From mowing teen to flower farmer
My flower-farming journey began the summer of ’83 when my dad made me cut the lawn. My brothers had moved out, and I was his only hope, the runt of the litter.
Dad had replaced the builder’s grade grass with zoysia plugs that spread across the slope of our suburban yard till the turf looked like green carpet—in the summer. All winter its wheat-brown hue stood out, drab among the yards on our road, but—for three months—its lush, thick blades earned compliments.
Dad owned a Black and Decker electric mower. At the end of each row of mowing I had to push a button, flip the handle over the engine, and trod in the opposite direction. The trick was to make sure I flipped the extension cord, too, or I’d run over it. Wads of electrical tape on the cord proved others had made this mistake. (I’m grateful for my battery-powered model now.)
Of all my brothers, I remember Peter cutting the grass the most when I was a kid. He’d go out there shirtless with big headphones on and stripe up the yard. This was before Walkmans (let alone AirPods…), so I’m not sure how he connected to music. He probably strung another extension cord from the living room stereo out a window. He was always finagling technology—made a career out of it. I don’t know if Peter got paid or if grass cutting was his means to food and shelter, but Dad paid me ten bucks a week.
It was hard work for my adolescent limbs, and I must’ve looked pathetic to passersby as I struggled over that thick mass of zoysia on the little suburban hill. But I did it all summer. And I dragged watering cans of Miracle Gro up the backyard to Dad’s vegetable garden, too. His garden and yard were a fraction of what I tend now, but the tasks seemed huge as a teen.
Looking back, it wasn’t complete drudgery. Maybe I was motivated by the money. Or Dad’s unprecedented praise. Or the physical benefits of the tasks. I grew so strong that summer I made the varsity cross country team and ran personal bests repeatedly. Maybe I enjoyed the outdoor work, the smell of cut grass and tomatoes on the vine, the tangible proof of labor. I didn’t know then the power of nature to produce endorphins, but my body did.
Dad died long before I started a flower business. But he wouldn’t be surprised. He surely saw I had the potential all along.