The Late Bloomer, November Gardens

Here we are—November 1st, 2025—and the garden that my Mother and I planted earlier this year looks better than it ever has. That’s not an exaggeration. After three years of focused gardening (and I mean focused—like, “set-a-time-every-day-to-dig-in-the-dirt” focused), We've somehow ended up with a fall garden that’s thriving harder than anything I planted in spring.

Wherever I’ve lived, I’ve carved out a little patch of earth and made time to plant something. Tomatoes, peppers, marigolds, a few experiments in between. I’ve tried potatoes. I’ve tried corn. I had high hopes for the corn. I did manage to grow some, but let’s just say… it’s not exactly dinner-ready. Yet.

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But here’s the kicker: it’s late fall—early winter, really—and the tomatoes are blooming like they just got the memo. There are more tomatoes now than I’ve seen all year combined. And I’m not even trying that hard anymore.

Back in February, we planted early, hoping for a solid summer crop. We babied those plants. Watered, pruned, whispered sweet nothings. They grew, sure, but they didn’t thrive. Now, with half the effort and none of the expectations, they’re showing off like they’ve got something to prove.

And the marigolds? Don’t get me started. I planted yellow and orange. Only one yellow made it. The orange ones? They’ve been trampled by dogs, ignored, repotted, and generally mistreated. I even reused the soil they were in—figured they were done. But nope. They came back. Not just came back—flourished. And they’re not your average orange, either. These are velvet orange. Two-toned. Like they’re wearing little fall jackets. Compared to my neighbor’s marigolds, mine look like they’re from another planet. A better-dressed planet.

Some of these plants I gave up on last year. I planted them, nothing happened, and I moved on. But now, here they are—growing like they’ve been waiting for their cue. I’ve even got a watermelon vine going. Two melons: one the size of a mushball, the other a volleyball. In November. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not complaining.

So what’s the takeaway here?

Maybe it’s this: don’t give up on the tomatoes. Or the marigolds.

Or the weird little seeds you planted last year that didn’t do a thing. Maybe they just needed time. Maybe you needed time. Maybe the soil needed to be reused, the dogs needed to trample through, and the weather needed to be weirdly perfect in November.

It’s a lesson in patience, sure. But it’s also a reminder to be careful what you plant—because it might grow. Not when you expect it to. Not when you’re watching. But eventually. And when it does, it might surprise you.

Right now, it feels like spring outside. The sky is clear, the sun is bright, the mailman’s walking by, kids are playing, dogs are barking at everything that moves. And I’m standing in the middle of a garden that’s blooming out of season, grateful for whatever harvest may come.

Late or not, it’s still a harvest.

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