About Tree Seed Guide

Why I started Tree Seed Guide

I was twelve when my dad tried to grow tomatoes in our backyard, and by July, they were all wilted under black plastic.

He swore the soil was ‘too dry’ or ‘not rich enough,’ but I knew the real problem: the seeds had been planted too deep, and the seedlings had drowned before they could see the light.

That summer, I started keeping a notebook—soil temps, watering times, what the leaves looked like when they were happy. It wasn’t a garden yet. It was a ledger of mistakes.

Years later, I realized most gardening advice is either too vague (‘give it sunlight’) or too rigid (‘plant in full sun, 6 hours minimum’).

This site is for the people who want the *why* behind the steps: the soil thermometer readings that tell you when to plant, the way a tomato leaf curls if it’s thirsty, the quiet moments when a seedling finally pushes through the dirt. No fluff.

Just the details that turn ‘hopefully this works’ into ‘this will grow.’

Meet the founder

My dad’s tomato plants were my first lesson in gardening, but the real teacher was my grandmother.

She grew okra in clay pots on her balcony, and every time I asked why she didn’t use ‘good soil,’ she’d hand me a trowel and say, ‘Dig it up and tell me.’ That’s how I learned: by getting my hands dirty and noticing what the plants *told* me.

The first time I tried her method, I overwatered the okra seeds so badly they rotted before sprouting. She just laughed and said, ‘Now you know.’

I still have the clay pot from that day—it’s cracked down the middle, but I use it every spring to start my peppers. The cracks are why I check soil moisture twice: once by feel, once by the pot’s weight. It’s a reminder that even the best methods need adjustments.

My notebook from that summer is yellowed now, but I still flip through it when I’m unsure. Some rules are worth breaking if the plants say so.

The failure that changed everything was my first attempt at grafting tomatoes. I followed a YouTube tutorial word for word, and the scion dried out within a week. What I didn’t know then was that humidity matters more than timing.

Now, I graft under a plastic tent and mist the leaves every few hours. That mistake turned me from a gardener who followed instructions into one who asks, *‘Why does this work?’*

I have a habit of talking to my plants when I’m transplanting them. Not loudly—just enough to keep my hands steady. My grandmother did it too, and I’ve never met a seedling that didn’t seem to listen. It’s silly, but it works.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of the words that slows me down, or maybe the plants just like the company. Either way, I’m not letting go of it.

Meet the mascot

The first sketch of what would become our mascot was on a napkin at a café in Portland, Oregon. I’d just spent an hour watching a sunflower seedling push through the soil, and I wanted to capture that moment—when the sprout is still small, but you can *see* it fighting.

My first scribble had too many leaves and a face that looked more confused than determined. I crossed it out and started over, focusing on the curve of the stem and the way the first true leaves unfurl.

The next version was drawn on graph paper, where I could measure the angles. I simplified the face to just two dots (for eyes) and a tiny frown line to show effort. The soil lines had to be jagged, not smooth, to look like real dirt.

The biggest change was the size of the seedling—I realized it needed to look fragile but strong, like it could handle a little wind but not a heavy rain.

The café’s Wi-Fi cut out before I could scan it, so I took a photo with my phone and sent it to a friend who actually knows how to draw.

The final version lost the café’s logo in the corner and gained a tiny water droplet on the stem to remind people that seedlings need moisture. The name? *Sprout*. It’s not fancy, but it’s honest.

And at the size of a browser tab, it still looks like something you’d want to help grow.

What I promise you

This site is built on three things: accuracy, honesty, and the kind of details most gardening advice skips. If I say ‘plant when soil reaches 60°F,’ I mean it—and I’ll tell you how to measure that without a fancy thermometer.

If a method fails, I’ll say so, and I’ll tell you what I’d do differently next time.

How I create a guide

A guide starts with a question: *‘What’s the one thing that always goes wrong with this?’* For tomatoes, it’s often overwatering at the wrong stage. For basil, it’s not enough light. I dig into forums, old gardening books, and my own notebook until I find the pattern.

Then I test it—sometimes twice, sometimes three times—until I know what the plant *needs*, not just what it *tolerates*.

The soil test

Before I write a word, I spend a week observing the plant in different conditions. For seedlings, that means tracking soil temperature every morning with a cheap digital thermometer.

I note when the first leaves unfurl, how long they take to open fully, and what happens if I water them at 7 AM vs. 4 PM. The ‘wrong’ moments are just as important: the day the leaves turn yellow, the night the stem wilts.

I time everything—how long it takes for roots to form, how quickly the soil dries out. No guesswork. Just data.

The fix

If something goes wrong—like my okra seeds rotting—I don’t just say ‘don’t overwater.’ I tell you how to test soil moisture without a meter (press your finger in: if it springs back, it’s dry; if it stays dented, it’s too wet).

I’ll include the exact depth to plant seeds (usually twice as deep as they are wide, but not for peppers—those need light to germinate). And if a method *almost* works, I’ll say so. Gardening isn’t about perfection; it’s about knowing what to adjust next time.

How a page gets onto this site

I write the first draft while the plants are still growing—notes scribbled on the back of seed packets, soil temp readings in the margins. The second draft cuts everything that doesn’t answer *why* a step matters.

The third draft adds the ‘what went wrong’ section, because that’s where the real learning happens. Some pages get rewritten months later after I notice a pattern in my garden journal. If a method fails in real life, I update it. No outdated advice here.

Write to me

I love hearing about the plants that surprised you—whether it’s the time your zucchini grew into a vine that took over the fence, or the basil that bolted before you could harvest it.

Send me your stories, your questions, or even your soil temp readings if you’re curious about what ‘just right’ looks like in your climate. You’ll find the contact page in the menu above. Let’s grow something together.

—Roland