By Emma Seibert

A few nursery Ricksters had been growing tomatoes in our greenhouses this winter as an experiment. In hopes of helping gardeners sample certain varieties before they commit to growing, nursery crew member Emma was dedicated to growing tomatoes and selling them as produce over the winter. Accidents happen to the best of us, however, including garden centers. Though crop failure is tragic, it’s not a sign to stop growing. Rickster Emma will talk you through her recent experience with crop failure…

A regular part of my job, especially in the summertime, is helping customers troubleshoot the issues they are seeing with their vegetable gardens and flower beds. Sometimes customers come in and I am able to recommend different caregiving techniques that can help bring their plants back to full health. Other times, I have the unfortunate job of bearing the news that the plant in question is either beyond saving, or even more heart wrenching, that it is dead. And that is what I wanted to talk about today. Dead plants are a rather sensitive topic for most growing enthusiasts; whether you’re a farmer and the health of your crop determines your livelihood or you’re just beginning your houseplant collection, crop failure is painful. 
On August 26th, 2024, I seeded 32 tomatoes to plant them in large farm troughs in one of our greenhouses, with the intention of sharing the organic, local greenhouse-grown fruit with you all during the cold winter months. We wanted to provide our community with locally grown, ‘out of season’ produce that was flavorful and that you all could feel good about purchasing, knowing exactly where it was grown. 
On January 13th, 2025, the tomato plants were nearly touching the roof of the greenhouse. They were blossoming and nearly every plant was fruiting. The green globes that hung from the tender stems had a yellow hue, indicating that ripening was mere days away. The stripes on the Purple Bumblebee tomatoes were starting to darken and the folds in the skin on the Sub-Arctic Plenty were beginning to smooth out, firming up the skin and giving it a glossy appearance. The first harvest date was so close I could nearly taste the tang of the Sweetie cherry tomatoes. 
Then that same evening, the heater in the greenhouse wouldn’t turn on, despite the thermostat readings dropping. For some reason the thermostat and the unit heater were not communicating, but we couldn’t figure out why. As I got in my car to go home that night, I tried to remain hopeful that something would kick on, that someone would be able to figure out what was wrong in the next 20 minutes before the store closed for the night; all while watching the temperature readings in my car drop below 32 degrees. 
The morning of January 14th, I hustled to the greenhouse as quickly as I could. Before I could even open the door, I knew it was done. There was frost coating the inside of the greenhouse walls; it had gotten cold enough inside for the condensation from the previous day’s healthy plant transpiration to freeze, indicating to me that every tomato plant inside must be frozen too. I went inside anyway and saw what I already knew to be true; every beautiful plant was frozen in time. The leaves were slightly wilted but maintained their vibrant green color, iced over in the moment of their last breath. It turns out that the safety fuse in the greenhouse heater blew out the previous day, preventing the heater from turning on despite the thermostat telling it to do so. We were unable to replace it in time for that night’s low of 10 degrees. As the daytime temperatures rose, the cell walls thawed and tomato plants flopped in defeat, their fruit turning to mush in my hands. 
I cried, really hard. For a long time. I am not telling you this story to make you sad or say woe is me and my little crop of tomatoes. I am telling you to try to be of comfort; crop failure happens and hurts at every stage. I am telling you because I want you to know that yes, crop failure is a fact of life in the horticulture world. And also, the pain associated with such loss is a fact of that life too. So if you come in to show me your plant that is struggling and I tell you that it is dead, know that I understand that pain too. And I will do my best to help you pivot your crop, like I did with mine. 
After the sore task of digging up all of the spent tomato plants, I went back and seeded some other, more cold-tolerant crops. And soon, the greenhouse will be a miniature forest again, but this time of kale and spinach, lettuce, and Swiss chard. I am not perfect, and neither are you, and neither is anyone no matter the extent of their experience. We all have to pivot sometimes and just know that the pivot can be the seed for new success.