I Should Write This Down

By Iain Haigh

When my wife and I bought our first garden centre in 2002 we were unprepared for what we were getting into. With limited experience in retailing and the public in general, we had no idea what the next twenty years were going to entail. Life would have been much easier if we could have read this insight into the garden industry as we were starting out. Long before we figured out how to import from Asia, we had to learn how to fire terrible clients, explain rat infestations and avoid people stealing from us. This book is a funny and unfiltered look at every aspect of this business. As our small nursery grew into a large retail farm operation and a simple garden consulting service grew into a full landscaping division, the strange stories kept mounting. What happens when you sever a gas line in the middle of town or how do you learn how to build a pond with confidence when you have never done one before. Find out what to do when a client has a full temper tantrum in the middle of a busy nursery or marvel at the purchasing power of the most wealthy clients. Told with humour and honesty, this book appeals to anyone who has ever planted anything, visited a garden centre, watched a garden improvement show, paid to have landscaping installed or has ever seen a tree. As the number of stories from dealing with the public were growing I kept thinking "I Should Write This Down."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iain Haigh
• Release date: Sep 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781738631612

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Iain Haigh

ISBN: 978-1-7386316-3-6

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Dedication

To Gemma-Jane for being the biggest part of everything and to Lauren for suggesting this thing in the first place.

Table of Contents

Dedication iv

Table of Contents v

Sowing the seeds 1

Origin Story 3

We buy the nursery 17

Adventures in retail 31

Robbery and Theft 41

Phone calls 56

Watering 65

Memorable customers 74

Garden consults:

the road to landscaping 80

Landscaping learning curve:

hiring staff 87

Tipping 100

50-50 rule 102

The Business of it 104

Quoting 111

Getting Paid 125

Strata developments (and all that entails) 127

The Importing Game 135

China 137

Indonesia 142

Vietnam 147

Landscaping tales 154

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly 180

Firing clients 180

Number Three: The Norwegian 181

Number Two: The Ice Cream Man 192

Number One: The Psychotic

One-Legged Lunatic 197

Call Before You Dig 214

Digging in the dirt 223

Firsts 228

Ponds 228

Paving stones 230

Irrigation 234

Rats 244

Lawns 249

Neighbours 253

Nursery and the pandemic 273

The end:

Harvest 279

Sowing the seeds

In May of 2002 my wife and I purchased our first retail garden centre. What follows is the story of the people we met along the way both customers and employees and the interesting things that happened. There are endless books and television shows relating to the plant industry, mostly information about the plants themselves or how to utilize them in the garden. Topics like gardening, design, planting, pruning, and fertilizing, are only a few. My aim is to give you an inside look at a retail garden centre with a commercial landscaping division. More than simply a history of running this business but a collection of remarkable and strange happenings from the general public. Obviously, the names have been changed to protect me from litigation. These stories are all real, I was there.

There are some re occurring characters in this tale, my wife Gemma-Jane and our middle son Kenn. Now in case you are wondering, these names are not real. Not everyone wants to be written about in a public way and assuming anyone ever reads this book that is exactly what will happen. I troubled myself for a lot longer than you might think as to what name I should give my wife; it is a real hornets nest. I couldn’t give her a name that belonged to anyone we knew or anyone we ever knew, or anyone we would possibly meet. See the problem. With a stroke of what I call genius I solved this dilemma by asking my wife to pick her own made-up name. If you were thinking Gemma-Jane was an odd name for a parent to call their baby girl you would be right. Gemma is the name of our Cairn terrier and Jane is the name of our aged Golden retriever. She named herself after two of our dogs. One a small feisty bunny chasing rat killer and the other a large dopey, smelly, extremely old retriever (that for the record has never retrieved anything at all). You can tell I didn’t come up with this name because the survival rate for naming your wife after a dog is extremely low. Kenn is our middle son, now a partner in the business and he is featured in several of the stories. The name Kenn is neither funny or embarrassing, it is a rather normal name not unlike his real one. Kenn wasn’t overly bothered about changing his name but thought he should become Kenn, as in Kenn Kaufman, the American naturalist and ornithologist who writes among other things, field guides for bird identification. Kenn spent part of his youth chasing around North America trying to see and identify as many birds as he could. Our own Kenn also like birds, so this is where we are.

This book is not intended as a promotional vehicle for the business; a business that is still a growing concern (yes, it’s a pun). I have also neglected to mention the specific town but I will say we are a Vancouver Island community with a population of somewhere around 100 thousand. This vague description is given not to provide you with clues to find out which nursery but to give you a sense of the climate we operate in. I’m sure if this nursery was located in Toronto or San Diego the stories would be similar but the plants and plant requirements would be significantly different. Our climate is very much like most of England, warm in the summer, mild winters and lots of rain.

