The Greenhouse Odyssey: 9 - Hello? Can you Hear Me?
By Lorraine Miller
Listen to your business. Let it tell you what to do. Sage words from an early mentor.
The Florida growers told me about two guys, one in Chicago and one in New York, who started interior plant maintenance companies in 1979. Both companies were wildly successful. Interior Plant Maintenance is a commercial program for homes and offices, providing sales and weekly service of foliage plants. It comes with a guarantee that any plant not looking its best will be replaced at no cost.
It seemed so cut and dried and, at the same time, so brilliant. In the 1980s, there was a transformation in office space design.
Florescent lights and seas of cubicles were blamed for a cold, impersonal work space. Wall art and foliage plants took on a popular and important role in warming and softening the office. NASA studies on the health benefits of interior plants on air quality and air purification were done in 1989. But long before the science, there was a general sense that people just felt, and, therefore, worked better with living plants around.
The idea was transformative for me, too. It rattled in my brain like a fan palm in a hurricane.
Maybe I could do it! I could see that adding Interior Plant Maintenance would be an opportunity for growth. The work was made for Cactus & Tropicals. We had the greenhouses, the plants, and the watering cans.
It was that Providence thing again. I was at the right place at the right time when I visited Homestead, Florida and heard the news about interior plant maintenance. But, also, I was learning to listen to my business. It was telling me what to do. Forge ahead. I’m listening.
Providing an Interior Plant Maintenance service would up our game. But where to begin?
I’d be the first salesperson, and I’d have to call on people and do a ‘walk-through,’ listen to their wants and needs, then make a proposal. This is tough in one big way: I have to dress up! I’ve often wondered if I didn’t get into this business so I could wear Levis every day. But okay, I’ll do it.
The business had to step up, too. It needed a more polished, professional look. I ordered two-pocket folders with our name and logo printed on the front. Inside, a description of our service and our guarantee, published material about plants or plant maintenance, and of course, the bid. We needed new business cards, a new billing system and new invoices, account files and tracking systems. Mileage forms. Pay checks. Someone suggested a computer? What good would that do?
We found several lines of decorative containers to complete our look: basketry, ceramics and metal. A long list of accessories, including saucers, moss, cork mats, fertilizer, bagged soil and shelves to stack them on, were added. Each was priced by hand. Scanning, bar codes, QR codes? What future are you from?
The first interior plant maintenance contract was with my banker. He was a young, progressive guy who wanted me to be successful.
When I explained the maintenance program, he was excited and asked for a proposal. He accepted it right away. And just like that, having been Cactus and Tropicals’ first salesperson and first delivery driver, I was now the first plant maintenance technician. That gave me an understanding of some of the tricks and tragedies of the trade. For example, how to find a water source other than the men’s bathroom? What to do when water is spilled on an antique desk? How to kindly ask a client to stop dumping coffee grounds or pouring leftover coke on their plants. I had to understand all this so that I could hire and train others.
The opportunity did not come without peril.
When we installed plants in the newly remodeled ZCMI Mall, we had trouble. We’d made friends with a local trucker named Lester, a rosy cheeked, happy-go-lucky character. He always helped us when we had tall trees, big loads, or long hauls to deal with. He could whip his trailer in and out of the driveway like a pet snake, wearing a big ‘aren’t I cool’ grin.
He zipped down the driveway and we loaded the plants for the mall, almost filling the entire trailer. As soon as we shut the doors and had a drink of water, the team hurried to the mall to meet Lester at the loading dock. Half an hour passed, no Lester. No cell phones. Where was he? Another twenty minutes passed and to our surprise, he walked around the corner at the bottom of the ramp, his face a dark purple. We stared at him. “I’m wedged,” he yelled. “You’re what?” We shouted back. “I’m wedged,” he yelled again. “The truck’s wedged in the ramp.” The roof of the trailer was scraping the roof of the down ramp. Lester didn’t dare go forward or backward without causing serious damage. Like he said, he was wedged. We deflated the tires, just enough to allow the semi-trailer to creep down the ramp, unload the plants and get to an air gun.
Our accounts and contracts grew, installing plants from Park City to St. George. We had big jobs, including office towers and convention centers.
The red delivery van wasn’t big enough for many of our jobs. We bought a box truck, brand new, and put in a temperature-controlled heating and cooling system. Our logo, in royal purple, was emblazoned on the sides. Its maiden voyage was to the equally new South Davis Hospital, designed with a distinctive arched portico entrance.
When the construction of a new building is complete and it’s time to install furnishings, foliage plants come last. They are the final touch. But these things rarely flow on schedule. The final touch often occurs at the final moment. It was a day before the hospital’s grand opening and we were outside, waiting for the dollies, ladders and plastic floor covering to come out so we could do our work. But here we go. The plants are neatly loaded in the truck, the temperature control is set and now I’m watching our driver enter the parking lot and head for the hospital entrance.
BAM! The top of the truck box hit the bottom of the portico.
Stucco flies, blocks of insulation tumble, a 2x4 splits and splays, one end pointing accusingly at the driver. Both corners of the box are rounded and drooping, giving the impression of a sad puppy. Anyone looking at it would surely wonder how damage like that could occur. The plants, for the most part, were okay. We carried on with the installation, and just as we were leaving, a portico repair team pulled up. All’s well that ends well.
Interior plant maintenance was the business gift that kept on giving. It was steady, stable work and we could grow it. It wasn’t long before I was struggling to keep up with the demand.