Too Soon? Maybe. Too Warm to Wait? Absolutely.
Preparing to Plant Zinnias, Cosmos, and Sunflowers Before Mother’s Day Like the Rebel I Am
There’s this old wives’ tale floating around the flower world—or maybe it’s just something every Pennsylvanian grandmother says—that you’re not supposed to plant warm-weather crops until Mother’s Day. Like there’s a mystical maternal force field that activates on the second Sunday in May and makes it safe for tomatoes, marigolds, and zinnias to finally spread their little seedling wings. It’s Mother Nature. I get it. I also may be a tad rebellious.
So, here we are, late April, and it’s been in the 80s all week. The asparagus is trying to bolt, the weeds are entering beast mode, and I’m standing on the edge of a not exactly tiny flower field with an overabundance of seeds and the dawning realization that the season is here. Not someday. Not soon. Now. Tomorrow begins the first succession of warm-weather planting, and spoiler alert: it’s going to take approximately forever. (I’m 4 days in from starting marigold seeds…no progress yet.)
The Holy Trinity of Easy Seeds
If you’re going to dive into a months-long planting marathon, you start with the flowers that offer you a little mercy. Zinnias, cosmos, and sunflowers are the workhorses of the summer cutting garden—reliable, fast-growing, and absurdly easy to direct sow. You just poke a little hole in the soil, (or not and just toss seeds around) drop the seed in, cover it up, water, and trust the process.
Zinnias are the flower equivalent of party confetti—bright, unrelenting & impossible to ignore. Cosmos are gentle and wild, with the breezy charm of something that looks delicate but can survive basically anything. And sunflowers are the drama queens, destined to grow taller than me (well…that’s less than impressive) and command the attention of every bee, butterfly and person walking on the Perkiomen Trail.
The Field is Big and My Delusion is Bigger
Here’s the thing: my planting area is not small. It’s not even medium. It’s big enough for my solo self that when I walk from one end to the other, I briefly forget what year it is. So while I keep telling myself I’m “just going to plant a few beds,” what I’m actually signing up for is hours—days—let’s be honest, months—of crouching in rows, tossing seeds, dragging hoses, and having heartfelt one-sided conversations with robins, ladybugs and worms.
I will begin tomorrow. And then I will continue. And then I will keep going. I am officially entering the phase of the season where every day, all day, for the foreseeable future, will be seed-sowing, weeding, watering, and wondering why I didn’t pace myself better. It’s fine. I’m fine.
The Promise of What’s Coming
What keeps me going (besides caffeine and deeply rooted stubbornness) is the promise of what these little seeds will become. They’ll sprout within a week or so, bloom in 60 to 80 days, and then keep going until frost. They’ll fill my roadside stand, my shed, my kitchen, my arms, and hopefully the arms of every friend and stranger who stops by for a bouquet.
They’ll draw pollinators, spread joy, and remind me daily that magic comes from small beginnings buried in dirt.
In Conclusion: I’m Tired Just Thinking About It
I’m excited. I really am. There’s nothing like the fresh start of a new planting season. But also? I’m preemptively exhausted. My back already hurts and I haven’t even broken out the hoe (Hoe puns are worth everything.) I need a meal I don’t have to cook, a beverage I didn’t pour myself, and maybe a long hug followed by a nap in the sun.
But this is the beginning. The start of the season. The beginning of the work that makes all the beauty happen. So tomorrow, I’ll get out there, sink my hands into the soil, and begin again.
And then I’ll do it again. And again. And again. Every day. All day. All day. All day. Until August and school is back in session. Or the apocalypse. Whichever comes first.