You as the reader may not care about how this business came to be, who I am or how I got to be who I am, in that case skip the next chapter and start with the purchase of the nursery. I won't be offended, the book isn't really about me anyway, just interesting behind the scenes stories of an incredibly common industry.

Origin Story

I have been involved in business my entire adult life. I can remember saying as a teenager how I would never work for anyone ever again and for the most part this was achieved. What I was actually saying is that I wanted to run my own business, I just didn’t know what that business would be.

Growing up I had an assortment of jobs, almost all interesting and rewarding. At 13 I got my first job, picking up range balls at the local golf course. Three dollars an hour and they let me drive the golf carts, was there a better job? It did take some work to convince my parents to let me get the job. My father told me to stay a kid as long as possible. He would say I would be an adult a lot longer than a child so the jobs could wait. What eventually convinced him was the fact I spent all my time there anyway, golfing and hanging out, so why not get paid. I loved that job and worked my way up to club cleaner and eventually to the pro shop. Most of my paycheck back then was spent at the clubhouse café, giving young teenagers the ability to charge hot dogs and French fries on account is not a proven way to save money.

Ironically, I found I had to quit the job at the golf course in order to pay for an upcoming golf trip the high school team was planning. Minimum wage wouldn't get me to California nor would it buy me a car. Turning 16, I landed a job working for Canada Safeway, back then those jobs paid more than they do now and by 1982 I was getting over $17 per hour. For that kind of money, you were made to work for it. I worked in every department in the store, grocery, bakery, produce, and even one day in the meat department. The assistant manager was the stores chief motivator and overseer a relentless martinet, if you weren’t stocking something, you were cleaning something. His style was a combination of condescension and movie drill sergeant. He certainly wasn’t very popular among the younger staff, but we got things done. If I had to credit any single person for giving me a strong work ethic, he would be high on the list. As high school ended so did my future in retail food, it was time to move on. I vowed never to go back, not because of any problems with the job but I knew if I were to make it in business this was not the way. I needed to be the boss.

The early eighties, along with four years of university, also saw the creation of my first limited company. This company was the first of three partnerships I would have; one good, one bad and one terrible but those stories are not important for this condensed version of history.

We started one of the first paint ball businesses in the country. On the outskirts of town lay an abandoned World War two army base. We leased the decaying and overgrown base from the federal government for one dollar. I can’t imagine that sort of liability nightmare happening today. With an authentic military base untouched since the late 40’s boasting several buildings, tunnels and remnants of several gun emplacements. We should have become rich from this new venture but business is hard and the paintball business was as fun as it was unprofitable.

From the mid 1980’s into early 2000, the company changed from a series of forestry contracting businesses to the company we are today. It once was a large log scaling contractor (log scaling is the measure and grading of harvested timber), a residue and waste contractor (residue and waste is determining the amount of useable timber left behind after an area is harvested), a licensed private trade school (developing and implementing forestry training courses for government certification), and finally consulting (lecturing private companies on timber utilization for profit).

In 1988 I was a log scaling contractor, well on my way to figuring out this whole business thing when the most remarkable thing happened. Lightning struck, literally. I was working in a logging camp in the Nass valley, northern British Columbia, when I was hit by lightning. One of my duties as a log scaling contractor was to travel around the logging camps to see where I could streamline some of the operations relating to the measuring and grading of the timber. Typical problems at the time (probably no different today) were either the sorting was being done incorrectly or the people were not getting through the workload efficiently. It didn't take long to figure out why this crew was slow at getting the job done; too many coffee breaks. This was a group of six people that instead of having one break in the morning and another in the afternoon would take breaks roughly every half hour or so. At least it would be an easy fix, a bit of motivation, coupled with a bit of stern advice and the job would be done.

It was during one of the many coffee breaks when lightning struck. An enormous burst of rain had us scrambling to put on our rain gear. This particular logging camp was a disaster, the food was terrible and the accommodation was subpar. The day before the rain hit, it was hot and dusty, so dusty I had to run out of the way of a small tornado sweeping through the log yard. The tornado was large enough to pick up empty boxes and lift them twenty meters into the air. The best part about the tornado and now the rain was it gave some relief to the relentless gnats, horseflies the size of birds, and bloodthirsty clouds of mosquitos tormenting every living thing. Having successfully got my rain gear on I began to tell some forgotten story when simultaneously I experienced a huge ball of light right beside my head and felt someone punch me on the shoulder and my ears rang with the most powerful thunder clap imaginable. The sound literally dropped me to my knees. Shocked, the first thing I did was check to see if my digital watch was still working, it was. The next thing I hear is laughter coming from the people I had just been talking to, they were enjoying themselves immensely at what had just happened. I can remember one of them saying I can't believe just how high you jumped. Hopefully not my first response after seeing a colleague get hit by lightning.

