Seventeen: I Am Not a Conspiracy Theorist

1997

When I bought Phranques Gallery in 1983, a billboard came with it. I had mistakenly thought the billboard contract had only four years remaining. My eyes were not big enough to see the very small print. The contract would hold me hostage for fourteen more years—not four. The billboard was ugly and hazardous, but my main complaint was that it was in the way. I suppose I was fortunate. Had I wanted to construct something other than a parking lot, the contract would have stopped me cold. But I simply cemented it in.

Before I could call the owner of the billboard company to remind him the eviction date was at hand, he was knocking on the back door of the office. I’m stating his location only to point out that was as far as he got. He was not invited in. He had a speech prepared and probably wanted to set up a PowerPoint presentation in my office, but my cold and surly manner kept him on the porch. He had a little luck too. It wasn’t raining.

His art department had gone to a lot of trouble creating eight-by-ten-inch photoshopped pictures of the billboard with plastic ivy winding up both steel supports. They’d put our name and logo on the billboard. I was not tempted.

“Look how beautiful it can be,” he said.

“It’s plastic,” I said.

“You couldn’t have better advertising,” he went on. “How about I give you three months free. We could do a five-year instead of a ten-year contract. We could give you three months free every year. We could…well, what will it take? What do you want?”

“I want it gone. It will take a crane or a hacksaw.”

Having that billboard gone was like having shackles removed from all four limbs.

I am not a conspiracy theorist, but it occurs to me there was a weird rhythm, a genie in a bottle, St. Joseph of Real Estate, watching over the purchases of Cactus & Tropicals’ property these many years. Clearly, I would never have had the money to purchase five lots and demolish the buildings in one fell scoop. I couldn’t have had some sci-fi payment program where I got the property now but paid for it sometime in the unforeseeable future. Each lot became available when it did—Surprise!—and not at an even tempo. Sometimes the timing was tough, but I did find a way to buy each lot when it was offered. If I wasn’t ready, I had to get ready; that was all there was to it. To be able to purchase five lots in a row though, each with commercial zoning, was unbelievably lucky—blessed, magical, or whatever supernatural word you choose. Even if it was as simple as coincidence, I’m thankful.

Ron was the last man standing. His property was the end lot, fifth from the corner, the last piece commercially zoned. He was next to The Garden Wall. Nine years before, Ron had graciously and temporarily sold me seven feet of his property so I could avoid building a fire wall on our shared property line. Nine years had passed since I’d seen him. Now he caught me in the parking lot and I didn’t recognize him. But when he said, “Hey, remember me? Remember when I asked you when you were going to buy my property?” I did remember Ron. I remembered because at the time, I was having trouble getting a building permit from the county and he helped me.

“Yes, I do,” I answered.

“Is now a good time?” he asked.

“Of course it is,” I answered. “I’m ready to go.”

I wasn’t really ready to go, but I had known this would be coming someday, and I’d had time to think about what I would do when the day did come. So far I had demolished three buildings. Ron’s house would be number four. It was the nicest of them all, but sadly, the only reason to buy it was to tear it down. It was parking—always more parking.

The decision to buy and demolish was even more momentous because it involved The Garden Wall. It, too, had to come down. If it did, we could attach four more greenhouses, which would add another 8,000 square feet of greenhouse space, extending all the way to the far end of Ron’s property. Then we could move the gift shop into one of the new bays. If The Garden Wall didn’t come down, we wouldn’t have room to build more greenhouses, and therefore, no reason to buy Ron’s. As with parking, there was never enough greenhouse space. With commercial sales constantly growing, our inventory was turning quickly. We needed to stock more. The Garden Wall would be number five.

Here’s the general plan as it developed: It’s probably best not to mess with the current loan on the gas station. It already has the office building and other expenses rolled into it. It was four years into a fifteen-year loan. I’d need a second loan for Ron’s property, and it would be a big loan, too. Enough money to demolish Ron’s house and The Garden Wall, build four more greenhouses, pour another parking lot, sidewalks, curb, etc., extend the fence, build a new entrance, new signage, lighting, and build out a gift shop in one of the greenhouses. Basically, we’d need more of everything, and I hoped that would include rolls and rolls of cash register tape, because we were going to need a lot of sales to cover these expenses.

Ironing out the bureaucratic wrinkles and filling in the financial boxes, here’s how Cactus & Tropicals stood as the new millennium approached: five lots equaled one and one third acres, but it also equaled five addresses, three in the city, two in the county. I was allowed to keep Cactus Growers of Utah’s address (i.e., the “little house”) for the mailing address, but I still received five property tax notices. I have no idea how they were assessed.

Once the deal with Ron closed, I went to the County Planning and Zoning Office and sidled up to the counter.

“Hi guys,” I said. “How are you all doing?”

They must have recognized my voice because they all looked up horror-stricken. The expression, “Oh no! Now what does she want?” was written all over their faces. But my request made them happy. When I asked about annexing the two county lots into the city, relief washed over them.

“You mean you won’t be coming here for permits anymore?” one asked.

Another guy said, “That means you’ll have to go to the city for everything now, right?”

“I think so. I’m pretty sure,” I answered.

“Wow! We should have a farewell party for you.” Smiles all around.

They gave me the forms and facts I needed for Ron’s and Phranque’s properties and wished me the best of luck. Suddenly, there was a sense of satisfaction among them, a sense of “problem solved,” almost like a washing of hands. I was out of their hair. A few weeks later, I drove to the City Planning Office and asked that all five lots, now within city limits, be combined into one—with one tax assessment and one address.

Now we had nine greenhouses equaling 17,000 square feet. They included a new shipping and receiving department; one in-greenhouse gift shop; one office building; one exterior nursery; one koi pond. No billboards. Several delivery trucks. Never enough parking. Roughly 45 employees. Over 500 maintenance accounts.

On an afternoon in November 2001, I was called on by a gentleman from the Hallmark Card Company. Hallmark was contracted by the International Olympic Committee to provide commemorative products: trophies, cards, pins, posters, flower arrangements, things of that nature. They were in Salt Lake to find, among other things, a florist to make the yellow rose bouquets for the winners of the 2002 Olympics, which were to be held in Salt Lake City. They came to me to ask for recommendations.

“Rose bouquets? That’s what we do best! We can do that for you.” I said. We shook hands on the deal.

The whole process went without a hitch. Hallmark had rented a facility with a large walk-in cooler near the Salt Lake International Airport. Each day during the Olympics, hundreds of fresh-cut yellow roses were flown in and delivered to the workspace. Our job was to remove the thorns, cut the stems to the proper length, and make bouquets, including single-stem, eight-stem, and twelve-stem bouquets. After the bouquets were arranged, our Cactus & Tropicals (& Roses) “floral crew” slipped them into clear saran sleeves and packed them for delivery to various Olympic venues. We made several thousand bouquets.

The slogan of the 2002 Olympics was “Light the Fire Within.” Cactus & Tropicals picked up on the idea and gave it a tweak. Our signage read “Plant the Flower Within.” Our staff created the neatest thing over the pond in the greenhouse entrance: two skiers made of stacked terracotta pots, sitting in an actual chair lift, skis and all.

Much had changed since I bought the “little house,” built the first greenhouse, and fiercely refused to sell anything but cactus.