Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

Were it not for the tiny thriving plants pictured below, I would be ready to throw my hands up into the air, screaming, "What in the world was I thinking when I decided to start a flower farm?"  Flower farming looked like a fairly manageable venture as I read each beautifully scripted blog post and scanned the glorious photos of perfectly manicured rows of equally perfect flowers.  Sure, it would be work, but I have never shied away from work.  How bad could it be, I reasoned.

Half my first planting of sunflowers did not germinate in the cold wet soil, nor did the phlox seed.  In my eagerness, I did not prepare the beds as well as I should have.  With hundreds of plants outgrowing their tiny containers in my basement, and no place to put them, I dove at the chance to be able to plant them just about anywhere.

Rocks, roots, timber, and old pieces of iron continue to be unearthed with almost every shovel full of soil.

The well, the only source of water for the flower farm beyond rainfall, was outfitted with a brand new pump. It ran beautifully for a very short time, and now is bogged down.  The well person will be on site tomorrow to have a look. He and Better Half believe there is sediment in the bottom of the well.

The weather this past week was cool and wet, and, while I appreciate the rain, the flowers and vegetables need some warm sunny days.

I set up a domain name for the farm, and began the work of setting up a web site, only to realize I know as much about setting up a web site as I do about flower farming.

Expenses continue to mount.

Lots of days, the endless chores in front of me loom large, and threaten to overtake me.  Then, I retire to the farm for a walk about, plucking a few weeds as I go, noting the new growth on each little plant, and my faith is restored, at least until the next crisis rears its ugly head.

On a more positive note, the deer remain at bay, though each day I pull up to the farm, I look for signs of devastation.  Better Half and I built a cover for the well pit after he almost fell head long into the pit after tripping on a root.  We used old metal roofing on a new wooden frame.  It actually turned out quite nicely, though it weighs a ton.  The big field has been limed and disked.  It will be worked again when the land dries out.  I am beginning to think the old hog lot was a swamp, given the soggy conditions that persist.  The grass seed I planted on the grassy knoll above the garden is gorgeous.  It may be this year's best crop.  Views from every angle of the garden are spectacular.

This row of zinnias should be straight, but some of the stems have twisted, giving the bed a slightly disheveled look.

 This bed contains cosmos. I admit to feeling very professional as I stretched this mesh netting over the bed.  The flower plants will grow up through the holes and be supported by the netting, producing long straight stems. We shall see.

This row contains feverfew, butterfly weed, and rudbeckia, with Queen Annne's lace to the left and cosmos to the right.  I feel pretty good about the way this row looks.

A panorama of the garden from this past Saturday.  Check out the luscious grass in the foreground.

Better Half,  hard at work, on the well pit cover.

The finished cover sits on the grain scales, waiting to be hauled to the well pit.

New electricity, a new pump, tank, sump pump, hydrant, and associated innards have been installed. The well worked well for the first day, then became clogged shortly thereafter.  Once it is operational, it will enable me to use drip irrigation, as I expand the scope of the project.

I am quite certain that my grandfathers, both of whom grew gorgeous flowers, one on a narrow city lot, the other on a lot beside his home, are peering down from above with smiles on their faces wondering what in the world I am doing.  Most days, so do I.

Come Hell or High Water . . .

I was determined to have some presence on my newly cleared parcel of land this summer, you know, the one I've been raving about since February. 

So, about a week and a half ago, I got out the trusty tiller and began to till, 18 inch widths at a time - soil, rocks, roots and buried logs.  What a jolting job! Last week, I tilled even more, until I now have an area about 90 by 75 on which to plant.  While it is only a fraction of the land, it is a start!

Hundreds of seeds have been sewn and hundreds of seedlings have been tucked lovingly into the soil and saturated with deer repellent.  Seeding is ongoing in fits and starts as temperatures and rain permit.  If the temperature is above 50, it is not actively raining, and my boots do not sink in the mud deeper than 6 inches, I am at work at the farm.  I am smitten with this project. It combines so many things I love - fresh,colorful flowers and the just picked goodness of vegetables, being outdoors, the smell of dirt, and the overwhelming joy that growing brings.