And just in case you are wondering and everybody who hears this story asks, I did buy a lottery ticket the first chance I got and no, I didn’t win anything.

I had to move on. I had already decided to go back to university to continue where I had left off but that night my first call was to the office to get me out of this nightmare. The kind of training and problem solving I was doing was required in more than a few places, so when I called the office, I was given a few choices. My first choice was Haida Gwaii as the cook at the camp was a legendary Japanese chef. The entire coastal forestry community knew about this guy, he was famous.

I grew up hearing about how great the food in the coastal logging camps was but, in my experience, I found this not to be so. What I found after visiting dozens of camps is the food is plentiful. When cooking for fifty to sixty people things tend to get a bit industrial. The food was mostly fine but there was always lots. The problem with the Haida Gwaii job was the famous chef was not there, I guess even the best chef's need to take time off now and again. Upon hearing the great man was not there. I was likely only staying at these camps for a short time to fix a few problems so I was in no position to wait for him to return. I needed other options. There were a few options but when I heard Stewart BC was on the list the choice was made.

Stewart is a remote small town located on the Alaskan border, more importantly for me, I had worked there the year before and fit in great with the locals. Not only would I have my social connections in place, I would not be living in a logging camp but an actual town. A crazy frontier logging and mining town but a town just the same. The following Friday, June third, I drove four hours through remote logging roads and desolate highways to start work that very afternoon. My first act of duty was to declare I would be the one buying the beer to celebrate my return to society. The end of the day saw the log yard crew having drinks in the lunch room. After the previous week of bugs and lightning this was a welcome relief.

The party couldn't stop at the lunch room so we decided to have dinner and as it was Friday, head to the bar. Drinking in logging camps is something I actively avoided. Camps are filled with tales of failed marriages and people stuck in the past. Obviously, there are terrific and interesting people working in camps but there are enough cautionary tales to make one think twice about bringing alcohol with you. I have worked remote logging camps where instead of leaving after your shift to go home, people have simply stayed and drank away the time off. One tiny camp I worked in at the mouth of the Khutzeymateen river, the man who ran the log loader disappeared for four days. He was there the whole time, staying alone in his room and getting hammered. He would only appear at night to sneak out to grab some food. Booze and camp life can be a bad combination, but as Stewart wasn't a logging camp, all bets were off.

The main bar in Stewart is the bar in the King Edward hotel, affectionately known as the King Eddy. This is where we decided to meet up to continue our happy reunion. The bar was full most evenings and as this was Friday there was hardly a seat left. Then the most astonishing thing happened. Shane Partridge (real name), one of the loggers I was planning on meeting up with, was sitting at a table with three women. Remote frontier mining and logging towns are not a place you would expect to find young ladies hanging out, places like these are almost all filled with men. Drinking men from the forests and mines. In places like this you have an even chance of seeing a fight or someone asleep at their table. I once saw one of the towns largest land owners fully asleep with his head on the table sitting with some of his business buddies getting nudged out of the way so the waitress could find enough room on the table to put the drinks. It was that kind of place. Without any hesitation I walked directly to the table, sat on his lap, placed my hand over his mouth and gave him a big kiss. Then I asked for the introductions.

Shane was a local and I had guessed right, he did know these young ladies. I can't overstate how unusual this was to see these women here. All three had just returned from university and were finally old enough to go to the King Eddy. Shane started the introductions, and with me still sitting on this local logger’s lap, in this rough hotel bar I met Gemma-Jane. Before the introductions were finished, I knew I was going to marry her.

That is enough for now about how we met and it is not relevant to this story how I proposed to her within a week and she didn't instantly accept but I knew eventually she would. What is relevant is the canoe trip I had planned with Shane and Archie (another local logger I was working with) the following afternoon. Of course, I had to see Gemma-Jane the next day but the meeting would have to take place after I returned from the river. Not completely joking, I asked Gemma-Jane to send a search party if I failed to show up at our seven o'clock rendezvous.

To celebrate my triumphant return, what better way to re-connect with old friends than to go on a canoe trip we talked about doing the year before. This was no ordinary canoe trip. This was a sixteen-kilometre paddle down the Salmon River, from the Bear Glacier to the head of the Portland canal, basically the Pacific Ocean. Our confidence in the success of the canoe trip was only matched by our complete inexperience with all things canoeing. The Salmon River in June is a fast flowing extremely cold, dangerous river. We knew it would be cold and this is where all knowledge stopped.

The plan was to launch the borrowed green fibreglass canoe as close to the melting Bear Glacier as we could, leisurely paddle the entire sixteen kilometres to the sea, then head to the King Eddy to celebrate our expedition. The trip started out in high spirits. Archie's brother Reggie (real name, not Archibald and Reginald but Archie and Reggie), drove us out to the river with the canoe tied to the roof. The water at the glacier was way too fast and rough for us to start there so we continued down the road until we found a suitable spot.

