About Us
Sassy Sprigs is a little flower farm with a front door.
What began in a backyard in Byron now stretches from the flowers growing at our farm to a big table inside Sassy Sprigs Garden Studio on Main Street. In between, there are locally grown blooms, plants, garden goods, workshops, kids with dirt on their hands, friends spending an evening around the table, and plenty of conversations about what we're all trying to grow.
We grow small on purpose. It means we can choose flowers because they're fragrant, unusual, nostalgic, ridiculously beautiful or simply too interesting to leave out of the garden—not because they were bred to survive a trip across the country. And when another Middle Georgia farmer is growing something wonderful that we don't have, we're happy to tell you exactly whose hands grew those stems.
Because buying local should feel local.
You should be able to know where your flowers came from, ask a question about the plant you're taking home, bring your child in to discover what's happening underneath the soil, or come back three weeks later and tell us whether those seeds finally germinated.
Sassy Sprigs isn't just somewhere to buy something pretty. It's a place to grow it, learn it, make it, share it, and occasionally get dirt all over the table doing it.
Our
Story
Sassy Sprigs didn't start in a peaceful, dreamy chapter of my life. There wasn't a grand plan to become a flower farmer or open a Garden Studio.
I was burned out.
It was one of those stretches where everything felt heavy—the job, the laundry, the weather, the endless list of things that needed something from me. I was annoyed with pretty much the entire world that week.
Then one random flower popped up in my yard.
I stopped to look at it.
Nothing around me had changed. Everything that had been weighing on me was still there, and unfortunately the laundry hadn't folded itself. But for a moment, this tiny, beautiful thing interrupted all of it. I felt joy.
I remember thinking, “Oh... I needed that.”
So I planted another flower. Then another. And, in what I now recognize as a recurring problem, another. 😂 Before long there were seedlings, new beds, flowers tucked into every available space and plans for whatever patch of dirt I hadn't claimed yet.
Eventually there were enough blooms to put some out at a little roadside stand in Byron.
That's when I discovered I wasn't the only one who needed them.
People stopped and told me where the flowers were going. A teacher. A birthday. A friend having a terrible week. Someone's kitchen table. Sometimes there wasn't an occasion at all; someone simply saw a bouquet and decided she wanted something beautiful that day.
I understood that one particularly well.
Flowers have a wonderfully disproportionate ability to affect an ordinary moment. They don't solve anything. They can't change the week you're having. But they can interrupt it. They can say I thought about you without requiring a speech. They can remind you of someone you love or somewhere you've been.
Plants had been doing that for me long before Sassy Sprigs. Lilies, lily-of-the-valley, daffodils, lemongrass and Confederate roses all belong to people and places in my memories. Now my own children are growing up surrounded by flowers and gardens, and I sometimes wonder which ones will someday make them think of home.
So why “Sassy”?
Because somewhere along the way, I realized I have very little interest in growing boring flowers.
I love the ones with personality—the zinnia that's almost offensively pink, the celosia that looks like it belongs on another planet, the dahlia that takes itself entirely too seriously, the flower with a crooked stem that somehow makes the whole bouquet better. I love old-fashioned flowers that remind people of somebody, varieties you don't see every day, and the ones that make you stop in front of a bucket and say, “What is THAT?”
Growing small gives me the freedom to choose them.
I don't have to choose every variety because it can survive being packed into a box, shipped across the country and still look identical to the fifty stems beside it. I can grow something because it's fragrant, delicate, nostalgic, weird, ridiculously beautiful—or simply because I think somebody is going to love it.
The garden has personality. I think the things we bring home from it should, too.
That's the sassy part.
As the roadside stand grew, something else happened. People didn't always leave after they bought their flowers.
They stayed and talked.
We talked about what was blooming, what they were growing, the plant they couldn't keep alive, the seeds they wanted to try. Kids wanted to touch things and smell things and know what everything was. Customers became familiar faces, and conversations about flowers wandered into gardens, children, food, work and life.
The stand had been built to hold flowers, but somehow it kept becoming a place for people.
And I loved that part.
I started wondering what Sassy Sprigs could become if there were room for more of it. A place where children could dig into why things grow. Where someone could learn instead of worrying that she doesn't have a “green thumb.” Where friends could finally have the night out they'd been talking about. Where flowers could cover the table Friday night and kids could cover it in dirt Saturday morning—and their parents could leave that particular mess with me. 😂
So, in yet another moment of chaos, the little flower farm got a front door.
Today, there's a big table at 112 Main Street in downtown Byron, and in many ways, everything I wanted Sassy Sprigs to become happens around it.
The farm is still where so much begins. I still start the seeds, grow the plants, cut the flowers and get ridiculously excited when something I've watched for months finally blooms. The Garden Studio simply gives all of that somewhere to meet you.
And I still think about that first random flower.
It didn't fix my burnout. It didn't make anything on my to-do list disappear. It simply interrupted a hard moment with a beautiful one.
But that little interruption mattered enough that I planted another flower.
Then another.
Years later, here we are.
So if you're having one of those weeks when the job, the laundry, the weather and approximately everything else have gotten on your last nerve, I know that week.
Come see what's blooming. You might find your own little “Oh... I needed that.”
— Felicia