Last Saturday, Better Half and I went to the farm to pick up my old Suburban. Upon arriving, 5 large deer bolted from the area of the garden.  My spirits took a nose dive and my feet scurried to the seedlings.  Nothing had been munched, but in that moment, I knew a deer fence had become an urgent necessity.

Sunday afternoon found us, once again, feasting on popcorn in the aisles of Rural King, as we bought fence posts, a half mile of wire, a fence charger, and other electric fence components.  (This little project of mine has introduced me to a variety of the most interesting subjects.  Not only can I carry on a conversation about electric deer fence, I can discuss wells and pumps, soil test results, seed starting, and the merits of various small tractors on the market today.)

 

A brisk bright Sunday afternoon saw the burn pile getting under way and the first fence posts driven.

Better Half posing with our half mile of wire as we begin to fasten it to the posts.

Once the fence was up, I smeared peanut butter on aluminum foil.  These tidbits were fastened to the wire fencing in hopes the deer would be attracted to them.  I know this sounds brutal, but I have countless hours invested in the seedlings, lots of dollars in seed, and huge hopes for a magnificent harvest of flowers and vegetables.  I know, from experience, that deer and gardens do not co-exist.

The mechanics of the electric fence - charger, marine battery, ground rods, all connected to the wire that encloses the field.  The ground rod is the tennis ball covered pipe on the right.

We decided on a second ground, and as I handed Better Half the tool to pound in the post, I accidentally touched the fence, which we had armed.  Holy Moly!  I won't make that mistake again.

And, if I were a deer, I would most certainly steer clear of the peanut butter smeared fence.

 Shadows are long as we wrap up the project. Here is the western side of the quite unassuming fence.

This is my beloved Hog Lot Flowers at Davis Farm 2017 with a dazzling view in the background.

And, here sit my tiny seedlings, safe behind two wires festooned with caution tape and smeared with peanut butter.

Much more to come . . . Stay tuned.

Sunset

 Sunset approaching quickly as I piddled about the farm tonight.

Time to treat myself to a ride in the bottoms to enjoy the end of the day.

Peace pervades my soul as I turn the truck toward home.

Inching Ever Closer

The land for the flower farm has been cleared and graded.

When the ground has dried, lime will be applied and a disc will break up the dozed land.

The farmers have all stepped up to help me get started with this venture, 

for which I am very grateful

Introducing the future home of

 Hog Lot Flowers 

at

 Davis Farm

The flowers will be grown on an ancient hog lot on the Davis Farm, which has been in my husband's family since 1852,  While not a flowery name, it comes steeped with family history.

This little remnant of a block building may become the first office of Hog Lot Flowers if it can be salvaged.  It will need some shoring up -  windows, door, and roof - at a minimum.

Daylight can be seen through some of the block joints.

It sits perched on a little knoll at the southwest corner of the farmette, 

commanding a beautiful view of the entire field.

Sunsets, too, will be sensational once the view is opened up a little.

Quite a gem!

Today, I spent the afternoon continuing to reclaim this stunning land that has lain forgotten for so many years.  I stumbled upon daffodil bulbs unearthed by the dozer that cleared the land.  Other daffodil greens circled an ancient tree and more were scattered about the overgrown yard of the abandoned farmhouse.  

It was necessary that some of these overgrown bulbs maintain a presence on the farm.  It felt important that they be part of this new endeavor.  Somebody, a long time ago, must have loved daffodils dearly, given the numbers of bulbs. 

 I dug a curved row of holes at the crest of the knoll.  The bulbs were dug and separated from their massive clumps.  I tucked a couple of the biggest bulbs from each clump into each hole. One row became two, then two became three.  A couple hundred bulbs have found a new presence on the farm. 

