October - November 2025
Musings from Waltzing Matilda’s
Dear Family and Friends,
It’s transition season at Waltzing Matilda’s Farm, when fear of frost motivates and dictates our movements.
In late October, dozens of dahlia tubers were dug up, wrapped in newspaper, packed in old fish totes, and stashed in the barn. All the while, boxes stuffed with hundreds of tulip bulbs arrived by mail, begging to be planted. My husband and I—armed with a five-tine broadfork and power drill—spent the weekend drilling holes in cold dirt and burying bulbs. Tubers out. Bulbs in. But what to do with gladiolus bulbs known as corms? It’s a toss-up here in New England, and so I pulled them up and lopped off the stems, cradled the corms inside mesh bags, and hung them to dry in the barn. We’ll see in spring if it was the right decision.
The broadfork now hangs in the shed, and the power drill has retired from gardening. The acorn squash and pumpkins have all been picked. And the zinnias, velvety amaranths that remind me of dreadlocks, and dahlias—my late-blooming divas—were cut down (thank you, Lenka) and given away when the weatherman forecasted frost.
tubers
Magnificent season for our home grown dahlias
Our own red spike amaranths, zinnias, dahlias and hydrangeas
Fear of frost aside, autumn is my favorite season. I love the season’s smells. Of corn stalks and wood burning. Of wool and that dusty, slightly-sweet scent of decaying leaves. And what’s not to love about the siting of red berries in a marsh when you’ve got a pair of Felco clippers in the car? Shhhh.
Arrangements stuffed with ephemeral summer flowers have given way to hardy marigolds, cabbages, berries, and fall foliage. I lean heavily on the New England Flower Exchange for its southern imports this time of year. With coffee in the cup holder and dog in the passenger seat, I enjoy the pre-dawn drive to Chelsea’s flower market when the city is quiet.
Red spider lily from Japan, cattails, and rose-like, chocolate lisianthus
And now?
We wait. In that in-between space ... when the harvest is finished, the garden has been put to bed, and the 2026 seed catalogs from Maine-based Johnny’s Selected Seeds have yet to arrive. When clocks are turned back. When days are short and dark.
There’s a name for that feeling of “in-betweenness,” says poet Heather Coughlin on Substack. She calls it “liminality.” I just read her gorgeous poem “A prayer for productivity,” which she describes as a “lament for lost light.”
She writes (in part):
I pray for strength
to unzip the hour
betwixt and between
dogs of summer and winter wolves
stirring in their wooded dens.
...I pray for discipline
to walk the field
on the edge of winter’s work
making hay, closing out,
doing more with less.
Heather C. and I first met in Baton Rouge, Louisiana when I was a new English teacher at Episcopal High School, and she a student. Nearly 30 years later, our paths crossed again. We re-discovered one another while raising kids in the same town, now exchanging poetry and flowers. Funny how strangely, unexpectedly, wonderful life’s interconnectedness can be.
On that note, let’s all stay connected—during this season of transition, and beyond. Thank you for supporting me and my business.
With gratitude,
Heather Anderson
P.S. As I write this, the coyotes (ok, not wolves) are howling outside.
Below: Flowers for Berklee College of Music’s Global Summit evening, October 2025