The road into Stewart follows the Salmon River all the way into town providing occasional glimpses of the river and access to travellers looking to launch small water craft. Two kilometres from the glacier a suitable spot was found for launching. Reggie dropped us off with the intention to pick us up when we arrived at an undetermined time at the end of the journey.

The water here had split into two channels, the main channel was the rushing muddy river and our tributary was some five metres wide and slow enough to start us on the journey. As we started to put the boat in the water, I noticed Archie had tied the canoe around his waist with a nylon rope. It took more than a few minutes and a few attempts to convince Archie to untie the rope. I had to explain if the canoe filled with water there would be no way he would be strong enough to haul it to shore. Archie was pretty adamant he could swim a full canoe out of the water, lovely guy but reality was not his strong suit. We all donned our life jackets and loaded our meagre possessions into the boat. Our meagre on board possessions included a six pack of beer (as only a six pack was put on board this shows how seriously we were taking the venture) and our paddles.

We dragged the canoe to the edge of the channel and hopped in. Being too shallow the canoe wouldn't move, however, after sufficient rocking we were underway. The first problem came rather quickly. We had been travelling just fine in the perfectly straight channel for a solid 30 meters until we crashed back into the shore. Pushing the canoe back into deeper water we headed out into the main channel. The main channel here was about 40 meters wide and as we entered, we paddled our way right into the middle. The river then ran straight for about 600 meters until the first bend appeared. We were moving quite swiftly and making good progress. I was sitting in the bow, Archie amidships and Shane in the stern. Our first bend in the river proved problematic, as we started paddling through the bend, we managed to turn the canoe 180 degrees and were now travelling backwards. It was time I took control, yelling out paddling instructions in an attempt to turn the craft. I was making progress, I calling out left, left, right right and so on until we were pointing the right direction. This turning manoeuvre had carried us through the bend and some 200 meters further down the river. As I was continually yelling out paddling directions, we yelled out in unison LOGS! In front of us about 100 meters away was a log jam covering the entire width of the river. There was no time to think about how we had no business being on the river, no time to realize we should maybe have had a look downstream to scout out any possible problems. We thought about these things later.

We all had our own plan about how to navigate the quickly approaching obstacle. No words were spoken, we all just started paddling and not in unison. I thought we would paddle to shore and then simply walk the canoe over the log jam and continue on. This did not happen. Our non-synchronized paddling resulted in us approaching the log jam in the middle of the river, sideways. You must remember most of my experience in a canoe was happening right now. Once I saw there was no way of avoiding the logs, I thought we would gently come to rest, get out and lift the canoe out of the water and carry it over the logs. There was no panic and no concern. What did happen is; the moment the canoe gently came to rest along the logs the boat tipped slightly toward the river, instantly filling the canoe and dumping us out into the insanely cold Salmon River.

Now there should have been panic. There was no panic. Immediately after getting dumped into the water, I was swept under the log jam, I grabbed onto the first thing I could. The log I managed to hold onto was too large for me to completely get both arms around, I was holding on with just my right arm. Lying over this log with the rest of my body horizontal I was able to raise my head just high enough to grab a breath of air. It was then time slowed down. I became completely calm and had no sensation of the frigid water. What I did realize was I couldn't hold this position for much longer. I went to let go of the log but I hesitated, I wasn't ready. I could manage a quick breath but I couldn't get my head out of the water enough to see over the logs. Instead of letting go into the unknown I remember thinking my father would save me. This seemed like a logical solution, I felt he could just reach down and get me out of this mess the way he did when I found myself stuck on a roof when I was five (we had a lot of freedom when I was little). This I realized was not going to happen as he lived in Vancouver some thousand kilometres away. I did understand nobody was coming to save me and I would have to let go. I still wasn't ready.

If I could have locked my wrists together maybe I could have held on longer but it didn't matter anymore, I would have to let go. The calmest feeling came over me, it was time to let go. One way or another I knew everything was going to be alright. The lifejacket I was wearing would make me buoyant and the force of the water would either carry me through or pin me against the logs. I let go. With both hands, I pushed myself deeper under the water. Getting above the log I was holding onto was not an option so I pushed as hard as I could forcing me beneath the logs I could not see. If you wear contact lenses you will understand the aversion to opening your eyes under water. I didn't care, opening my eyes showed me nothing. Feeling no obstacles, I started swimming; it took three or four breast strokes to bring me to the surface. Emerging out the other side of the log jam, breaking through the surface of the water seeing nothing but river in front of you is one of the greatest things a person can experience. Pure joy.

Although my sense of time slowed down, I must have been under the logs for at least two or three minutes, long enough for Shane to have been carried through the logs, swim to shore and