Drift Farm

Our Farm

 
 

OUR FARM

I USED TO BE SNOW WHITE, BUT I DRIFTED. – Mae West

I was seduced by flowers, to be specific. One day, Hubby 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 flowers.

I should know better, because I grew up on a farming-ranching operation in Montana, so I have witnessed the long hours and high risks. But I was bewitched by blooms, and I drifted.

While drifting involves finding the course of least resistance, don’t mistake it for being easy. Anybody can grow a zinnia. But calling yourself 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

 
 
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raised rock beds

My property would fit into a Flinstone cartoon. Living in the Lake Tahoe Basin means we are blessed with granite boulders. See how this lily patch is nestled into a boulder the size of a Volkswagen bug. From there I have chipped out a series of raised beds, using rocks.

 
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BRANCHES

Having a wide variety of native shrubs and trees means I have ample branches with blooms and berries to help stretch the season at the altitude of 6000 feet.

 
 
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WILD FLOWERS THRIVE

If I could only grow one flower it would be rudbeckia. Echinacea also thrives in our rocky, sandy soil.