Named for a lemon tree that never made it.

When Liz bought the property, the only plant in the ground was a stubborn little lemon tree that the previous owner had babied through three winters. It did not survive the fourth.

The name stayed. By the next spring, where the lemon tree had been there were rows of zinnia, cosmos, and dahlia — and a handwritten sign on the road that read Liz's Lemon Farm — No Lemons Sold.

Five seasons later, we're still here. Still small. Still cutting bouquets at dawn. The flowers travel a few miles, not a few thousand, and that's the whole point.