First Times
When I was a middle school writing teacher, one of my favorite prompts was to ask children to write about a “first time” or a “last time” that they did something. While the last time stories were often the most poignant, first time stories have their charm and were definitely the prompt of choice among the middle school set. Popular topics included the first time they rode a bike, the first time they got a puppy, or the first time they went skiing.
I had some of my own favorite first times. I remember the first time, while riding a ferry to a dear friend's wedding, my colicky first born laughed. He had spent the prior three and a half months crying almost all the time, often at peak volume. If he wasn’t sleeping, which was rare, he was mostly crying. I was so nervous about taking him to the wedding amongst my mostly unmarried, but wholly childless friends, and revealing the terror of motherhood to all. On that ferry ride something magical happened; someone shook an empty plastic cup of ice. When the ice rattled around, my son stared intently at the cup and then laughed, a distinct, unmistakable giggle. Something inside of me shifted. I realized there was something joyous ahead, and my days weren’t all going to be bouncing a screaming baby up and down. It was like watching a sunrise after a week of storms, when all of the previous rainy days vanish in a moment, and you are drenched in promise. The crying was in the past; smiles paved the future.
When starting out as a flower farmer, there are so many firsts–-the first seed started, the first bouquet sold, and the first crop disaster survived. I like firsts because they put me in the mindset of a child, a place of curiosity and wonder about what this first time will be. Yesterday I had a beautiful kind of first, my first fall-sown, cold-hardy annual bloomed. It was also my first blue flower. There aren’t a lot of blue flowers. It is my first bachelor’s button. There is something magical about planting a flower seed in September, watching it take root, grow green and flourish, only to be frozen in time over the winter. These baby seedlings survived two polar blasts and a very soggy January to awaken in the spring, grow tall and strong, and provide the first blooms of the spring garden. I am filled with admiration for this bloom. Sure there are bigger and fancier flowers, ranunculus leaps to mind, but this little guy (called a filler flower in the trade) has so much to offer.
I remember picking bachelor’s buttons as a child, the pale blue color, the thick square-ish stem. They often grew on the corners of our suburban blocks in the area around the stop sign that did not get mowed or on the sides of the trails that I would hike with my father and sister. I loved to gather them up and bring them home as a bouquet for my mom. The cultivated varieties that I am growing are different. They are a more electric blue. They have more petals, but they still echo the unkempt beauty of a meadow wildflower.
For anyone looking for an easy garden success and a magical “first time,” I highly recommend preparing an area and planting some bachelor’s buttons this fall. I planted mine mid-September. They survive our New Jersey winters to put on a show before the summer favorites like sunflowers and zinnias arrive. Their arrival in the spring reminds me very much of the first laugh of a fussy baby, signaling that the tough days of winter are over and sunshine and cheery blooms lie ahead.
In other farm news, bachelor’s buttons seem to be mostly what I have right now. The warm week in early April meant the tulips arrived early and the chilly end of April meant everything else slowed down. While I have bachelor’s buttons and orlaya, I’m waiting for some larger blooms to start making bouquets. I’m looking forward to having bouquet flowers ready to go in another three weeks or so, and I will be sure to send all the details.
