europeans slapped a fancy name on it, and now it sounds like it should come with a croissant and espresso. These little guys are compact, bushy, and enthusiastic bloomers. They stay low (6 to 18 inches tall), making them perfect for edging, borders, and passive-aggressively repelling wildlife. I’m thinking of making some squat signage for them too. Very “get off my lawn!”

They’re known for their bold colors—oranges, yellows, reds, and fiery bi-colors that look like they’ve just emerged from a campfire. I bought some strawberry blonde variations too. I don’t remember where I planted them so….if they work, they will be a true surprise. The great part of ADHD is that I set myself up for a seek & find situation every day.

And the scent? Pungent. Strong. Controversial. Beloved by some, avoided by others (especially deer, supposedly). I was picking weeds and definitely got up close & personal for a big sniff. I smell nothing. I also blame the brain surgery for my lack of sense of smell. Some of us know the real reason and you can just zip it. Sooooo….Marigolds are great for pest control, less great if you’re trying to impress someone on a first date with a bouquet of them. (More on that later. I am not going on a first date. Refer to previous blog posts about chaos & dirty fingernails.)

When Do They Bloom? Can You Still Plant Them? (Yes, You Can.)

Marigolds are the overachievers of the flower world. Well well well! I can relate. (My dad’s reaction to finding out I was having twins was to roll his eyes, look at me and say “overachiever”. He may have also considered buying me a t-shirt.) They sprout within 5–7 days if the soil is warm enough (70°F+), and they bloom within 45–60 days of planting. So even if you’re late to the garden party (hi, I’m always late to everything), planting in late May or early June means you’ll still be rewarded with blooms by mid-to-late July—just in time for peak stand season. I planted mine quite early this year (timing may not be my best gift) as the frost threat ended early and I couldn’t help myself. They germinated quite well and I am very excited to see them bloom. It is the end of May now and my highest plant is likely 6-8 inches. No signs of blooms yet.

You can start them from seed (direct sow or in trays) or grab a flat of starts from your favorite greenhouse and plug them in like the impatient but hopeful flower farmer you are. I have a double dash of Great Depression survival genes running through these veins so I go for seeds over plugs. The seeds are really cool. They look like fly fishing lure feathers (no hooks). I just sprinkled down a loosened row. You do you. I am crooked rows and uneven spacing. I won’t stop you from having everything just right.

How to Plant (or Panic-Plant) French Marigolds in Late May

If you’re doing this last-minute, welcome. You’re among friends. Just do it. I planted pumpkins way too late last year and still learned a whole bunch and got some pumpkins too. You don’t know unless you try. Don’t let the know-it-alls get you down.

• Soil: Well-drained and sunny. These are not shade lovers.

• Spacing: 8–10 inches apart, or just kind of eyeball it and then hope. (This is the recommendation. I did not follow it. I just cannot trust that they germinate and then there could be huge gaps?! Again. You do you.)

• Watering: Regular until they’re established, then only during droughts or existential crises. (I love them so much already and I haven’t seen a bloom yet. You had me at only water in droughts.)

• Deadheading: Yes, please. Keeps them blooming instead of going to seed too soon. I will cut for bunches and bouquets. This will keep them producing too!

• Talking to them: Optional, but I highly recommend whispering threats about deer and promising them glory if they succeed. I have already told them I love them. It’s fine. We’re fine.

Bouquet Potential: Do They Play Nice with Others?

I will serve you up all of the fun facts like you enjoy them as much as I do. Despite their reputation as border flowers, French marigolds can totally hold their own in bouquets. Their bright colors and spicy scent bring personality to the table—and they’re sturdy enough to stand up in a vase without flopping over in 36 hours like some other drama queens I grow (I’m looking at you, larkspur. You’re doing great though. Don’t stop).

Here’s what they pair well with:

• Zinnias – cheerful, saturated, and ready to party. I don’t know how many seeds are down already for zinnias, but it is close to a 1/2 lb. (Hysterical laughter threatens to begin.)

• Sunflowers – the ultimate late-summer duo. A few thousand are waiting for you, marigolds.

• Celosia, cosmos, and amaranth – for a textural, rustic, market-style vibe. Well…Amaranth and I have not met yet. Celosia & I are having a time of it so far. It hasn’t been warm enough for me to put those out yet. And….watering seedlings while also planting out and doing all kinds of other adulting and lazying hasn’t been a great combo. I WILL succeed with some celosia. I have quite a few trays and hopes out of the wazoo. Cosmos. Hundreds. We will have cosmos!

A few cautions:

• The scent is… intense. Not for everyone. (But then again, neither is flower farming.) I won’t know. I cannot smell most smells. Some marigolds release a sticky sap when cut—so always test them before you go all in. I am always down for something to wipe on my clothing and get in my hair.

• They’re not for high-end, blush-and-beige wedding work. But in a $10 roadside bouquet? They SHINE. I keep falling further in love with these marigolds. They are ME!

So… Will the Deer Behave?

Listen. I have no illusions. Delusions? The deer might still cross the road, stomp in my dirt, flip me off (they cannot do that. Deer don’t have a mean finger.), and devour my snapdragons under the light of a full moon. But the marigolds give me hope. Hope and color and the illusion of control—three things every flower farmer needs to survive spring planting season. I will throw everything possible at these deer to keep them from breaking my heart and chomping rows and rows of young sunflowers. I have a strong will, but seeing sunflowers mowed down in the morning after a deer feast hurts my soul.

And even if the deer win, I’ll have a glorious orange-and-gold moat around my field and a few hundred extras for market bouquets, CSA shares, or “I gave up on the fancy bouquet and here’s what’s blooming” jar arrangements.

Come See for Yourself

If you’re local, swing by Flowers on 29 later this summer and see how the great marigold experiment is going. Are they keeping the deer out? Are they working in bouquets? Am I still speaking in full sentences by July? Stay tuned. You can see the marigolds from the safety and secrecy of the Perkiomen Trail. We are at the 10 1/2 mile marker just North of Plank Road.

And if you’ve got your own deer-repelling tricks, send them my way. I’m open to anything short of adopting a wolf. And maybe the wolf. I’m also stingy and not rolling in money so…sure…a fence would be cool. But have you seen the price on those?!

Until then, may your fields be bright, your marigolds be brave, and your deer be elsewhere.

Follow along on Instagram: @msecurtis

Rain, Rain, Go Away (No, Seriously, We’re Drowning in It)

Adventures in Muddy Boots, Extra Weeds and Flower Farming

It Was Cute at First. Now It’s a Problem.

A little rain? Lovely. Romantic, even. Great for seedlings and soul-searching. A bit of rain is a real treat because watering is itself a part-time job. When the rain does it, I have so much time for activities like making signs and doing the dishes!

Too much rain? Well then there’s just mud everywhere. Nothing gets planted. Everything smells like creek mud around here. I’ve had muddy, wet feet for five days. The weeds are thriving. I am not.

Can I Plant Sunflowers in This Soup?

Short answer: nope.

Sunflower seeds + waterlogged soil = a rotting mess. They need warmth and well-drained ground. If you plant them now when there is honest to Go mud, they’ll either rot or get immediately evicted by slugs. It’s like throwing a pool party for seeds that can’t swim.

What About Zinnias? They’re Tough, Right?

Zinnias are tough—but they’re not magical. If you’ve got raised beds or fast-draining soil, you might be able to sneak a planting in during a rare dry spell. But if you step into your garden and sink two inches? You’re going to have to wait. These queens like a little moisture, not a mud spa.

When Can I Rototill Again Without Making a Total Mess?

Here’s the rule: if your soil sticks to your boots and looks like brownie batter, don’t till. You’ll compact the soil, damage its structure, and regret everything. Wait until it crumbles in your hand like chocolate cake (but not too dry—I’ve been listening to a lot of the Great British Baking Show so get ready for all of the baking references).

Still Gotta Harvest—Even in a Monsoon

When it is harvesting season later this summer, the rain doesn’t care about your bouquet schedule, but your customers do. So we harvest anyway in the rain. With pruners slipping in our hands and petals threatening to dissolve. Sunflowers don’t really like to be harvested in the rain, but if the petals aren’t quite open yet, they’re more forgiving.

It’s not glamorous. It’s damp, muddy, and oddly meditative. Also: no one looks cool in a poncho or soaking wet and that’s just fine by me.

What This Means for Your Bouquets

Less variety, a little more green, and a higher chance I deliver your flowers looking like a raccoon who lost a fight with a thunderstorm. But the blooms we do get in the pouring rain? Hard-won and beautiful. They mean we kept going. Even when the fields said, “Maybe not today.” Here’s just another lesson in resiliency and how you just have to start and magic happens. All that learning and growth from flowers. They can often be my best teacher.

If You See Me Talking to the Sky

I’m not okay—but I’m farming anyway.

Wave. Offer coffee. Tell the sun to come back. Or just know that if it’s raining and you don’t see sunflowers yet, it’s not because I forgot. It’s because I’ve been ankle-deep in perseverance and mud.

Dirt-Stained Hands, Holy Work: Scrubbing Off PA Red Clay and Keeping the Soul Intact

The Gospel According to Dirt

Let’s not let kids around mowers or my ashy, dirty legs.

There’s a certain type of red that stains deeper than lipstain, deeper than red wine, and sometimes, I swear, deeper than sin. It’s Pennsylvania red clay—and when you farm in it, you don’t just get dirty, you become dirty. Not metaphorically. Physically. Spiritually. Permanently.

My hands are almost always stained now. No no. They are ALWAYS stained now—red at the fingertips, caked in the creases. My feet? I could sand a table with my heels. But if you ask me, there’s something sacred about it. Dirt-stained hands are evidence of time well spent. Therapy earned. Life wrestled with and planted back into the ground. It’s not clean work, but it’s holy. I don’t think dirty feet say much more than “yuck”, “ew” or “oh my”.

The World Has Noticed

My mother, Susan, recently looked at my hands and with the tone only a medical-mother can muster, asked, “OK. Tell me what happened to your hand?” Then, without missing a beat (or 24 hours), she dropped off actual sterile surgical scrub kits from her office. Surgical. Scrub. Kits. Apparently I’ve crossed into the “emergency decontamination” zone. If you know Susan, you know. We used to joke that our house reorganized while she wasn’t even home.

Even my students have taken notice. In the middle of an online tutoring session, one politely raised his virtual hand to say, “Ms. Curtis, um… why do your hands look red.” Thank you, child. They are, in fact, red. Because Ms. Curtis was elbow-deep in sunflower seedlings ten minutes before class. Because Ms. Curtis is a flower farmer and your math teacher. Because this is what dual-purpose living looks like.

Let’s not forget my birthday date with my sons—our annual “go out and eat like feral kings” tradition. I took them straight from the field, still wearing flip flops, red clay dusted between my toes like I’d dipped them in a vat of terra cotta matte paint. We walked into public like we were totally normal. Because we are. (We are not. But we are harmless.)