The first flowers have officially been planted at Hog Lot Flowers at Davis Farm. 

I can hardly wait for next spring.

 I so hope the ancient bulbs will grace the farms with their blooms once again.

Water Witching

My son, Orion, and I were at the farm last Saturday. More work on the flower farm to be. He helped me empty the flooded well pit, so that it could be inspected. Two very knowledgeable brothers, the Ruby's, gave us their thoughts and taught us both a lot about wells.  They declined my offer of compensation.  It seems their relative, Alfred Ruby, had worked as the farm manager a very long time ago.  

As we waited for the brothers, we talked about using city water instead of the well water, and the conversation turned to water witching.  Orion jumped into his jeep and headed out the lane to pluck a utility marker flag from the ground. He carefully bent the metal stick it into an "L" shape, and told me he could locate underground water. He apparently witches for water quite often in his job to locate underground water lines when conventional methods fail.  He even carries witch sticks in his vehicle.

I had some familiarity with water witching, which is also referred to as dousing, divining, or, my very favorite, doodlebugging.  Decades ago, my father hired a water witch to search for an area to drill a well. That douser used a "Y" shaped stick.  He walked back and forth over the land until the point of the stick bent towards the earth. I was fascinated then, and was even more fascinated now.

I always assumed dousing was based on scientific principle.  As Orion lightly held the bent stick with the longest edge pointing straight ahead, he told me there is no scientific basis for dousing. My research since then confirms that.  All at once, his stick turned 90 degrees.  He scraped the sod with his boot.  He walked several feet away and repeated the same process.  Again, the stick turned.  After several more marks, he told me we had found the location of the water line.  Then, he stomped his foot once, twice, and the flag returned to its original position.  He told me the line was two feet under the ground.  By this time, I was in awe of the entire proceeding, and anxious to try it, believing everyone had the ability to witch.

To prove his point, Orion dug a hole where he had marked the sod with his boot.  Sure enough, the line was right there, 18 to 24 inches under the ground.

I begged to try dousing.  It was difficult to get the stick balanced, parallel to the ground, and lightly held, all at the same time.  But, after some coaching from Orion on positioning the stick properly, I met with success.  It is the weirdest sensation to have this stick turn in your hand for no apparent reason.  It is an uncanny experience.  Our dousing was interrupted by the arrival of the well men, so we turned our attention to the well.

I tucked the witch stick into my Suburban, determined to try it at home. I picked up the water line, gas line, downspouts, and french drain.  There is something that runs across the middle of our side yard, though I do not know what it is.  Better Half, my husband, watched, bemused, from the comfort of the patio as I slowly paced around the North Forty, witch stick in hand.  Who knows what the neighbors and passersby thought!

I took the stick to my parent's home Sunday to see if I was descended from a long line of witches.   Mom met with some success.  My brother had no trouble.  The stick danced in his hands.  He, too, was as confounded as I.  Dad had met with little success in the past, so he did not try his hand at it. My other brother pronounced us to be a bunch of kooks, sort of like the scientific community at large.

I, nonetheless, will add a new skill to my resume - Water Witch.

Daffodils

The North Forty is awash with daffodil blooms.  

They are fresh, bright, and gleeful.

 Over the years, I have planted daffodil collections from White Flower Farm -

 all colors, shapes, sizes and styles.

They never fail to delight.

I like to think of this as the family photo.

This little orange and white stunner is one of my favorites.

This bouquet of rather unorthodox of daffodils came to my garden

from the Davis farm, the future sight of the North Forty Gardens.

They grew on a little knoll on the south side of the farmhouse.

I carefully dug some of them years ago and brought them to my home,

where they have been fruitful and multiplied.

They are a wild, unruly profusion of bright yellow and light green petals with no central trumpet.

 They are heirlooms, having been named in 1620 by a Flemish man named Von Sion.

The bulbs made their way to the United States with early settlers.

