Fruition Flowers

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Fruition Flowers

Gardener. Forager. Designer. Born to a beekeeper and a florist’s bookkeeper, I was destined to be surrounded by blooms. fru·i·tion [froo-ish-uhn] noun.
1.

attainment of anything desired; accomplishment
2. enjoyment, as of something realized.
3. state of bearing fruit.

30/05/2025

The view from my breakfast table on what I hope to be my last day of chemotherapy. At first I was astounded by the stem length of these anemone, much like the 24 weeks I was told treatment would be; long as hell. I picked them for one of the special few weddings I’ll do this year, but they opened a little too late or a little too pink, so I kept them for myself. I felt that way about my social worker in the start too, she’s so young and perennially positive, her name ends with an ‘i’ and on our first phone call when she asked what I would do for self care that January day and I wanted to scream through the phone that I had gotten out of bed and that seemed like the most I could do for my miserable self; I was sure we couldn’t be the right fit. Little did I know that she would be the best antidote for the difficult days, she was also the sweet baby angel who coordinated the gift my bride made on Tuesday when she delivered all the leftover wedding flowers to my oncology unit. My favorite nurse texted me a photo of a bridesmaid bouquet in her homemade ‘mom’ mug and I was blissed out to see my worlds collide in such a wonderful way. I should say my favorite nurse has largely been my only nurse through all this, so while she’s certainly earned the superlative by distracting me with garden talk through Benadryl stupors and self-induced brain freezes (cold capping), I was sort of enchanted by her before I’d even met her. She was my dad’s nurse first. Anyone who knows him knows he’s not one to delve out praise, you’re more likely to hear him call someone a bonehead in Boston traffic. It seems so fitting that although my dad’s chemo ended before mine began, we will both be in treatment today, tethered to our drip lines with the most qualified, caring eyes watching over us. When put in pairs, these anemones sure look like eyes too, barely blush, almost bloodshot from all the happy tears, looking right back at me. I’m off to the farm to pick some poisonous foxglove for my favorite human antidotes.

13/03/2025

My bowl is brimming. The way that my far flung friends found out wasn’t what I wanted, but I couldn’t stand seeing more faces fall or making that awkward call. So many of you reached out and without knowing made sure I didn’t regret spilling it all on social media, and for that I’m so grateful. My friends in Ireland, my garden club ladies, and especially my high school boss, who first fostered my love for floristry reached out to say she once had the same rare breast cancer as I do. Although I call her mom for being there for me during those formative years, our diagnoses aren’t genetic or hormonal, but entirely environmental. Whatever got this growing in me is a mystery, but she pointed out that it could be an occupational hazard I’d never considered: pesticides, herbicides, and fungicides from foreign flowers. For years before farming I worked exclusively with imports, most arriving from Central and South America where anything goes to ensure flowers arrive flawless and cheap. I followed the flowers, and sought employment in so many facets of the industry, from flower shops to a wholesaler, stripping stems of foliage, peeling away imperfect petals, and ignoring the way roses looked splashed with saltwater, leaving a residue of poison that had probably been banned in this country decades ago. So, while I kick myself for not wearing gloves, like the sans sunscreen days of my youth, I never imagined it would catch up to me. The doctors like to say ‘everyone’s different’ so maybe I’ll cruise through it all and come out the other end an Amazon woman able to balance a bucket on my hip, held against a breast-less trunk, cutting these gorgeous flowers effortlessly; but maybe I won’t be. Like people, (according to doctors) everyone’s different, and these dahlias are no exception; varied in form and color, textured like honeycomb or quilled like cacti. I hope you’ll plant some this year, so that even if my September self isn’t cutting them, you can still have poison-free flowers on your dinner table. Available now on my site, free of tariffs, and only for pick up at my beloved

14/02/2025

My fortieth Valentine’s Day wasn’t supposed to go this way. I should be on my big flat feet, bolstering friends by slinging flowers from their shops. But today, and for the next twenty Fridays, I’ll spend six hours tethered to a plastic bag, receiving a slow drip of poison. Two days before my fortieth birthday, on Christmas Eve, I learned I had caught the cancer, specifically TNBC. It was my own fault, in a way, finding out on that day, because the lump had been there since at least October. But I had a field still full of flowers, and a fresh diagnosis for my dad, who had just started chemo when came out to the farm to take these photos. My doctor had given me a referral for a mammo, and I left it in a pile of unopened mail, sure that I could wait until my birthday so said tests would be covered by my measly marketplace insurance. Since then, I’ve been searching for silver linings everywhere, little things, like spending Inauguration Day sedated for a surgical port insertion. We’ve all felt a little scared about what’s around the next corner, worried about who the next ill-equipped appointee will be, which makes me feel so much less alone. My shared sense of dread is compounded by a clump of cells that I carry around on my chest, but it’s no different from all of yours. So, go get that screening, follow , light a candle for Luigi, and stop sending weddings my way! I’m working with a select few brides who I just couldn’t say no to, and to give me small, sublime celebrations to look forward to. Whatever you do, don’t pity me, treatment has been a breeze, and has only personified itself in an angry little chemo toe, (which I promise to keep kicked up all day today). It’s not nearly as bad as that candy-floss-covered-toe whose diapered derrière is planted in the Oval Office.