I Don’t Do Prevention. Come At Me.

I know there are people who slather on barrier creams and wear gloves and actually rinse off before appearing in public. Bless them. I am not one of them. Preventative measures? Never heard of her. I’ve tried. I own gloves. They are scattered about because sometimes stuff is picky and I don’t like picky stuff. They’re in wheelbarrows, in sheds, and in buckets, stiff and judgmental from disuse. Probably not a set. 2 rights, 1 left, different textures and colors. It’s fine.

Dirt is my natural state now. It’s not just on me; it’s in me. It’s under my nails and etched into my cuticles and sometimes mysteriously behind my ears. On my phone screen, in my phone speaker, in all of my shoes, on all of my shoes. It’s a lifestyle. If you’re looking for pristine, you’re in the wrong field—literally.

Fine. Here’s How I Plan to Get Clean (Eventually)

When the time does come to return to the world of humans, I do have a few tricks up my dirt-encrusted sleeve:

Hands:

• Mechanic’s soap or gritty orange pumice scrub—think “removes grease from engines” level strong. I use Dawn Dish Soap most often. If it’s good enough for de-oilslicking birds, my hands should improve.

• DIY sugar scrub with coconut oil, sugar, and lemon if I want to pretend I’m at a spa instead of a crime scene cleanup. This is just rude. I am not doing this. I mean, I’ll try it if someone provides it. I don’t have “sugar scrub money”. Those are food items.

• A good fingernail brush is essential. I keep one at every sink. That doesn’t mean I use them regularly, but they’re there. Symbolic effort. Ok. Half truth. I do have and use a fingernail brush. It is magic. I also have used old toothbrushes almost daily for my fingernail scrubbing. I mean, this is kind of the Dawn dishsoap theory. We use old toothbrushes to clean other things, so…

Feet:

• A foot soak of Epsom salt, warm water, and apple cider vinegar will humble even the most stubborn clay. Remove the apple cider vinegar and my sore muscles are very pro-Epsom salt. Also affordable.

• Mr. Pumice bar—the purple one that looks like it was designed by Crayola and feels like redemption. This is a dream item. (Maybe I need an Amazon Wishlist?) Is this why people live with a partner? I have to purchase & employ said “Mr. Pumice bar”. This sounds like a scam.

• Tea tree or peppermint oil makes me smell less like mulch and more like a functioning adult. Ummm…this makes me think like I’ll smell like an adult, but an adult hippy. Don’t all essential oils smell like patchouli? I need to research this. In the meantime, my feet are dirty. Is there a section on OnlyFans for that? I have questions. I don’t really want the answers though.

Extra Credit: (Oh! I like gold stars!)

• When I actually do glove up (rare), nitrile gloves beat garden gloves every time. No cap. (I learned that a decade ago and it is finally kind of funny to use it. Ha!) Susan taught me the wise ways of the nitrile glove, more stylishly provided in black now and not that terrible purple. She did not teach me “no cap”.

• And let’s not forget that I do not, unless the weather is below 0 or I am for some very strange reason visiting someone’s shoeless home in Winter, believe in socks. My feet do not approve. They make my feet hurt in shoes, they feel wrong and they make my entire being feel like it is boiling. Something happened to me with socks and it is officially blocked from memory. No socks. If I did wear them out in the field. I would throw them in the trash. There is just no way to recover any cotton clothing from the mud stains.

Stained but Sanctified

At the end of the day, I wash up—not to erase the dirt, but to honor the work it came from. I clean off what I can and live with what lingers. Because every red-tinged finger and dusty heel is a record of love, labor, and life in motion.

Some folks wear rings to show commitment. I wear a dirt line where my boots end. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Make it stand out

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

No Hoop House, No Problem: Starting a Flower Farm with a Shovel, Some Dirt, and a Deep Need for Chaos

Embracing the Blooming Chaos

Starting a flower farm without a hoop house, greenhouse, or significant budget might seem daunting. Yet, with a shovel, some dirt, and an unwavering passion, it’s entirely possible. This journey isn’t just about cultivating flowers; it’s about embracing the chaos, continuous learning, and finding beauty in the mess.

My first flower stand sunflower bunch with my first gladiola bloom!

You just have to start. The best way to acheive a goal is to START!

Definitely got some side-eye & scrutiny from people when they saw me scraping away the scorched earth with hand tools only (hopefully you have more privacy than I do in your garden space). It took some time and also some brutally honest conversations, but many a side-eye turned into respect and even some gold stars (my ideal currency).

The best way to overcome doubt and fear is to just start. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to fight, flight or freeze, I was born part-possum because I freeze for a long time before the other 2 kick in. Flower farming has helped me to be more of a fighter and to break the freeze. Go for it! It will be hard and the progress may be slow, but progress is progress.

How Much Space Do You Actually Need?

Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need vast acres to start a flower farm. Even a modest backyard or a few raised beds can yield a bountiful harvest. For instance, a 1/8-acre plot can produce an impressive amount of blooms, especially when you discover succession planting and choosing high-yield varieties like zinnias and sunflowers.

Succession planting as a one-woman show is kind of a natural conclusion. One can only plant so many seeds in a day or over a week. So what you get is a succession of flowers blooming row by row, week by week. It helps with harvesting too because if everything I planted in a season happened at once (think big farming fields that are planted commercially and need to be harvested fast…how? I can’t do that on my own?!), so much would go to waste. This keeps the harvesting, arranging and selling at a manageable clip. Everything goes quicker (naturally) after you hone your skills or add some machines into the mix, but your experience and knowledge allow increased efficiency. This is progress and growth at its finest. And each day there are new mistakes to make and new worries and new victories.

I could talk about flowers and farming all day long. It’s real annoying to my friends, I think. Too bad. So sad. This is exciting stuff.

What Defines a “Real” Farm in Pennsylvania?

In Pennsylvania, if you’re cultivating crops with the intent to sell, you’re considered a farmer. Registering your business, obtaining an EIN, and filing a Schedule F can further legitimize your operation. Embrace the title of “farmer,” even if your workspace doubles as a classroom or your garage stores both tools and teaching materials.

This is a weird space. You can sell products that you grow and harvest on your property (for now) without any sort of license in PA. From what I have read, you do need license to sell anything with roots (think tomato plant seedlings). Do I think anyone is knocking down your door to punish you because you list seedlings for sale on Facebook Marketplace? No. I just thought a clarification would be prudent.

Now cut flowers. Those you can sell! You have to keep track of money coming in and PA sales tax will be paid each year as we know. I have read (note how I am being cautious here? I do not know everything and you may have read differently. Who am I? I’m always figuring things out.) that to be a farm in PA, you need to commit to & consistently sell $2,000 worth of goods to have farm status. There is a bit about acreage, but that is not a requirement, but I believe can get you in the door as far as declaring a farm. There are obviously legal & political reasons for all of the rules & regulations that have been established. I am working with my reality right now which is…I set that $2,000 goal my first year and it served me well. My goals just grew from there.

Navigating the Growing & Selling Season Without a Greenhouse

So without a greenhouse here in PA and the majority of my work time dedicated to my teaching job (until school’s out for summer!), I don’t have a money-making season start until end of May at the EARLIEST! And this season, any cool weather annuals that I planted out have been unhappy because it has been unseasonably warm (so far). This does mean that I planted summer annual seeds much earlier and will have (hopefully) and earlier first harvest of sunflowers, marigolds & zinnias. Farming is not for the faint of heart. You have to roll with the punches and gifts of Mother Nature.

This is basically what it looks like for me as a small-scale flower farmer:

Early Spring: Begin seed starting indoors using grow lights or sunny windowsills.

Spring to Frost: Engage in planting, harvesting, and selling. This period requires dedication, often balancing early morning harvests with evening bouquet preparations.

Winter: Focus on planning, reflecting, and preparing for the next season. It’s an ideal time for ordering seeds, organizing tools, and strategizing marketing efforts.

Balancing farming with a teaching job means maximizing weekends, holidays, and any available free time. It’s a challenging yet rewarding endeavor that keeps you constantly engaged. There is so much beauty in the chaos. Morning coffee goes well with weeding and photographing flower progress (and sometimes some harvesting), sunrise sun exposure is good for your body & mind and digging in dirt also has mental health benefits (look it up!). I do have dirt-stained hands (and feet) which is a fantastic way to impress middle school students…or maybe it can just start some awkward conversations.

Why Embark on This Journey?

Flower farming offers more than just blooms; it provides mental clarity, a sense of purpose, and an avenue for continuous learning. It’s a testament to resilience, creativity, and the joy of nurturing life from the soil up. Making something out of dirt is thrilling. My mind is always rifling through a million thoughts (not always sunshine & lollipops). Planting seeds, pulling weeds and the repetitive practice of transplanting seedlings is like pushing the mute button on my mind and the pause button on the hustle & bustle of our current culture.

Plus, it’s a delightful excuse for a perpetually messy house. Because some of us would die to be able to keep things tidy. It just doesn’t work. Sorry. Kinda sorry. Kinda not.

Final Thoughts: Cultivating Beauty Amidst the Chaos

You don’t need elaborate structures or lots of money to start a flower farm. With determination, creativity, and a love for flowers, you can cultivate beauty, embrace the chaos, and find fulfillment in every petal. Prioritize your goals. Do you want to make a certain amount of money? Do you want a roadside stand? Do you want to do farmer’s markets (this has crossed my mind, but terrifies me!)? Do you want to sell to florists? (Also in the think about it, but in like a suspenseful, horror flick kind of way. Someone push me through the door!)

I won’t judge. I just want you to have excitement, joy and passion on your side. That side dish of stubborn will come in handy too. Just start. Go for it. There really is not much stopping you (other than you).

“How to become a flower farmer in PA:

1) Plant enough sunflowers to embarrass the neighbors. 2) Swap sleep for sunrise watering. bonus: you’ll look exactly as tired and ancient as these blooms are bright.”

Spring Fever and Forecast Fails: Flower Farming in Pennsylvania

The Great Dry Spell of Last Spring

Muddy rain is fine by these year 2 foxgloves

Let’s rewind to last year, when spring in Pennsylvania decided rain was just not a thing. The ground was rock hard, dry and cracked, every hose had a permanent kink in it, and my backpack water sprayer & watering can was basically an extension of my arm. I watered constantly, chasing wilting seedlings around the farm like a well-meaning but overwhelmed lifeguard at a very thirsty pool party. I had installed a rain barrel, bought 2 additional barrels for around the property and…never pulled water from the first one, let alone installed the other two. It was dusty, it was dry, and by May, I was doing small rain dances in the driveway. By July, I had already melted.