They were planted in Appalachia on the grounds of homesteads,

where they still bloom, hundreds of years later.

I am grateful to have them bloom in the gardens.

Both families of blooms agreed to a joint photo - 

the tamed with the wild.

Two Steps Forward . . . Three Steps Back

While my body and spirits have soared into Spring, the temperatures have reverted to January. Rain has been frequent.  Not good news for the budding flower farm.

The dozers remain idle. The well pit is flooded. The ground is sodden.

Enthusiasm has been tinged with anxiety this week. A look at the forecast going forward does little to alleviate the anxiety.

I, however, soldier on.

The work is dirty, cold, and decidedly non-glamorous. Not the picture that comes to mind when you think flower farm.

The area around the well was cleared, some of the water was bucketed out and a makeshift well cover was put in place. 

 A burn pile was started

On the brighter positive side, all planted seeds have germinated and are steadily growing under their lights in the basement. A soil sample was delivered for testing. Names of men who work with wells were secured.  An Excel spreadsheet was begun for farm expenses. Market research is ongoing.

The glorious view of the river bottoms as rain pushes its way across the valley delights me as I muck about. Even in the cold, wet, bleak early March dusk, beauty abounds.

A Dream Realized . . . well almost

For many years, I have longed to be a grower of flowers, lots and lots and lots of flowers. I have been inching toward that goal each year.  Rows of vegetables in the community garden gave way to rows of flowers. Last year, two garden plots overflowed with zinnias, cosmos, celosia, snapdragons, and sunflowers. More flowers grew on the North Forty. Sunny summer bouquets made their way to the Portsmouth Main Street Farmer's Market each Saturday morning.

Yet, I continued to long for my own slice of land on which to grow flowers. I beseeched Better Half to find me a little parcel of dirt on his family's farm.

And, here it is, in all its glory, on a gloomy February afternoon. All the trees to the right of the grain bins and elevator leg will soon vanish. 2.25 acres will be available to me for gardening. I was fairly dancing with glee.

Some pretty hefty equipment will be required to turn a forest into a garden plot.

The garden will be sited on an abandoned hog lot not used in decades. Fairly sizable trees, grape vines, and old wire fences litter the property. 

The soil is heavenly - dark loamy top soil, almost a foot deep. I spent a Sunday afternoon with Better Half digging test holes around the property, delighting in the glory beneath my feet. But, wow, what a lot of land. Glee is giving way to apprehension.

My new favorite Saturday morning hangout. Fencing, mowers, Kentucky 31, seeders, seed starting, discs, and garden sheds - the stuff of a flower farmer's existence. The free popcorn is a welcome treat, as we wander about the aisles.

I am schooling myself in electric fencing - joules, voltages, impedance, ground wires, batteries, t posts and the like.  Deer inhabit the space I will now call my garden. They will have to be dealt with.

Seeds are arriving daily from Johnny's Selected Seeds. Better Half helped me to set up a dandy growing station in the basement.

And, we are underway! The first tiny Rudbeckia seedlings have germinated. Many more will join them as spring progresses.

Torrential rains have prevented the dozers from commencing their work. As the list of tasks before me grows, I become ever more anxious to get started. I content myself with research and organization, as I wait for the fields to dry.

This gorgeous book has been a valuable source of information and inspiration.

The Floret Flower Farm blog, a thing of beauty in itself,

 is providing me with a wealth of information about growing.  

Muddy Feet Flower Farm's gorgeous arrangements spur me on.

A tour of Sunny Meadow Flower Farm,

  minutes outside Columbus Ohio,

on a blazing June afternoon last year, showed me, firsthand, 

how much effort, hard work, sweat, and persistence

goes into the business of flower farming.

And yet, I persist in the dream.

Much more to follow . . .

Please come back and share in this dream with me.

Ella and Ben

Introducing

Feeling the need to flex creative muscles this January.

Hence, a new Etsy shop is born.