17/11/2024

It’s been nearly a week since they’ve left and I’m still finding Easter egg shells around the house. Well, really just remnants of the mismatched plastic shells, having been torn at their flimsy hinges during our scavenger hunt last weekend. These precious little people aren’t mine, but they love when I tease them that I’ll steal them from my sisters to live with me forever, and I love when they fight in the backseat about how my name is spelled: ‘TT’ or ‘Titi’. When they’re gone I get nostalgic over even the messes they leave behind; crumbs of air dry clay in the dining room, a broken nutcracker under the coffee table from their first ballet, and the pieces of crayons that got cracked in the absence of nuts. Someone said to me, months ago, when I was delivering flowers to the country store what a beautiful life I’d created for myself, and they were right, but it’s not just for me, it’s for them too. I wished someone had shown me as a kid that there were other ways to live this finite time on earth than chasing a salary and benefits; that perhaps pursuing something that satisfies my self, but also to produce something with value ethically. While they are still innocently unaware of the election results that will shape the world they’re due to inherent, the littlest ones are on a copycat kick, one getting mad at the other for also voting for Burger King for their pre-ballet dinner. While their world of wealth distribution is still measured in Pokémon cards, I’m always here for them to take a weekend off (without a pesky time off request) to make a mess and clean it up when they’re long gone. I loathe to think what messes they will be cleaning up when we are gone. Thank you for capturing these moments, because eventually we will all be dead; a fact crystallized in another backseat brawl that ended with a three year old screaming ‘I’m not gonna die’ while his sister insists we all will. 💀

16/08/2024

Saturday I stepped on a nail. Specifically an upturned piece of strapping pierced with a roofing nail that fell off the end wall of the tunnel ages ago. In an effort to avoid my own tragic death by tetanus, my left arm was an absolute noodle by Tuesday. It didn’t keep me from cutting the juiciest apricot lisianthus for a local designer, and this isn’t even half of it. When she contacted me to see if I could save her week with forty stems, I knew I could, I’d been drowning in them for almost two weeks, tucking them into mixed bouquets; true long-stemmed treasures hidden away in paper sleeves. It’s all felt like that lately, high yields and higher stakes as we slip into peak season on the farm, and the reassuring realization that I’ll always have just as much as I need. If there’s excess, it can bloom out there for no one. Although the job is infinitely harder with my bum arm, the posts needed to be driven in this week to support the dahlias through September, and hurricane season. Struggling under the weight of a post hole pounder, I’m still grateful that my foot found that nail before the beloved John Deere mower did. If we couldn’t cut the grass, I might lose my mind, sliding around in wet sandals that keep catching slugs. The kids today say ‘touch grass’ but for someone who spends most of my days outdoors, my sanity is sustained in cutting grass, it’s like cleaning your room and washing your windows all in one go, so satisfying (another phrase my niece and nephews now over use). So, to my fellow farmers who are feeling the aches of August; go cut grass, surely you’ll feel better.

01/07/2024

Just like that, it’s July. It’s hard to believe that the year is halfway over, my brain doesn’t believe it because I measure mine by brides. So far this summer, I’ve only sent eight of them down the aisle clutching my creations. While it gives me endless joy to cross things off lists, weddings aren’t always one of them. I love my brides, so letting them go from the grips of wedding planning is tough, since it’s often the only thing that tethers us. What softens the blow is all the ways I get hyped up by strangers in hotel elevators, or moms whose babies are getting married and they’re crying over a cuff that I made, out of materials that I grew. The wedding day energy is electric, and I just feel fortunate to be in the force field of it all. Saturdays post wedding exhaustion was countered by elation when I came home to a little surprise from a friend who found me through flowers; perhaps the most powerful force in my field-grown world these days. This is me, taking a big old bow, as July is an intentionally slow month for me, just one wedding, but so many road trips, beach days, and berry picking to be done in a month. Since I don’t live within the boxes of a calendar, I nearly missed American grown flowers week, we just happen to be right in the middle of that too.

19/04/2024

The face of a kid who can’t comprehend food scarcity. She’s so far removed from it that she’s been practicing her pronunciation of ‘croissant’ for that promised trip to Paris for her tenth birthday. Even after explaining what a food pantry was, she wanted to know more, begging me to let her stay at to hand daffodils out to folks who were there for something to eat, not frivolous flowers. She was disappointed we weren’t going to sell them…’not even for like ten cents?!’ -a budding capitalist. It made me think of her winter work making a business plan, she called me from her watch to ramble on about said plan, punctuated by the over emphasized word ‘payday’. Meanwhile, me, a business owner who should be the one planning for future paydays, I try not to let myself get caught up in little financial failures like too many daffodils. I can’t be bothered with business plans that pertain to each and every crop, but I’m happy to cut every flower out in the field, so they’re not left there, blooming for no one. Thank you and for being the best kind of bother by asking for centerpieces for your events, it’s kept me busy during these weddingless weekends and reminded me that there are never too many daffodils. I told my sweet little niece that we have plenty more daffodils where those came from, and when you have an abundance of something, you should share it with those who don’t. For any of you who might be experiencing your own payday today, I’ll have these stocked at 💸

07/04/2024

Here’s to being more like a hellebore. Sure, I’m not one to rush out of hibernation, seed starting isn’t my strong suit. But the notion of living all my years in one place, preferably a well shaded piece of New Hampshire is my squinty blue eyed dream come true. I’m trying harder to be a perennial princess, disappearing for the winter to visit other hellebores living in Scottish castles or formal French gardens, banking away all my energy and inspiration to bloom bigger each spring. Their rubbery stems and leathery blooms were unfazed by those greasy four inches of April snow. They sprung up to show their leathery faces the very next day, like me in a way. If you’re one of those who asks what flower farmers do all winter, it’s this: hibernate in hopes of storing enough energy to bloom for another year. And tax accounting, seed starting, reading, dahlia dividing, garden planning, wallpapering, wedding proposal writing, applying for federal funding, and above all traveling to see what’s blooming elsewhere. Oftentimes travel seeds a subtle affirmation that I’m planted in the most perfect place in the whole world, near my own hill of hellebores. I guess I’m not so far off from becoming one.

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