2025: The Year of the Sog

Fast forward to this week, and it feels like the sky is making up for lost time. The beds are muddy, the rows are soggy, and if I leave a tray of seedlings out too long, they start to float. I’ve learned to watch the forecast like a hawk. I already have trust issues, so I read forcasts knowing full well that a “20% chance of showers” this Spring means I should probably wear waders.

This Spring so far, the weather is in charge. First it was warmer than expected, the frosty nights subsided and I was jumping on early warm weather annual planting. Now, this week, I’m just out here trying to keep my boots from getting stuck and pretending this is all part of the plan.

Seedlings, Schedules, and Slight Panic

Now add in the fact that my flower farming hours live almost entirely after school. Not all of them, of course—because for some reason, dinner is still a thing. As is laundry. And sleep. I squeeze my planting and seed-starting into a few precious evening hours, often in that magic moment when the sun comes out just long enough to fool me into thinking I can get everything in the ground at once and still have time to cut a bucket full of asparagus.

I rush. I panic. I want so badly to make it beautiful, to do it right, and to have all the flowers. Even in the frenzy, I cannot escape the fun and joy of flowers. Pulling weeds in wet soil is honestly more satisfying than it should be. I can slow down and notice the marigolds growing despite the wet and also sunflowers popping up in rows next to their (hopefully) protector marigolds. Because I love it. I really, truly love it. But wow, do I sometimes look like a frantic raccoon with a dandelion removal tool.

Celosia: Gone Too Soon

This spring, my impatience has already claimed an early casualty: a full tray of celosia. I adore celosia—the soft, velvety texture, the nostalgic glow from my childhood farm. But I pushed them too soon. The sun peeked out, I got overconfident, and I plunked those little too little seedlings straight into cold, saturated beds. I need to let the next round form more leaves than the last ones had. Lesson learned (until I get impatient again and probably do it again).

They did not appreciate my enthusiasm. Within days, their bright pink stems collapsed like overdramatic toddlers. I mourned them briefly and then blamed the weather, even though we both know what really happened. Mistakes were made. Oopsies.

Strawflower Sadness

Not to be outdone in the prospective mistake category, the strawflowers have spent the last two weeks looking deeply disappointed in me. They’re alive, technically, but mostly flopped over like they’re wondering why they ever agreed to this arrangement. I keep whispering encouraging things to them in the evenings, which probably confuses the people on the Perkiomen Trail. I am in a perpetual game of “If I can’t hear you, you can’t hear me….” The music is loud in the airpods and I expect yours to be too.

Are they just cold? Are they overwatered? Or are they just mad that I keep showing up with optimism and not a heat lamp? Hard to say. Strawflowers are proving to be tricky like that. It’s our first year with me as captain of the field so we’re still getting to know each other. It’s been a rocky start.

The Joy in the Chaos

Still, for all the wet socks, the muddy pile of various shoes, boots & crocs and lost trays, there’s a quiet joy woven into the madness. Some seedlings are thriving. Snapdragons are standing proud. The gladiolas looks positively smug. Every little sprout feels like a tiny fist-pump from the soil itself.

And even when it’s rushed, even when it’s muddy, there’s nothing like that feeling of seeing the season come to life. I may only get an hour here or there between school and oven pizza dinner, but those hours are full of hope. Every bit of growth feels like a quiet, determined yes.

Looking Ahead to the Roadstand

Soon, the roadstand will open again—buckets full of flowers, sun on our shoulders (hopefully), and bouquets ready to brighten someone’s table. Right now, it’s all planning, dreaming and puddles, but I know what’s coming. I can almost smell it in the damp air.

Until then, I’ll keep farming in the in-between: after school, before dinner, in boots that are definitely still wet. Because this is what I love—even when spring has no idea what it’s doing.

And who knows—maybe the strawflowers will come around.

Summer Blooms and Self-Serve Joy on Route 29

Opening Soon—with Sunflowers in Tow!
Here I am with the season’s first bucket of sunflowers, standing in front of our soon-to-bloom roadstand in Schwenksville, PA. Can’t wait to share the flowers (and the joy) with you all!

Summer’s Here (Almost), and So Are the Flowers

It’s that magical time of year again—the season when the stand on Route 29 shakes off the last of its sleepy winter dirt and needs a rinsing of early Spring pollen and bursts into full bloom. I’m thrilled (and a little overwhelmed) to announce that our summer flowers are officially making their grand entrance at the stand on PA Route 29 (also known as Gravel Pike). We’ve leveled up a bit this year—more flowers, more variety, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

What’s in Bloom and Ready to Go Home With You

This summer, I’ve got a downright joyful mix of flowers spilling into vases and wrapped bouquets. The fan favorites are back—sunflowers and zinnias, showing off like they own the place. Stock and snapdragons are strutting their stuff with their signature scent and color. Strawflowers are ready to live forever (or at least until next season’s clutter claims the shelf you put them on). I momentarily forgot about cosmos and MARIGOLDS. I may be in denial about how many additions and upgrades have happened this season.

You’ll also find cone flowers and Goldilocks rudbeckia soaking up the sun, sweet peas doing their dainty best, and the delicate duo of larkspur and foxglove adding a romantic, old-fashioned flair to the mix. It’s a glow-up from last summer, and I may be nervous, but I’m not mad about it.

How It Works at the Stand

We’re located at 956 Gravel Pike in Schwenksville, just a bit South of where Route 73 and Route 29 merge—hence the name, Flowers on 29. It’s a self-serve stand, which means you can swing by, grab a bouquet, and be on your merry, flower-scented way. I put bouquets out by 9 a.m. (or earlier if I’m feeling ambitious and the coffee kicks in), and they’re available until dark or until we sell out.

Most days, it’s just you, the flowers, and a pay box—but I’m usually around nearby if you need anything or just want to talk blooms, weather, or why the snapdragons are being dramatic again.

Stay in the Loop

For updates, photos, or to confirm whether the flowers survived the latest thunderstorm, check out our website at www.flowerson29.com or follow me on Instagram at @msecurtis. I’ll be posting regularly—especially once school is out on June 6 and I shift into full flower farmer mode.

See You at the Stand

A Bucket Full of Sunshine
A generous bundle of cheerful sunflowers, freshly harvested and gathered in a galvanized bucket, ready to brighten someone’s day. Bold, golden petals and sturdy green stems—summer in a snapshot.

Thanks for supporting this little roadside dream of mine. The stand is open, the flowers are blooming, and I truly can’t wait for you to come see what we’ve grown. Whether you’re stopping for a quick pick-me-up or gathering an armful of color for your kitchen table, there’s something waiting for you on 29.

Petals with Purpose: How Flower Farming Blooms Beyond the Field

Hello from the farm—where the weeds are ambitious, the coffee’s cold and likely left behind somewhere in the field, and the flowers are (mostly) thriving.

I’m Erin, a one-woman show currently juggling flower farming, full-time teaching, motherhood, and the occasional asparagus-induced existential crisis. While it might be just me planting snapdragons by headlamp or picking up rogue stock seedlings I’ve dropped on the porch, I’m far from alone in this endeavor. Flower farming in Pennsylvania is part of a vibrant, growing movement that stretches from scrappy roadside stands (hello, that’s me) to polished event florists and large-scale growers.

This post is a love letter—to the dirt under my fingernails, to the bees bumbling through the perennials, and to the deeply rooted impact that flower farming has on our environment, economy, and community. And yes, a bit of a side-eye at the political potholes threatening to trip us up.

The Environmental Power of Petals

Let’s start in the soil. Growing flowers is not just about pretty petals—it’s about healing the land. I’ve seen firsthand how a plot that once hosted only morning glories, dandelion, thistle and regret can become a haven for pollinators, a sponge for rainwater, and a buffet for beneficial bugs.

Pollinators—those unglamorous but absolutely vital heroes—are reported to be struggling nationwide, and flower farms provide the smorgasbord of nectar they need to survive. Every zinnia, cosmos, and daffodil contributes to an ecosystem that’s under stress from the development of houses & buildings, lawn and landscaping cultural practices and expectations, and the overuse of pesticides.

And don’t even get me started on soil. With careful planting and cover cropping (I’m still learning and growing and trying new things) , we’re improving soil health, reducing erosion, and giving back more than we take.

This isn’t just beauty for beauty’s sake (and much of it is way sub-par in the beauty department). It’s boots-in-the-dirt sustainability.

The Economic Roots Run Deep

It’s easy to think of flower farming as a boutique side hustle. But the numbers (and my aching back) say otherwise.

Pennsylvania agriculture is a serious economic engine, and cut flowers are a growing part of it. Whether it’s me selling bouquets out of a cooler on the roadside, or larger growers supplying florists, wholesalers, and wedding designers, we’re all part of a chain that creates jobs, supports small businesses, and keeps money circulating locally.

The Philadelphia Flower Show alone brings in millions every year. Those fancy displays? It is amazing to know that they start in fields like mine. Every bouquet sold is an investment—not just in beauty, but in someone’s mortgage payment, tractor repair bill, or next flat of plugs (baby plants).

And I’m not the only one doing this with heart and hustle. Across the state, there’s a surge of young farmers, women farmers and new farmers. Our tools might be different—sometimes spreadsheets and seed trays—but our mission is the same: local, seasonal, sustainable beauty for our communities.

Community: Where the Magic Happens

There’s something radically hopeful about handing someone a bouquet of flowers. I am a big fan of the power of hope and the importance of sharing hope with everyone possible. Whether it’s a neighbor who stops by the stand, a prom date clutching a homegrown bouquet, or a kid learning what a snapdragon does when you squeeze it (you can make it talk like a dragon puppet!), flowers forge connection.

In a world that feels increasingly disconnected, local flower farms create space for joy, wonder, and yes—healing. They turn vacant lots into community gardens. They bring people together for u-picks and workshops. They teach kids where things come from in nature. And for many of us—myself included—they are a lifeline.

Growing and giving flowers helped me grieve, rebuild, and bloom again after loss. That’s not just poetic fluff; it’s the truth rooted in every bed I plant.

The Not-So-Flowery Politics of It All

Now, I’d love to tell you this is all sunshine and seed trays—but that would be dishonest.

Our current political climate has real consequences for flower farmers. Recent rollbacks in climate-conscious agriculture funding have hit small growers hard. Grants that once helped us implement no-till practices or invest in pollinator-friendly infrastructure have been slashed or frozen. Recently I saw flower farmers’ hearts break in real time as they came to the realization that the grants they had secured for their farms would not be awarded.

And then there’s labor. Many flower farms rely on seasonal workers, and immigration policy changes have made it harder (and scarier) for them to do their jobs. It’s a system ripe for reform, but instead, often met with red tape and rhetoric.

Meanwhile, trade policy affects everything from seed costs to pricing for imported flowers. Big-box stores can undercut local farmers with cheap blooms flown in from overseas—flowers that may have been sprayed, shipped, and shoved through supply chains that don’t always prioritize people or planet.

