Under the Carport

The Stories I Hear Make Me Realize This Isn't Just a Daylily Farm

Every open day starts about the same.

I get up early and head to the carport before the first customers arrive. I cover our three picnic tables with patterned tablecloths, fill little glass votives with fresh blooms from the field, water the hanging baskets, and make sure our daylily lists are stapled to clipboards so everyone has something to carry as they wander.

It's a simple routine, but it's important to me.

I know some customers may be waiting a while for their orders to be dug, especially if they've created quite the shopping list. I want them to have a comfortable place to sit, visit, and enjoy being here.

What I didn't expect when we opened the farm was that the carport would become more than a waiting area.

It has become a place where stories are shared.

As I'm writing down orders or answering questions, conversations naturally begin. People talk with one another, and before long they begin telling me pieces of their lives. Every time it happens, I feel honored. There's something special about someone trusting you enough to share a memory that's important to them.

Many people tell me how they first fell in love with daylilies.

Almost every story begins with someone else.

A mom who always had the prettiest flower beds. A grandfather who couldn't pass up a new variety. A grandmother who divided plants every summer and insisted everyone leave with a few fans to take home.

The flowers become more than flowers. They're reminders of the people who first taught them to appreciate beauty. They're traditions that have quietly been passed from one generation to the next.

One family recently brought their mother to visit our farm. She was over ninety years old and in a wheelchair. They carefully pushed her through the fields in the summer heat for well over an hour.

Someone quietly mentioned that they weren't sure how much longer they would have with her.

That moment has stayed with me.

Out of all the places she could have spent her day, she chose to come to our little farm. Even with limited energy, she wanted to be surrounded by blooming daylilies and the people she loved.

What that family took home wasn't just a few plants.

They took home one more memory.

One more afternoon together.

One more story they'll tell long after the flowers have settled into their own gardens.

Moments like that remind me this isn't really about flowers.

Another conversation I hear almost every open day is about cancer.

Someone tells me they've beaten it and finally have the strength to plant the garden they've always wanted. Someone else has just received a diagnosis and wants something beautiful outside their window while they fight. Others are planting flowers in memory of someone they've lost.

Those conversations have changed me.

They've reminded me that much of what I think is "hard" really isn't. The people sitting across from me have faced challenges I can barely imagine, yet they still find joy in planting something beautiful.

There's something about tending a garden that gives us hope.

When we're reminded that life is fragile, we seem to crave beauty a little more. We want to spend time with family. We notice the birds, the sunshine, and the flowers blooming outside our windows. Growth suddenly matters.

Maybe that's why I love daylilies so much.

Each bloom lasts only a single day.

Tomorrow, it's gone.

Yet somehow that makes it more beautiful, not less.

It reminds me that the best things in life aren't meant to last forever. They're meant to be noticed while they're here.

I think about that every time I watch someone's face light up after finding the perfect bloom.

It's the same expression I have every morning when I walk the garden and discover a flower opening for the very first time.

"Oh wow... look at that."

This year we've welcomed so many first-time visitors. Many of them live just a few miles away and tell me they had no idea Daylily Connection even existed.

They leave saying they can't believe this little hidden gem was right down the road.

I always smile because it reminds me that we're not the only hidden gem around here.

Just down the road is Souder's Sweet Corn, where Holly and Steve have created a wonderful farm offering fresh produce and locally raised meats. A little farther down the road is Little

Blue River Lavender Farm, where Christie is building something beautiful of her own. And here in Rush County, Tammy at Golden Hour Iris Farm is sharing her stunning irises with gardeners across the country.

I imagine they hear stories just like ours.

Stories about family traditions.

Stories about anniversaries, healing, grandchildren, and gardens planted in memory of someone loved.

Stories that remind them their work matters.

Sometimes we think community is built through big events or grand gestures.

But maybe it's built one conversation at a time.

One family outing.

One flower.

One memory.

Under our little carport, we aren't simply selling daylilies.

We're creating a place where people slow down long enough to remember the people they love, celebrate the life they're living, and make one more memory together.

And every open day, those stories remind me that this was never just a daylily farm.