SPRING, INTERRUPTED

The days had been running hot—ridiculously hot—the kind of heat that presses its palm against your back and nudges you straight into summer before spring has even had a chance to wave hello. Most days lived in the 80s, and a few bold ones leapt into the 90s.

The plants felt it, and so did I. Their early vigor became my early confidence, and soon I was starting tray after tra

Tunnel tucked in for cold ahead

y of summer seeds—vegetables, herbs, a few flowers, and some heat‑loving foliage plants.

And then the wind arrived.

Not a flirtatious spring breeze, but a full‑blown, 50‑mph tantrum that shoved the trailer around like the tin can it is. I even caught myself searching for my ruby slippers, certain a twister must be close by, but I must’ve left those magical things in another life.

Eventually, the wind quieted… only to usher in the cold. Not a gentle cool-down, either—the cold. The freezing kind that cuts straight through layers and nips at anything green.

I scrambled. Covered the darling outdoor plants, rolled down the tunnel sides, tucked everything tight, and whispered my little farmer’s prayers. Inside the tunnel, the ranunculus almost seemed grateful for the break from the blazing days. The lisianthus, always stoic little soldiers, carried on without the slightest fuss.

But the seedlings—my fragile, hopeful babies—weren’t so lucky. I lost every tomato and every hibiscus start. It could have been worse, I told myself. And outside, it was.

Even under thick plastic, the lilies—my beautiful double-flowering, pollenless lilies I had dreamed of sharing with the folks of Winnsboro—lost their buds to the freeze. The plants are strong, but the blooms won’t come this year for most of them. Two-thirds, gone in a single night of stubborn cold.

And that’s the topsy-turvy world of farming. The dizzying highs, the gut-dropping lows. The pendulum never stops swinging.

The lilies will return next year—they always do—but the show I had planned for this spring will have to wait. Some joys, it seems, insist on arriving in their own season.

That was the weekend.

Today, I wept in the tunnel.

Because while the weekend had us shivering in the 20s, today flung us right back into the 90s. When I went to water, I found my ranunculus buds hanging their sweet little heads—spent, cooked, done. When ranunculus droop like that, it’s not thirst. It’s farewell.

It felt like my season ended before it even began.

And it wasn’t just the ranunculus. The asters, snaps, and stock were all gasping through the heat, every one of them fighting a battle I couldn’t shield them from.

This weekend I’ll be seeding for summer, trying again. And if another cold front marches in after that? Well… I genuinely don’t know. I don’t think the farmer’s market with Duckie on the 11th will happen, but next week promises a bit of relief with slightly cooler temps and quite possibly, a cloud or two.

And the thing is—this dream isn’t dead. It’s just rearranging itself.

I always said this first season would be a learning season. And goodness gracious, am I learning.

But here’s the part I remind myself of tonight: the garden and I are built of the same stuff. We bend, we break, we start over, and somehow, we still reach for the sun. Plants have this quiet way of showing us how to begin again, how to trust the soil even when the weather plays tricks.

New seeds will sprout. New plans will take root. And somewhere in all this chaos, something beautiful is still working its way toward the light.

Maybe this season won’t look like the one I hoped for, but it just might become the one that builds me right along with the farm. And that—well, that gives me hope.