Buying local isn’t just a lifestyle choice—it’s a political statement. It says we care about the hands that grow what we buy.

Final Thoughts from the Field

I might be out here solo—watering with one hand and lesson planning with the other—but I’m part of something much bigger.

Flower farming in Pennsylvania is more than just rows of pretty petals. It’s an ecosystem. It’s an economic ripple effect. It’s a quiet act of resistance against a disconnected, disposable culture. And it’s a way to bring healing and hope, one bouquet at a time.

So whether you’re buying a bouquet, planting a few pollinator flowers, or advocating for policies that protect local agriculture—you’re part of this bloom too.

And if you ever find yourself on a winding back road in Pennsylvania and see a hand-painted flower stand—stop. I probably just restocked the dahlias. You won’t regret it.

Dahlia Drama: Love, Logistics, and Luring Customers from the Road

The First Dahlia dig : How Fifteen Tubers Became a Situation

I started planting this year’s dahlia tubers with what I never thought was a manageable plan because those words are not part of my life. I did know I had limited time to get some tubers in the ground before I was due online with my 8th grade class in Los Angeles. Just one box or bag of tubers at a time to begin with—nothing too outrageous. A few rows of rototilling later in the area that was home to a few failed, very late plantings of pumpkins last year would be more than enough space for this year’s dahlias, right?! As the sun dipped lower and 2 rows of tubers were already in, home to just 1 box & 3 small bags of dahlias, I had a familiar realization: I may have gone overboard. Again.

Late season pretty coral dahlia 2024

A Deep and Possibly Unhealthy Love for Dahlias

I love dahlias. I love the way they show up to the party when everyone else in the garden has packed up and gone home. They work my patience all summer and hold back the blooms until late in the season, pairing well with zinnia harvesting. I love that they bloom in impossible colors and look like they’re wearing ruffles on purpose. I love that they’re soft and bold at the same time, like a velvet punch in the face. And this year, I’ve apparently gone all-in.

Last Year’s Hidden Beauties, This Year’s Roadside Stars

Last season, I kept the dahlias tucked away in a private, out-of-sight area of the field. I could hide them if they flopped & I could hide myself from the world while I dug & watered & weeded. They were for me—my secret indulgence (and private possible failure). Sure, I cut a few and sold some here and there, but mostly they were hidden, growing in peace without much public attention. This year, things are different. This year, I’ve decided to plant them where the entire traffic flow going south on 29 can see them—right along the roadside. If these dahlias are going to bloom like showgirls, they may as well have an audience.

The Slight Panic Behind the Bloom Parade

Of course, this decision is not entirely artistic. There’s a practical, slightly panicked reason behind the roadside reveal. I’ve realized that I have expanded my dahlia operation. Dramatically. The tubers have multiplied. The space they need has ballooned. And while I still love them just as fiercely, I’m now faced with a very real possibility: I may have planted more than my current customer base can support. I know there are corners of social media that have an obsessive love with dahlias. I am not sure that this obsession has been passed along to the residents of Southeast Pennsylvania quite yet. I have work to do on the advertising front. Note to self: make signs for dahlias. Luckily I have a little time before they bloom.

Betting on Beauty: The Roadside Strategy

That’s the thing with dahlias. You get hooked. You start with a few and the next thing you know, you’re considering naming them, assigning them personalities, and making room in the barn for winter storage like you’re hosting floral Airbnb guests. They’re irresistible. But they’re also a lot of work—and a gamble, especially for small flower farmers who need their crops to pay their way.

So this year, I’m testing a new theory: if you plant it, they will come. By putting my most dramatic blooms in the most visible location, I’m hoping to turn casual road traffic into flower sales. Maybe someone driving by will see a wall of coral and crimson petals and decide they can’t go another mile without a bouquet. Maybe a dahlia-lover will slam on the brakes, yank their car onto the shoulder, and sprint into my field in search of Café au Lait (spoiler alert: none of those. They don’t last long after cuts). Or maybe people will just slow down, admire the blooms, and come back another day with a little more curiosity and a little less carpool chaos.

Either way, I’m rolling the dice in color.

It’s a Gamble—But a Gorgeous One

There’s a very specific joy in planting something beautiful where people can see it. It’s part business strategy, yes, but also part invitation. Flowers are good for the soul, even if you’re only catching them in your peripheral vision between errands. If these dahlias lure someone into buying a bouquet or simply make someone’s morning commute a bit more bearable, I’ll consider it a win. The reward is well received when someone comments that they love seeing our flowers. I even had a bike rider stop & ask about sunflowers yesterday. I’m a sucker for a gold star and appreciative of the notes from strangers that I am doing hard work and they see me! (granted, I may be hard to miss whilst wandering around open fields and running mowers, tractors and rototillers.)

Come for the Flowers, Stay for the Chaos

Still, I’ll be the first to admit this is a bit of a leap. I’m betting on beauty to attract business, which isn’t exactly a foolproof marketing strategy. But I’ve got hope—and honestly, I’ve got too many tubers to pretend I don’t need a few extra customers.

So as the season unfolds, I’ll be watching. Will the road bring people to the flowers? Will the flowers bring joy to the road? Will I ever stop planting things that require staking, labeling, and emotional commitment? Probably not. But that’s the life I chose. Or the life that chose me.

If you’re local and reading this, consider this your official invitation: drive by, wave at the dahlias, and stop in if you want to take one home. They’ve been waiting for this moment, and frankly, so have I.

One of my very first dahlias in 2024

Celosia: The Fiery Flower with a Fascinating Past and a Surprisingly Profitable Future

If you grew up around flowers in the 1980s—especially on a farm—you probably remember Celosia. You might not have known her name back then, but you definitely saw her. Bright, bold, and looking like she was headed to a glam rock concert, she had that kind of presence. Celosia was the showstopper in the garden. I adored it then and, as it turns out, I still do.

This week, I finally transplanted my first tray of Celosia seedlings. It’s been a long time coming. Last year, I couldn’t get even one seed to cooperate—nothing sprouted except my frustration. This year? Oh, they all germinated. Every last one. And now I have ten more trays waiting for attention and only one set of hands to give it. To add some extra suspense, none of the seedlings are labeled. So whatever shows up this summer will be a complete surprise. Plume? Cockscomb? Something new? I guess we’re all going to find out together.

Celosia is a flower that demands attention, but she’s also got a pretty rich backstory—steeped in symbolism, survival, and yes, some profit potential too. Let’s dig into what makes this old favorite such a fascinating, sometimes frustrating, always fabulous garden guest.

The History of Celosia: Drama Is in Her Roots

The name Celosia comes from the Greek kelos, meaning “burned,” which perfectly describes this flame-colored and fiery flower. But this plant’s drama goes deeper than appearances. After a short time spent researching because my curiosity tends to get the best of me and my attention span is less than extensive, I found that celosia holds its place in history in Africa, Asia, and South America—not just as a pretty pretty garden princess, but as a practical plant too. In many cultures, the leaves are eaten like spinach. It’s not just pretty—it’s edible, which makes it that rare crossover between beauty and utility. I don’t see myself making a salad any time soon, but I can’t deny that I will give those leaves a try when they’re grown & ready.

Back in the day, celosia symbolized immortality and boldness. And to be fair, she earns it. I've heard that when when you think you’ve cleared her out of the garden, she’ll often reseed herself and pop back up the next year like she never left. I have yet to experience the great re-seeding promised by other varieties of flowers. I don’t do the whole cleaning up of the plants in the Spring anyway and I still haven’t found reseeding to be a thing done by my flowers. but I am always ready for a nice surprise. (That may be a lie. I am not a huge fan of surprises.)

Why People Love It (And Why I Always Will)

Celosia blooms are something to be seen and, if you’re like me, to be touched too. (Don’t be weird.) I like soft things. Always have. (Like soft clothes. Hard clothes should be illegal.) And the velvety, plush texture of Celosia is about as satisfying as a flower gets. Add in colors that look like they were ripped out of a lava lamp—hot reds, deep oranges, shocking pinks—and you’ve got a plant that refuses to blend into the background. I’ve started transplanting them close to the Perkiomen Trail so they get the attention they deserve!

She’s also tough. Once established, Celosia can take the heat, thrive in soil that would make pickier plants sulk, and bloom for weeks without much fuss. She’s just out there, doing her thing—looking fabulous with zero apologies. I get some moderately severe anxiety from watering plants (it feels wasteful) so I love a drought tolerant variety. After last year’s complete lack of rain here in PA…this is also a nice perk.

Not Everyone’s a Fan, But That’s Fine

Of course, not every gardener is smitten. Some folks think she’s a bit much—too frilly, too loud, too showy. One person’s eye candy is another person’s garden diva. If she returns and reseeds like it sounds like she can…I may be excited now and have regret later. I’m kind of ok with it thought. Because I cause enough of my own drama, it’s nice to see something else stir up some trouble once and again.

She’s Not Just a Pretty Face

There are several types of Celosia, and each one has a different personality. Some are fluffy and feathery, others look like velvet coral, and some have a more understated, spiky elegance. But whatever the shape, they all share the same traits: resilience, boldness, and the ability to stop people in their tracks. I think I have started all of the varieties and the majority of colors. I did not keep track. We’ll just have to see which survive.

And yes—if you’re wondering—she still holds up as a cut flower and dries beautifully. Once you’ve grown her, it’s hard to settle for anything else. I’ve been thinking about the cockscomb variety of these since the mid 80’s. They’re so cool.

Can You Make Money with Celosia?

Actually, yes. My research tells me that Celosia is a favorite among florists because it holds up so well, both fresh and dried. It adds texture and drama to bouquets, which makes it easy to market if you’re growing flowers for profit. Which I totally am, but I have not been brave enough to approach florists yet to attempt to provide them stems for bouquets. I have overdone things this year and I will have to get over myself, have the boys cut stems and make myself be brave and risk a big, fat no in hopes of some extra money! And because it grows so easily from seed and historically produces prolifically, it has proven to be a good return on investment for small-scale growers.

Celosia can absolutely earn her keep. She’s flashy, she’s reliable, and she doesn’t require high-end soil or a degree in horticulture. I don’t think I have either, but boy am I stubborn! So this could be a good partnership.

So, Is It Worth Growing?

If you’re into color, texture, drama, and surprise (hello, unlabeled seedlings), Celosia is your plant. She might not be for the minimalist gardener who wants pale grasses and subtle whites, but if your heart beats faster for a flower that makes a statement, you’re in the right company. I think aesthetically pleasing instagrams & spaces are pretty, but I cannot pull them off.

I’ve got ten trays of mystery waiting to go in the ground, and despite the chaos, I couldn’t be more excited. Whether they survive, thrive, or put on a surprise show of colors I didn’t even know I ordered—Celosia will bring a little magic to the garden. And honestly, what more could I want?

