BLOOMS, BUSTS AND BECOMING A FARMER

Welp… my first official season as a flower farmer is well underway, and if we’re being honest, it has been almost a complete bust. Not the gentle, character‑building sort of bust, either — more like the kind where you look around, laugh to keep from crying, and mutter, “Well, isn’t that something.”

The Star Survivors

I knew I was pushing things. I knew the timing was ambitious, but honestly, it's still only March. I thought Central Texas' weather was nuts. This East Texas weather is a whole other level of wild, dramatic and slightly unhinged plans. I just had to hang on for the ride.

The ranunculus actually tried their very best. They thrived inside the tunnel through that wild temperature swing — you know, the one when it dipped into the 20s right after several days in the 80s - that temperature swing. For once, the gale‑force winds weren’t the enemy. Honestly, I’m still a little shocked the tunnel stayed standing… especially considering it was built by a very inexperienced crew (Rob & me, but mostly Rob).

But what the ranunculus didn’t survive were the 90‑degree days that followed. Those beautiful, strong, tall stems — the ones I’d been staring at lovingly for weeks — all collapsed in unison. Their pretty little faces dropped like the saddest emojis you’ve ever seen. The few survivors were gorgeous, and I cherished every last one. They let me test packaging, spot flaws in my crop plan, and teach myself a few lessons the hard way. Truly the only way I ever learn. And if you're wondering if I cried that would be a big fat yes. Not a cute cry, either.

Sad Face Emoji - The Ranunculus that didn't survive the heat hanging their pretty little heads.

Then there were the double‑flowering, pollenless lilies. I covered them during the cold snap, uncovered them when temperatures shot back into the 70s, and trusted the forecast that said it would “only” drop into the 40s that night. Naturally, the forecast lied. The temperature fell lower than expected, and by the next morning, half the lilies that had already set buds were done for the season. The plants will return — they’re perennials, after all — but this year, they shrugged and sat the whole thing out.

But here’s the grace of it: even when the blooms struggled, the farm kept handing me tiny gifts, one after another, as if to say, “Look: everything isn’t lost.”

First, the bright green tree frog who perched himself like a tiny foreman overseeing my work.

Or the toad — not nearly as charming — who decided my boot was the perfect Airbnb. I didn’t realize he was in there until my foot wouldn’t slide in. Thinking it was a balled‑up sock, I reached in to fix it… and we both jumped higher than either of us thought possible when I found myself staring straight at a toad instead of cotton. He screamed (silently). I screamed (not silently). It was a whole moment.

Near the peonies, a funnel‑web spider had spun a perfect, intricate, silvery lacework that shimmered in the morning light.

Inside the tunnel, two butterflies moved in like permanent residents — fluttering, looping, and basking above the rows like they were paying rent in pollen.

And over in the orchard? One determined little apple tree has decided it’s going to make apples this year, despite everything the weather threw at us. Bless its heart — truly.

And then there was the turtle.

An Eastern box turtle, to be specific — just ambling along like he was out for a morning stroll. Lu was very interested in this slow‑moving little newcomer. A little too interested. We ended up having to tuck Lu safely inside the garden just so the poor guy could finish crossing the path without becoming an unwilling soccer ball. He blinked up at us, unimpressed, and carried on about his day like an old soul who’d seen far worse.

A Cute Little Green Tree Frog

Eastern Box Turtle

A Funnel-Web Spider Web

Luna, the Smiling Labrador

A Pretty Black and Blue Butterfly currently living in the high tunnel greenhouse

An apple tree trying its very hardest to make apples

And I suppose that’s what being a farmer is really about. Learning. Unlearning. Relearning.

Watching the weather break your heart and then surprise you with something beautiful. Seeing a whole season go sideways and still finding wonder tucked in the corners. Figuring out how to roll with the punches and make better choices next time.

I didn’t get the season I pictured. But I did get something just as valuable: the beginning of wisdom — wrapped in frogs and toads and butterflies and turtles a smiling dog

and a brave little apple tree.

And around here, that’s almost as good as a bloom.