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.