How to Keep Your Garden (and Your Conscience) Green:

Easy Ways to Be an Eco-Friendly Gardener and Flower Farmer

If you’re like me — a.k.a. someone who talks to her plants, saves rainwater like it’s liquid gold, and occasionally feels personally offended when someone uses weed killer — then you’re probably at least trying to be a little greener in your gardening life. Even if you’re not ready to live off the grid and churn your own butter (same), there are easy ways to grow beautiful flowers while being kind to the planet. Spoiler: You don’t even have to give up paper towels. You just have to use the leftover cardboard tubes like a wizard.

Let’s dive into the simple, weird, wonderful ways you can garden greener — even though I have no business telling you what to do.

Reuse and Repurpose: Give Old Vases (and Other Stuff) New Life

This weekend, I was a lucky lady & picked up a huge donation of old vases — the kind you shove under your sink and forget about until you knock ten of them over trying to find a sponge.

Instead of letting these poor vases die a dusty death or end up in a landfill, they’re getting a second life holding fresh flowers at my farm stand.

Many thanks to Claire and the residents of Blue Bell Country Club for participating in their community day clean-up.

Pro tip:

If you’ve got friends, family, neighbors, or random acquaintances who feel guilty about their vase hoarding tendencies, let them know you’ll happily take them off their hands. It’s good for the planet, good for the cluttered cabinet situation (theirs, not mine!), and good for my slightly questionable obsession with mismatched glassware.

You can also reuse seed trays, nursery pots, and basically anything that will hold dirt without immediately dissolving. Rustic? Yes. Pinterest-perfect? Not even close. I’m not made for aesthetics.

Good for the Earth? Absolutely.

Pesticides Are Out, Good Bugs Are In

I know it’s tempting to blast every aphid into oblivion at the first sign of trouble, but hear me out: good bugs exist.

Ladybugs, lacewings, praying mantises — they’re nature’s pest control squad, and they work for free.

By skipping chemical pesticides and planting flowers that attract these helpful little creatures, you’re basically setting up a bug-sized Avengers team in your garden.

Plus, it’s way more satisfying to watch a ladybug army move in and handle business than it is to spray chemicals and hope for the best.

Also: less spraying = more time for important tasks like googling “how do you harvest celosia?” at 11 PM.

Grow for the Pollinators: It’s Not Just About You

Listen, I love a perfectly symmetrical bouquet as much as the next over-caffeinated flower farmer.

But growing flowers isn’t just about human eyeballs — it’s about helping the bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds survive, too.

Planting native flowers, mixing in wildflowers, and letting your garden be a little wild around the edges can make a huge difference. I have a perennial and wildflower bank this year and I am far too proud of it.

Pollinators are essential for food crops, wild ecosystems, and, frankly, my mental health when I see a monarch butterfly doing its thing in the zinnias. I also answer the phone, answering “what are you up to?” with “aw, nothing. Just chasing butterflies around the yard”. (No lie.)

So go ahead and let that milkweed grow, even if it looks a little scrappy. You’re basically saving the planet. You’re welcome, Earth.

Seed Starting with Trash: The Glory of Toilet Paper Rolls

There’s nothing quite like that moment when you realize your trash is actually treasure.

Case in point: paper towel and toilet paper rolls make amazing biodegradable seed-starting pots.

Here’s how you do it (no Pinterest account required):

• Save up your rolls (yes, you’ll look mildly unhinged with a giant bag of cardboard tubes in your kitchen. Embrace it.)

• Cut them in half (for toilet paper rolls) or into thirds (for paper towel rolls).

• Fold the bottom slightly to make a little “floor” if you’re feeling fancy. (This is all for you as we know I am not doing this step.)

• Fill with soil, plop your seeds in, and watch the magic happen.

When it’s time to plant them outside, you just plant the whole thing — roll and all — and it breaks down naturally in the soil.

It’s easy, cheap, better for the planet, and gives you yet another reason to feel smug when you walk past the $5 plastic pots at the garden center.

Water Wisely: Save the World (or at Least Your Water Bill)

Water is precious — especially if you live somewhere that gets approximately three drops of rain all summer (hi, it’s me in the summer of 2024).

You don’t have to go full rain-dancer to be smart about it.

Easy wins:

• Water early in the morning or late in the evening so less evaporates. (I’m heading out

• Use soaker hoses or drip irrigation to send the water straight to the roots.

• Plant some drought-tolerant flowers that won’t die dramatically the first time you forget to water.

Bonus points if you set up a rain barrel and channel your inner “off-grid homesteader” without actually giving up running water or Target runs.

Small Steps, Big Impact

Look, none of us are perfect. I still buy more seeds than is remotely reasonable, and sometimes I kill plants that were specifically labeled “hardy and unkillable.”

But every little choice we make — whether it’s reusing an old vase, skipping pesticides, or saving cardboard tubes like a goblin — adds up.

You don’t have to be a full-time crunchy granola earth goddess to make a real difference.

You just have to care a little, try a little, and not be afraid of looking a little weird while you do it.

(Spoiler: weird is the new cool. At least at my flower stand.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go rescue some cardboard tubes from the recycling bin before someone throws away my future seedling empire.

Too Soon? Maybe. Too Warm to Wait? Absolutely.

Preparing to Plant Zinnias, Cosmos, and Sunflowers Before Mother’s Day Like the Rebel I Am

There’s this old wives’ tale floating around the flower world—or maybe it’s just something every Pennsylvanian grandmother says—that you’re not supposed to plant warm-weather crops until Mother’s Day. Like there’s a mystical maternal force field that activates on the second Sunday in May and makes it safe for tomatoes, marigolds, and zinnias to finally spread their little seedling wings. It’s Mother Nature. I get it. I also may be a tad rebellious.

So, here we are, late April, and it’s been in the 80s all week. The asparagus is trying to bolt, the weeds are entering beast mode, and I’m standing on the edge of a not exactly tiny flower field with an overabundance of seeds and the dawning realization that the season is here. Not someday. Not soon. Now. Tomorrow begins the first succession of warm-weather planting, and spoiler alert: it’s going to take approximately forever. (I’m 4 days in from starting marigold seeds…no progress yet.)

The Holy Trinity of Easy Seeds

If you’re going to dive into a months-long planting marathon, you start with the flowers that offer you a little mercy. Zinnias, cosmos, and sunflowers are the workhorses of the summer cutting garden—reliable, fast-growing, and absurdly easy to direct sow. You just poke a little hole in the soil, (or not and just toss seeds around) drop the seed in, cover it up, water, and trust the process.

Zinnias are the flower equivalent of party confetti—bright, unrelenting & impossible to ignore. Cosmos are gentle and wild, with the breezy charm of something that looks delicate but can survive basically anything. And sunflowers are the drama queens, destined to grow taller than me (well…that’s less than impressive) and command the attention of every bee, butterfly and person walking on the Perkiomen Trail.

The Field is Big and My Delusion is Bigger

Here’s the thing: my planting area is not small. It’s not even medium. It’s big enough for my solo self that when I walk from one end to the other, I briefly forget what year it is. So while I keep telling myself I’m “just going to plant a few beds,” what I’m actually signing up for is hours—days—let’s be honest, months—of crouching in rows, tossing seeds, dragging hoses, and having heartfelt one-sided conversations with robins, ladybugs and worms.

I will begin tomorrow. And then I will continue. And then I will keep going. I am officially entering the phase of the season where every day, all day, for the foreseeable future, will be seed-sowing, weeding, watering, and wondering why I didn’t pace myself better. It’s fine. I’m fine.

The Promise of What’s Coming

What keeps me going (besides caffeine and deeply rooted stubbornness) is the promise of what these little seeds will become. They’ll sprout within a week or so, bloom in 60 to 80 days, and then keep going until frost. They’ll fill my roadside stand, my shed, my kitchen, my arms, and hopefully the arms of every friend and stranger who stops by for a bouquet.

They’ll draw pollinators, spread joy, and remind me daily that magic comes from small beginnings buried in dirt.

In Conclusion: I’m Tired Just Thinking About It

I’m excited. I really am. There’s nothing like the fresh start of a new planting season. But also? I’m preemptively exhausted. My back already hurts and I haven’t even broken out the hoe (Hoe puns are worth everything.) I need a meal I don’t have to cook, a beverage I didn’t pour myself, and maybe a long hug followed by a nap in the sun.

But this is the beginning. The start of the season. The beginning of the work that makes all the beauty happen. So tomorrow, I’ll get out there, sink my hands into the soil, and begin again.

And then I’ll do it again. And again. And again. Every day. All day. All day. All day. Until August and school is back in session. Or the apocalypse. Whichever comes first.

Asparagus Season: 30 Years of Spears, Sweat, and Spiritual Growth

Welcome to asparagus season — or, as I like to call it, the reason my hips hurt from April to July. For over 30 years, asparagus has been growing strong here on the farm, pushing up through the earth every spring like it owns the place. And every year, I pick it. Every. Single. Day. Until I can’t stand the sight of it. And then I pick it some more.

Because that’s what farmers do. We suffer. We sweat. We snack. And sometimes we cry while carrying a colander full of freshly snapped spears and muttering, “I should’ve just lived in an apartment.”

The Good: Nature’s Overachiever

There’s a reason asparagus keeps its VIP status around here. First of all, it’s a perennial. That means you plant it once, and it keeps showing up year after year. I may not have the best track record in the commitment or attention realms, but there’s nothing I can do or not do to keep the asparagus from surviving. So far.

When it’s freshly picked, it tastes like spring itself — crisp, earthy, and just like a fresh green bean. It’s a farmer’s dream crop and a health nut’s best friend, packed with all sorts of nutrients and fiber. It feels righteous to eat. Not kale righteous, though. The enjoyable kind. And even better? People love it. I’ve had customers stop at the stand just for a few bunches, their faces lighting up. It’s truly their favorite veg. I personally thought it was terrible until I was almost 20.

The Bad: Asparagus Picking After 40 (A Survival Memoir)

Let’s get real. Picking asparagus every day sounds all cute & “fun fact about me” until you hit a certain age and your body starts holding subtle — and not-so-subtle — protest signs.

There’s the deep, squatting kind of movement that makes your knees sound like they’re auditioning for a horror movie. There’s a thing I like to call “Stabagus Elbow,” which is what happens when you spend hours snapping stalks and then wonder why your arm feels like you arm-wrestled a bear. There’s also “Farmer’s Squat Lock,” when you bend down to pick and your body simply refuses to participate in the standing-back-up part of the transaction. This year, let’s add the lock part of that happening while I am SLEEPING?! Oh my. Was I dreaming about picking asparagus?!

Add in thumb boo-boos, shoulder tension from flinging overgrown stalks into the compost like they personally offended you, and the bugs — always the bugs — and suddenly this spring ritual starts to feel less like a quaint pastime and more like an oddly agricultural yoga class. But with more mosquitoes. Always behind the knees and on the ankle bones.

