Drift Farm
Fresh, seasonal blooms




– Mae West

I was seduced by flowers, to be specific. One day, Papa Bear was patting me on the head for my six-figure salary, and the next day he noticed the dirt under my fingernails. I’d been farming. All day long. I am a slut for growing flowers.

I should know better, because I grew up on a farming-ranching operation, so I know more about the high risk and low reward quotient than any of my business development peers.

I am bewitched by blooms. Velvety iris lure me. Snowy Jonquilla nod at me. Peonies waft into my sinuses. So I drift.

While drifting involves finding the course of least resistance, it is not easy. Anybody can grow a zinnia. But being a cut flower farmer entails growing bloom piles big enough to move with a pitch fork. Real farmers grow in drifts. Their sumptuous blooms pillow out and tumble over their beds in sloppy abandon. People standing downwind moan in approval as the scent fills their nostrils. Those lucky enough to tuck these blooms in a vessel of water celebrate a sensuous gift.

I’m glad I drifted.  I've always admired those who craft. My dad is an accomplished farmer. He won awards for soil conservation improvements and served as a leader in his industry. He succeeded in the face of huge risks and took all things in his big strides. 

By the way, Dad says the best way to get dirt from under your fingernails is with a knife. That’s called drifting with an edge.