If you're going to be a farmer, you might as well start by making every possible bad decision. At least, that seems to be our strategy.
Back in early June, we finally built our first four four-by-twenty flower beds. Now before anyone starts doing math and thinking, "Four beds? I thought you were building a flower farm?" Yes, we are. There will eventually be a lot more. But we did these first ones on purpose, as a test.
Why We Started With Just Four Flower Beds, Not Forty
This summer we wanted to watch how water moved across the property after heavy rains, and make sure our drainage plans actually worked in real life, not just on paper. Which felt important, given that most of what I know about growing flowers at this scale comes from books, forums, and a backyard garden that might be a hundredth the size of what we're planning here.
It's much cheaper to move four beds than forty. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
No Golden Hour, Just the Hottest Day North Carolina Could Produce
Let me be clear about how this actually went. There was no golden hour, no cute little playlist, no one looking effortlessly cute while they hammered a board into place. We built these on what I'm still convinced was the hottest day Eastern North Carolina has produced since the invention of weather.
We've got a small event coming up in September with close family and friends. A soft launch for Taeda, and hey, free helping hands to plant fall bulbs.
Somewhere between the house, permits, kids, work, and the other seventeen projects we've convinced ourselves we can handle at once, we realized those flower beds should probably exist before September. Especially if we'd like there to be, you know, flowers.
Checking the Forecast and Building Anyway
Then we checked the forecast. Ninety-something degrees. Humidity somewhere between Florida and the inside of a crockpot.
We looked at each other and said, "Eh, screw it." If you're going to be a flower farmer in Eastern North Carolina, eventually you have to stop waiting for the weather to cooperate. The heat isn't visiting. It lives here. It's basically paying rent.
So we got to work. Questionable decision.
Building Flower Beds in 100-Degree Heat
By lunch my face had reached a shade of burgundy I genuinely didn't know skin could achieve. Not pink, not red, burgundy, like I'd been basted and slow-roasted over hickory. Mom kept eyeing me with concern, and I'd wave her off with an unconvincing "I'm fine," then bend over to screw in another board while feeling my heartbeat in my eyeballs.
I wasn't even mad. I was offended. Personally offended by the audacity of North Carolina in June.
Water wasn't refreshing anymore, it was life support and I was sucking back gallons! Every board weighed seventy pounds, the tape measure disappeared a dozen times, and I spent five minutes looking for my drill before realizing I was holding it.
When Piles of Lumber Finally Looked Like a Flower Farm
But somewhere between the sweat, the sawdust, and what I'm fairly certain was mild heat-induced hallucination, the piles of lumber started looking like flower beds. Real ones. Not another sketch in my notebook. Not another spreadsheet. Not another "someday."
For almost two years, Taeda has mostly lived in permit applications, notebooks, and the occasional "are we completely insane" conversation at dinner. Those four little beds weren't much, but they were proof this thing we've talked about for years is actually happening.
What This Really Means for Taeda's September Soft Launch
Will anyone who visits in September know they were built on the hottest day of the year? Probably not. They'll just see flower beds. I'll see sweat dripping off my nose, my face the color of a beet, and all of us deciding that heat stroke was apparently a reasonable trade for getting one step closer to the dream.
Would I Do It Again?
Would I recommend building raised beds in June? No. Would I do it again? Unfortunately, yes, because I have a sneaking suspicion that's how most farms get built. Not with perfect weather or perfect timing. Just a family staring at a ridiculous forecast, shrugging, and saying, "Well, if we're going to be flower farmers, I guess we'd better start acting like it."