The Ugly: Smell Ya Later

You knew it was coming. Let’s talk about the very real, very strange side effect of asparagus — the smell. Yes, that smell. If you know, you know. And if you don’t, consider yourself either blessed or biologically unique. Asparagus makes everyone’s pee smell. Your genes determine whether you smell it or not.

There’s also the burnout. At first, you’re excited. You’re cooking it, roasting it, adding it to pasta and eggs (my favorite meal!) and grilling it in foil packets like a joyful spring chef. But by week two, you’re hurling bunches into bags and telling your kids, “Dinner’s green. Don’t ask what it is.” You dream about asparagus. (This is a new and upsetting addition.) You grumble about asparagus. You start to resent people who ask for more of it. Then you remember — you pay the taxes on these lands. This is your doing. And back to the field you go.

The Beautifully Unhinged Truth

And yet… I love it. I really do.

I love the rhythm of it — walking those rows in the early evening when the sun is getting low and the birds are louder than your thoughts. I love the surprise of seeing new spears pop up overnight (and sometimes just when I turn my back) a tiny miracle with green hats. I love knowing that these plants, most of them older than my children, just keep coming back. Year after year. Like hope. Or laundry.

This little patch has been here for over three decades. And with every stalk I pick, I feel connected — to the land, to my family, to the past and the future. It’s backbreaking and hilarious and holy in its own weird way. And it teaches me things. Discipline. Patience. How to stay present even when you’re sweaty, bug-bitten, and slightly annoyed at the angle of the sun.

Final Thoughts from the Asparagus Trenches

So here I am again, deep in asparagus season. Picking every day until my back hurts, my thumbs sting, and my brain is composing asparagus-themed country songs just to pass the time.

And I’ll keep doing it. Because there’s something sacred about these silly green stalks. Something beautiful in the routine. Something satisfying about growing something that pushes through the dirt without needing to be convinced.

If you swing by the stand this spring and grab a bunch, just know: it was picked by someone tired, grateful, likely over-caffeinated, hungry and definitely wondering how on earth she’s still doing this.

But she wouldn’t trade it. Not for all the hours of sleep in the world.

So You Think You Know Sunflowers: Tales from a Decade of Growing the OG Flower Child

The Accidental Flower Farmer

Once upon a time, we planted sunflowers simply because they were pretty. That’s it. No business plan, no side hustle in mind, just a deep, instinctive need to see big, happy faces bobbing across the fields in the sun. Legend says my Uncle Will Weirman liked sunflowers and always planted a few each summer. (I do not remember this.) For over a decade, these towering summer icons were our farm’s version of wallpaper—beautiful, cheerful, and not really paying rent.

But then last year, we started selling bouquets regularly, and suddenly our sunflowers stopped being background extras and started stealing the show. Turns out, people don’t just like sunflowers—they lose their minds over them. They practically throw cash at you when they see one in a bouquet, like it’s the last good thing left in the world. But for all their charm and cheer, sunflowers have a prickly side—literally. So if you’re ready for some real talk from a flower farmer with dirt under her nails and scratch marks on her arms, let’s get into it.

Why We Grew Them (Before We Knew Better)

When we first started growing them, it had nothing to do with making money. We just wanted something that looked like summer exploded in the field. Nothing says “real farm” quite like a lineup of sunflowers swaying in the breeze, silently judging your weeding technique. And for years, that’s all they did—stand tall, look gorgeous, and attract birds, bees, and the occasional confused tourist. It never occurred to us to sell them. They were too much fun just to look at.

But eventually, the bouquets came calling, and with them came the realization that sunflowers are more than just pretty faces—they're absolute workhorses. They grow fast, bloom big, and sell faster than anything else on the stand. People love sunflowers in a way that borders on irrational. You can hand someone a bouquet of the fanciest, most exotic blooms you’ve ever grown, and if there’s a single sunflower in there? That’s all they see. “OH MY GOSH A SUNFLOWER!” Yes, friend. Thank you. I grew that. And the rest of the bouquet too.

Sunflower Secrets and Shady Truths

Here’s what most people don’t realize about sunflowers: you don’t pick them. You cut them. And if you try to do otherwise, the stem will laugh in your face and stay firmly attached to the plant. These are not gentle, cooperative flowers—they are thick-stemmed, stubborn, and built like botanical broomsticks. (Please do not take this as an invitation to join those who help themselves to our flowers…root & all.)

And the leaves? Don’t be fooled by their fuzzy little faces. Sunflower leaves are nature’s version of sandpaper, and if you’re silly enough to harvest without sleeves, you’re going to end up with what I lovingly call the “sunflower rash.” This is not to be confused with the “caterpillar rash” which all of us kids learned the hard way when we were young. But those fuzzy caterpillars look like they HAVE to crawl on us?!

Despite their abrasive side, sunflowers are refreshingly low-maintenance. Once established, they hardly need to be watered at all. They’re like that one friend who thrives on chaos, forgets to eat lunch, and still survives with a smile. It’s ME! I’m that friend. Hmmm…I may be figuring out this sunflower growing thing…

And yes, they do that whole sun-following thing—but only while they’re young. Once they mature, they stop tracking the sun and all face east like they just had an epiphany. It’s both charming and slightly unsettling.

And let’s talk about variety, because not all sunflowers are created equal. There are the tidy, single-stem varieties that are perfect for cutting, and then there are the wild, branching types that seem to have a personal vendetta against row spacing. (I do not like these ones so much. But I just learned this last year so…there will still be some this year to mock me as I try to figure out if they’re worth the time it takes to harvest them or to just let them live their life.) Some are pollenless and florist-friendly. Others will leave a bright yellow dusting on your table and in your soul. We’ve learned the difference the hard way—usually around mid-July, when the wrong kind starts branching across the cosmos like it owns the place.

Tips from the Trenches (You’re Welcome)

Start them from seed. Don’t even think about transplanting—sunflowers hate being moved, and they will punish you with stunted growth and judgmental droopiness.

Give them space, because overcrowding leads to mildew, tangled stems, and enough drama to rival a high school lunchroom. Staking can be optional, depending on the variety and your tolerance for chaos. (No staking for me.) And if you want a steady supply, don’t plant them all at once like an overachiever. Succession planting is the name of the game if you want more than a week of glory followed by a whole lot of “welp, guess that’s over.” I’m a slow poke about my planting so they always stretch throughout the summer. A project from start to finish in a day just does not compute.

Selling Them Without Losing Your Mind

Selling them, though—that’s where the magic (and the comedy) begins. Customers go absolutely feral for sunflowers. You could have the most elegant, artfully designed bouquet, but throw in a sunflower and it’s suddenly a “must-have.”

Harvesting them is a learned art. Cut them earlier than you think you should—trust me. Wait too long, and they’ll blow open in the vase like a sleepy toddler in the cereal aisle. Strip those leaves unless you want your bouquets to function as loofahs, and please, for the love of your skin, wear gloves. You may think you’re tough, but these stems are armed and prickly. (Narrator: She does not wear gloves. Do as she says, not as she does.)

Sunflower Fails (Because Let’s Be Honest)

Of course, no flower season is complete without a few sunflower disasters. Like the many times thunderstorms took down half the field. Or every year when I nurture my deep hatred for MORNING GLORIES and their ability (along with the deer) to just take down sunflower after sunflower. Or when I accidentally planted a branching variety in a single-stem row and ended up with what looked like a mutant sunflower forest of short stemmed, inconsistently blooming flowers. Or the drought last year that made germination nearly impossible and grew miniature sunflowers (if any) in any succession planted after July 15th.

Why We Still Grow Them (Even When They’re Jerks)

And yet… we keep growing them. Because despite their scratchy texture and tendency to flop dramatically, sunflowers are everything we love about flower farming. They’re reliable. They’re hardy. They bring joy to literally everyone who sees them.

Every summer bouquet looks just a little more complete with that burst of sunshine tucked in the back. Plus, they survive the brutal July heat, our occasionally erratic watering schedule, and the kind of exhaustion only a part-time farmer/full-time teacher/mom-of-two can truly understand.

Final Thoughts and a Shameless Invite

So yes, we’ve been growing sunflowers for over ten years—first for the look, now for the love and the hustle. They’re prickly little sunbeams with a stubborn streak and a gift for making people happy.

If you’ve never grabbed a bouquet from our stand, come say hi. Our flowers may be a little wild, a little weird, and a little rough around the edges—just like us—but there will always be sunflowers. And they will definitely be staring east (directly at you as you pull into the roadstand).

Ranunculus, Anemones, and the Delicate Art of Not Crying in the Basement

This spring marks my second year growing ranunculus and my first year growing anemones, which is a very kind and professional way of saying I am once again throwing money and emotional investment into corms with an uncertain outcome. It’s not technically gambling, but if someone ever wanted to make a flower farmer scratch-off ticket, it would just be trays of pre-sprouted ranunculus and a deer lurking behind every shiny scratcher space.

Last year, I had one single ranunculus bloom. It was a beautiful hot pink—glorious, defiant, and fleeting. A real underdog story. And then a deer ate it. While I was at work. Before I could cut it. The wound is still fresh. I talk about it more than I talk about my traumatic early adulthood.

This year, I decided to give it another go because I enjoy suffering and also because I apparently have the sort of eternal, misplaced optimism that only flower farmers and people assembling IKEA furniture for the third time truly understand. (We listen and we don’t judge. I love putting together IKEA furniture. And I have passed this genetic marker along to my oldest son.)

The Basement Laboratory (a.k.a. Where Hope Goes to Mold)

I presprouted both ranunculus and anemones in my basement this year. I used a fancy AI tool to time my process according to my zone (6B), because if I’m going to fail, I’d at least like to fail on schedule that I could never establish on my own. I followed all the steps: soaked the corms, gave them a cozy bed of moist potting mix, set them in a dark corner, whispered affirmations.

And then, of course, I rotted some of them. Not all, just enough to knock my confidence back down to its normal baseline of “not quite sure what I’m doing, but too stubborn to stop.”

The anemones were new this year—ordered from Sunny Meadows Flower Farm—and I was really excited to try them. One of them actually sprouted and survived long enough to be planted. One. I’m not saying it’s the chosen one, but if it doesn’t bloom, I may need to burn sage over the flower beds. Despite the failure to launch, I held a garden burial for the remaining (thou shalt not tell how many I purchased…) corms. You just NEVER know. Perhaps the outdoor soil, worms and weeds are their chosen revival grounds.

Planting Time and PTSD (Post-Traumatic Sprout Disorder)

Getting them in the ground felt equal parts thrilling and wildly stressful. And cold. So darn cold. Why, Pennsylvania?! If you’ve never gently tucked a $40 tray of corms into a cold spring bed while muttering “please surprise me” then you haven’t truly lived.

Such surprises often happen in the garden. Like late this winter when I realized—some of my ranunculus came back. Like... after winter. Without protection. In Pennsylvania. It shouldn’t have happened. Every article I’ve read says they are not hardy here, and yet, there they were. Leaves. Stems. Actual signs of life. It's a flower miracle, or climate change. Honestly, hard to say. Getting run over by John Deere tractor tires at the hands of some young family drivers and still rallying has to be a minor miracle.

The ones from last year that survived are growing well, and the new ones (at least the ones that didn’t melt into goo in the basement) are doing better than I expected. And I’m daring to hope. Again. Because flower farming is just seasonal Stockholm syndrome. (Also arguably an extension of symptoms of a career in education.)

When the Deer Returns (Spoiler: They Always Return)

Now, I know I shouldn’t get too attached. Last year, I made the fatal mistake of falling in love and feeling immense pride in my one bloom and imagining what it might look like in a bouquet. I pictured it sitting in a mason jar at the stand, surrounded by a symphony of other stems I also didn't manage to grow.

And then, while I was molding young minds in my 7th grade classroom, a deer strolled by and snacked on that hot pink ranunculus like it was a $30 charcuterie board. It didn’t even have the decency to eat the whole thing. Just enough to make a point.

I haven’t seen any deer yet this spring, (just their hoof prints & my chomped down tulips) but I also haven’t installed any netting or fencing or deterrents. I am choosing instead to rely on magical thinking and the idea that maybe this time, the universe will be kind. (Stay tuned for Operation Electric Fence. Buzz Buzz, Bambi!)

Things I’ve Learned (Besides the High Cost of Hope)

• Presprouting works, until it doesn’t.

• The basement is both a blessing and a fungal breeding ground.

• Anemones are dramatic and mysterious.

• Ranunculus might be sneakily hardy or possibly possessed.

• I am still bad at pest prevention.

• Despite all of this, I love these flowers and will absolutely try again next year.

Closing Thoughts From the Middle of the Bloomless Bed

I don’t have a single ranunculus bloom yet this year. But I have plants. Leaves. Progress. And maybe even a little faith that something magical is going to happen out there while I’m not looking.

Even if nothing blooms, I’ll count it as a win. Because I didn’t give up. I tried again. I replanted the dream, even if it came back soggy.

And if a deer eats them again this year? Well, at least I’ll get another blog post out of it.

Wrapped in Hope: Holding Onto Spring (Even When It’s 37° and Raining)

Well, here we are. It’s April. The daffodils are blooming, the asparagus should be poking up like it’s ready to start something, and the weather? Oh, the weather. Let’s just say I’ve reached the point where I check the forecast more often than I check my email—and I teach middle school, so that’s saying something.

This week’s highlights included:

• 37° mornings

• sideways rain

• a frost warning that made me whisper “please don’t die” to the snapdragons

• and at least one moment where I considered starting a tropical flower farm in Florida

But despite the cold, the wind, and the questionable decision to wear my sneakers into the field (again), something magical is still happening: the flowers are growing.

Cold Snap, Who Dis?

Every year, someone says, “Ooooh, I wouldn’t have planted those yet,” while staring at my stock or snapdragons like they just spotted me putting orchids in a snowbank.

Here’s the thing: they’re cool flowers. Literally.

Snapdragons and stock want to be out now. They thrive in the chill. They can handle frost better than most of us can handle Mondays. Last year, I planted them even earlier, and they did beautifully.

So no, I’m not worried. I’m not even covering them (okay, maybe I walked by and thought about it and priced out frost cloth just in case, but mostly for emotional support).

Foxglove is hanging in there too, stoic as ever. I swear it gives off Victorian ghost energy and I love it for that.

Holding On Through the Cold

I get it—this time of year can feel like a whole lot of waiting. The kind of waiting where the sky is gray for days and you’re leaving muddy handprints on everything and nothing feels like it’s happening fast enough.

But if flower farming has taught me anything, it’s this: the good stuff grows slowly.

Hope doesn’t always look like a field of blooms. Sometimes it looks like a flat of seedlings in a drafty basement. Sometimes it looks like buds holding tight through a frost. Sometimes it’s me, standing in the mud in my third cup of coffee, believing it’s all still going to be beautiful.

Wrapped Bouquets Are Coming (And I Can’t Wait)

This year, I’m adding something new to the roadside stand—wrapped bouquets. They’ll be simple, seasonal bundles of whatever the field is giving that week: sweet-smelling stock, ruffly snapdragons, maybe a few sprigs of foxglove or feverfew if they’re feeling cooperative.

Tied with twine. Wrapped in kraft paper. Easy to grab, easier to love.

They’ll be there waiting—alongside a few hand-stamped greeting cards, maybe some cookies if I had a decent baking week, and always, always a little bit of hope.

So if you’re tired of gray skies, cold toes, and waiting for the world to bloom, hang in there.

Spring is coming.

The flowers are growing.

And soon, you’ll be able to take a little bundle of beauty home with you—wrapped in paper, tied with string, and full of promise.

Flowers on 29

956 Gravel Pike, Schwenksville, PA

We grow flowers. We grow hope. We grow through the cold, the chaos, and the late-April frosts.

Spring’s Cool Kids: Snapdragons, Stock, and Foxglove (aka the Drama Queens of Early Spring)

It’s early spring at Flowers on 29 (956 Gravel Pike, where the soil is rich, the blooms are budding, and the unsolicited advice is blowing in colder than the actual wind chill). You’ve probably heard someone say, “Ooooh, I wouldn’t have planted those yet,” while gesturing ominously toward your snapdragons or stock.

Well, grab a mug of something warm and let’s set the record straight: these flowers are built for this weather.

Snapdragons: Cold-Hardy and Unbothered

Snapdragons (Antirrhinum majus) are not fragile princesses. They’re more like the kids who show up to the bus stop in shorts in February—they’ve got something to prove.

Cold tolerance: Snapdragons can survive temperatures down to 25°F, and some varieties can even tolerate brief dips into the low 20s. They’re technically frost-hardy and will bounce back from a light freeze like it was a minor inconvenience.

What they don’t like: Heat. Wait too long to plant them, and you’ll watch them sulk through summer. So yes, I planted mine already. On purpose. With experience. And coffee.

Stock: Smells Like Spring, Handles Cold Like a Champ

Stock (Matthiola incana) is spicy scented and secretly scrappy. It’s a cool-season flower through and through—warm weather makes it bolt like it owes you money.

Cold tolerance: Stock can tolerate frost and temps down to 25°F as well. Some growers in colder zones even overwinter it under protection.

Extra security? Sure, you can cover it with a frost cloth during especially bitter nights if it helps you sleep better—but mine have gone through hard frosts uncovered and lived to tell the tale (with their delightful clove-scented voices, of course).

Foxglove: Medieval, Magical, and Pretty Much Fine

Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) looks like it belongs in a fairytale, but it’s got a steel spine. It's often a biennial (or a short-lived perennial), meaning it usually survives winter on purpose and gets planted the year before it blooms.

Cold tolerance: Very frost-hardy. Foxglove can handle temps in the low 20s, and young plants planted out in early spring are usually completely unbothered by frost.

Pro move: Plant early, mulch a bit, and let it flex in your spring beds like the regal woodland sorceress it is.

So, Let’s Review—For the People in the Back

Yes, it’s going to get cold this week. Maybe even frosty. But guess what?

• Snapdragons: Tougher than they look. Bring it on, 25°F.

• Stock: Soft scent, steel nerves. A frost won’t scare it.

• Foxglove: Hardy by heritage. You’re not going to kill it with a chilly night.

Unless you planted out zinnias already (in which case… may God have mercy), your cool-season flowers are fine. Better than fine—they're thriving, rooted in place before the real growing season starts. While other people are still waiting for “safe frost dates,” these early birds are getting the bouquet.

At Flowers on 29, we’ve learned by planting, failing, replanting, and doing it all over again. (Sometimes we even take notes, but usually we just cry in the asparagus and keep going.)

So yes, I planted my stock and snaps early.
Yes, it might frost.
No, I’m not worried.
And yes—just like last year—they’ll be beautiful.

Flowers on 29 | 956 Gravel Pike, Schwenksville
We grow cool flowers. We keep it cooler than the forecast. Come see us this spring.

The Healing Power of Flowers (and Also, My Ability to Leave something behind in the field each night)

Gardening as Therapy… and Also an Excuse to Ignore My Messy House

Stock planting Day 4/3

Some people do yoga to clear their minds. Others journal or go for a run. Me? I bury my hands in soil, tend to delicate seedlings with complete reckless abandon (toughen up, ya babies!), and accept that my house is in a state of mild disaster.

Truly, nothing soothes the soul like nurturing tiny green things—except for the part where I immediately lose track of them. Somewhere out there, a tray of larkspur has taken up residence in the middle of my farm field, and I can only assume they’re thriving in their newfound freedom. Meanwhile, my kitchen counters are covered in seed packets, half-drunk coffee/green drinks/preworkout, and the vague hope that I’ll eventually tidy up. (Spoiler: I won’t. I’ll start to. I won’t acheive that dream.)

Stock: Smells Like Peace, Tricks People Into Thinking I’m Organized

2024 Stock - first year growing - a unique look and smell. Smell like cloves!

Stock is one of my first spring transplants, and I love it because it smells like spicy cloves (despite looking super floral and fancy) and makes me feel like a real, functioning adult. That is, until I step inside my house and remember that my living room currently looks like a tornado of sheepdogs, muddy boots, and watering cans waiting to come or go.

Stock is low-maintenance, unlike my to-do list. It doesn’t ask for much, just a little cool weather and some decent soil. I, on the other hand, ask for things like “more time in the day” and “the ability to transplant seedlings without getting hyperfocused on picking all of the rocks out of the dirt.”

Snapdragons: More Reliable Than My Ability to Keep Track of My Stuff

Snapdragons are sturdy, beautiful, and transplant well—which is more than I can say for certain other flowers (cough larkspur cough). They’re one of the few plants that seem to thrive despite my tendency to misplace things, which is lucky for them.

Last week, I carefully organized my snapdragon trays in order of which had been outside getting used to the elements (hardening off) the longest. Then, I reorganized them, and now it is just a guessing game. They’ve all been out there at least a week. They will all, inevitably, get some level of sunburn when I plant them out. Some will not make it. But some will. So, we will focus on that.

Foxglove: Looks Like a Cottage Garden Dream, Distracts Me From My Ever-Growing Laundry Pile

Foxglove is absolutely gorgeous—tall, dreamy, and a little bit toxic, which makes it my floral soulmate.

It takes its time growing and I must have convinced myself that the advice I read on the internet to start it 8-10 weeks before last frost was sound and accurate because I planted a BUNCH of it in late February. Every time I look at my beautifully growing foxglove, I think, Wow, nature is amazing. And then I remember the actual truth that larkspur does not like to be transplanted and I am terrified to try and to kill them all. Oh well. Being careful with roots when transplanting has not been my previous specialty. Perhaps I will find a new talent. Some luck? I want those tall spiky flowers.

Sweet Peas: Beautiful, High-Maintenance, and Great at Distracting Me From My Filthy Kitchen

Sweet peas require trellising. You’d think I’d remember this before they become a tangled mess, but you’d be wrong. Every year, I get caught up in their beauty and let them sprawl wildly, much like the unopened mail on my kitchen table.

But they bloom despite my negligence, which is comforting. I must admit that I often have the best ideas and intentions. I get so scared of failing that sometimes (most times) I avoid making my ideas a reality. Last year I failed BIG TIME with my vision of a trellis. It blew over many times and was quite an eye sore, but we still had sweet peas!

This year, I used my son’s (and I believe my brother’s before that) old day bed frame to construct something prettier and sturdier (albeit shorter and maybe not quite right either) trellis for the sweet peas. They’re already climbing and I am super excited to get more transplanted in the ground in the next few weeks.

Will I be brave enough to try planting some directly by seed outside? Likely, no. I’ll think about it a lot.

Larkspur: The Plant That Taught Me a Harsh Lesson About Life (and Transplanting)

You know what hates being transplanted? Larkspur.
You know what I lovingly started indoors and now am dreading transplanting into the garden? Larkspur.

They are sure to punish me with a slow, passive-aggressive decline. The real lesson here? Some things are meant to grow where they belong, and forcing them into new places just because I had a "plan" doesn’t always work.

(Am I still talking about flowers? Unclear.)

Conclusion: I’ll Clean the House in June. (and other lies I tell myself)

Gardening is supposed to be about patience, resilience, and connection to the earth. And it is. It’s also about my ability to ignore household chores in favor of staring blankly at tiny plants.

Despite my best efforts at disorganization, misplaced seedlings, and a complete lack of indoor tidying, the flowers still bloom. And honestly, isn’t that all that really matters?

Oh, and if anyone sees my abandoned tray of larkspur, living its best life in the field this weekend…Carry on & mind your business. Perhaps divert your attention to the asparagus…it should be peeking out very very soon!

Building Our Roadside Flower Stand: A Family Project on the Farm

The seedlings were in the ground last spring, and I had big dreams of selling asparagus and tulips early in the season—but there was just one problem. My "stand" was nothing more than an uncovered table by the road. During the first brutal heat wave of what would eventually be a terrible drought of a summer, I decided it was time to build something real, something sturdy, something that wouldn’t leave my bouquets at the mercy of the wind. Or at the mercy of speeding trucks & cars. My goodness, the natural disasters caused by traffic jetstreams are impressive.

I’ve always loved making things, and I have that special gene that convinces me, With enough research, I can do anything. So, naturally, I found a set of building plans on Etsy from Kroma Acres Plans and convinced my two boys (15 & 10 at the time) that this would be a fun family project. There we were—standing in a pile of sawdust, surrounded by tools, and holding a nail gun. What could possibly go wrong?

Choosing the Plans & Gathering Supplies

When we decided to build a stand for Flowers on 29, I knew I wanted something that looked good, was sturdy enough to withstand Pennsylvania weather, shield the flowers from the midday sun and, most importantly, was within my limited woodworking skill set. Enter Kroma Acres Plans—a simple but charming design that even a first-time builder (with two enthusiastic assistants) could handle.

Thankfully, my family has a long history of tool-hoarding, so we didn’t have to buy much beyond the wood and paint. This saved us money but also meant digging through generations of tools, some of which probably (most definitely) belong in a museum. My youngest and I, being the fearless (or reckless) ones, quickly claimed the power tools. There’s a certain thrill in realizing you’re trusted with a nail gun, and let’s just say my 10-year-old was living his best life.

Building with My Boys

Like any great DIY project, things didn’t always go smoothly. We measured, we cut, we measured again, and somehow still had pieces that didn’t quite fit. My oldest took a more methodical approach, while my youngest and I were all about speed and enthusiasm (hence why we may or may not have fired a few rogue nails).

Despite a few hiccups, it was incredible to see the stand take shape. Watching my boys work together (not really at the same time - let’s not go bananas) was one of the best parts of the experience. They were invested in the project—not just because it was for our farm, but because they could already see their favorite part coming: checking the cash box each day.

Painting, Signage & Finishing Touches

Once the structure was up, it was time to make it our own. We painted it by hand, which means every brushstroke has a little extra character (read: imperfections). The signage was also homemade—no fancy vinyl or professional lettering here. Just a lot of love, a bit of trial and error, and enough paint on our clothes to prove we are hard-working folk.

I still have big dreams of adding more art and signs to the stand, but flower farming takes priority, so those ideas keep simmering on the back burner. Every time I pass by, I think, I should really add another sign or two. Then I remember I need to weed the field, harvest flowers, and, you know, sleep, work, tidy, work some more, have fun with my people, exercise, pile up laundry and feed those boys.

The First Day Open & The Joy of the Cash Box

The day we set up the stand for the first time was a mix of pride and nervousness. Would people stop? Would they like the flowers? Would the stand fall apart under the weight of a full bucket? (Spoiler: It held up just fine. We all tested it as a hidey hole more than once.) Would I be able to roll it up the driveway by myself? (Also a yes, ma’am…I’m sure it is a sight to see. Entertainment is free here.)

The real highlight for my boys, though, was the cash box. The excitement of opening it to find money inside never gets old. They check it with the same enthusiasm every single time, like tiny business moguls in training.

What’s Next? Upgrades & Expanding the Stand

Flower farming is an ever-growing adventure, and this year we have more blooms to sell. That means the stand needs an upgrade! This weekend, we’re (I may need to leave Calvin to it on his own. He is quite the Carpenter in training) adding shelves to make more room for bouquets. The boys are already dreaming up ways to “optimize” (aka maximize cash box potential), and I’m just hoping we don’t end up with too many extra nail gun mishaps.

Final Thoughts

Building this stand wasn’t just about having a place to sell flowers—it was about creating something as a family. It was messy, imperfect, and filled with power tool chaos, but it’s ours. And every time we set out fresh bouquets, I’m reminded of the laughter, teamwork, and occasional misfired nails that built it.

If you’re ever passing by Flowers on 29, stop and take a look—maybe even grab a bouquet. And if the signage looks a little sparse, just know that I’m still dreaming up the perfect finishing touches. Right after I finish planting more flowers.

(And yes, the cash box is still the boys’ favorite part.)

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Spring Planting: The Joy of Getting it Wrong (and Eventually Right)

Ah, spring. That magical time of year when flower farmers emerge from hibernation, squint at the sun like confused groundhogs, and attempt to remember how to grow things again. If you’ve ever flung a tray of delicate seedlings onto the ground because you tripped over a rogue hose, or confidently planted an entire row of something only to realize you mixed up the labels, congratulations—you’re doing it right.

Planting before the last frost is one of the most exciting, nerve-wracking, and sometimes questionable decisions we make as flower farmers. But as with all great adventures, it’s best to jump in headfirst and learn as you go.

Why Plant Before the Last Frost? (Or, How to Trick Your Flowers Into Blooming Early)

There are flowers that actually love the cold. Unlike us, they don’t spend winter wrapped in three blankets questioning their life choices. Hardy annuals, biennials, and cold-tolerant perennials thrive when planted before the last frost, rewarding us with early blooms that make us look way more competent than we actually are.

Some of the best early bloomers include:

• Ranunculus & Anemones – Gorgeous, layered blooms that make you feel like a Renaissance painter. Just ignore the fact that you’ll probably plant them upside down at least once. Or have a fantastic presprout only to have the deer chomp them off while you’re at work.

• Sweet Peas – Fragrant, delicate, and always a test of patience. Bonus points if you manage to untangle them without muttering curse words. I don’t untangle, I just let them work themselves into a pile of knots. I have big plans for a pretty trellis. We’ll see if I can get up the nerve to actually build what will likely be an ugly hunk of something kind of workable.

• Snapdragons & Larkspur – Reliable and stunning, provided you don’t accidentally step on them in a moment of springtime enthusiasm. This is my first year with larkspur. I went nuts planting indoors only to read that they hate being transplanted. Pause while I set a reminder for the Fall to sow seeds outside.

• Poppies & Bells of Ireland – Cold-hardy and whimsical…if you can actually remember where you planted them. I dropped the ball on poppy seeds this year. I was hopeful that they would reseed. Still holding out hope on that one. Bells are supposed to do the same. They are tough to germinate indoors for me. I think they are so cool so I am sure to have a hard time cutting them out of my seed purchase for next year.

• Foxglove & Delphinium – Towering beauties that make you feel like you belong in a fairytale, assuming they don’t flop over from an unexpected windstorm. I had great success with the first year (greenery only) of foxgloves last year. They overwinter pretty well and I’ve been watching them like a creepster for any signs of growth and possible flowers. Also…should be thinking ahead and planting seeds for more flowers next year. Well, I’ve THOUGHT about it.

• Spring on the Farm: A Beautiful Mess

Spring planting is chaotic. No matter how much planning you do in the winter—sketching out garden maps, creating seed schedules, reading books by professionals—there will still be moments of absolute disaster. I just always run out of time, energy or both. Obviously, life is full of all of things - that 8-3:30 job, part-time job, kids want to eat, dishes need to not spill over the sink, laundry, pets…I don’t need to tell you!

Like the time I confidently carried a tray of newly sprouted seedlings outside, only to watch the wind yeet them straight out of my hands. Or the year I planted an entire row of what I thought were snapdragons, only to realize two months later I had planted precious Bells of Ireland in the weediest part of a too wide row.

But here’s the thing: making mistakes means you’re doing something new. It means you’re willing to be a beginner, to take risks, to try and fail and try again. Every expert started out as someone who killed more plants than they grew. Learning through trial and error is half the fun (the other half is probably coffee and impulse-buying more seeds than you have space for).

Why We Keep Doing This

Despite the spilled trays, mislabeled rows (or, unlabeled everything), and occasional existential crises when a late frost threatens to undo everything or the deer fill their bellies, we keep planting. Because nothing compares to that first flush of color in early spring—the ranunculus glowing in the golden light, the sweet peas climbing skyward, the tiny green sprouts defying the cold.

And the best part? Soon, those early blooms will make their way to bouquets, filling our roadside stand with life, fragrance, and the unmistakable joy of spring. Customers will stop by, marvel at the flowers, and have no idea how many mistakes, mishaps, and moments of mild panic went into growing them.

So here’s to spring planting. To getting it wrong, learning as we go, and embracing the beautiful, unpredictable mess of growing flowers. Mistakes aren’t failures—they’re just the first step toward doing something amazing. And if nothing else, at least we’ll have great stories to tell.

Happy planting!