In school we were doing social studies. We were listing the most important occupations: fireman, policeman, doctor, bus-driver. I put up my hand, “Florist!” Miss McConnel looked at me bleakly. She did not add that occupation to the list on the board. Everyone knew that flowers were luxury items, and no one had money in these depressed times to throw away on such luxuries. “But you need seeds to grow vegetables, and my Dad has the best!”

We were all very proud of the Store at 619 Fort Street. It had been started by our Grandfather in the last century, and had the dignity and honour of great age. Granted, nowadays it did look a little run-down and seedy, but these were hard times. Nowadays it would be admired for its “heritage” feel, but then it just needed a little sprucing up. The front entrance was always crowded with seasonal displays: bulbs in autumn, bedding plants in spring, and tomatoes and cucumbers throughout the summer.

Woodward’s Florists Clip

Always there was a little display of violet and rosebud nosegays wrapped in a paper doily, a favourite with ladies who liked to pin one on their coat collar. In the centre of the store stood an oval set-up of wide shelves which held an assortment of house plants, decorative vases, and garden ornaments such as mirrored glass viewing globes and garish garden gnomes. There was a large glass refrigerator for holding cut flowers, rather an extravagance. One side wall was taken up by rack upon rack of tiny, brightly varnished wooden drawers, which held a vast supply of seeds, any kind you could imagine. Hanging high on the walls were several large rather ugly plaques depicting prize-winning turnips and Mangel­Wurzels once grown from Sutton’s Seeds. The working area of the store was a long, wide counter top, covered with all kinds of clutter: tangled rolls of ribbon, scissors, bits of sphagnum moss and ferns, sheafs of uncompleted orders. Out of this mayhem Dad’s “girls” created beautiful wedding bouquets, funeral wreaths and sprays, gorgeous corsages, and floral “arrangements” of all kinds.

They just tossed their scraps on to the floor as they worked, and rarely swept up, so that your feet made a delightful scrunchy sound when you walked by. It all smelled very fresh and flowery, except when someone had emptied a vase of chrysanthemums, when the strong fetid odour would hang around for ages. There were several storage rooms just as messy as the work counter. Everything was just tossed in there any old how; wreath frames, sacks of moss, unfolded cardboard boxes, reels of ribbon; only Dad knew where to find anything. Then at the very back of the store was an ancient roll-top desk, where Auntie Phyllis presided over the books. This was also where the teakettle lived. Lovely cups of super strong tea were always available, and usually some sticky buns that Dad had brought in.

The Store year began in January, when the seeds arrived from England. They came in hundreds of canvas pouches, and all had to be carefully measured in a scale and put into individual packets, which were then displayed on racks in the front of the store. The left-over seeds, still in their pouches, were stored in the drawers on the wall. Dad could find any seed a customer asked for.

Valentine’s day brought a flurry of cut-flower business, Easter meant Lily plants, and flowers again for Mother’s Day. June, of course, was weddings. By now there were flats of bedding plants out front; snapdragons, stocks, asters, soon to be followed by the special hothouse tomatoes and cucumbers. These were grown by Uncle Edmund in the Nurseries on Fairfield Road, and were much sought-after. Some customers would go far out of their way once a week to get a supply of our tomatoes.

Hanging Baskets Clip

With September came the bulbs, and then it was all of a sudden building up to the big Christmas rush, the real money-maker of the year. All summer Dad had had women making Christmas corsages in their homes; come December every lady would want one on her coat. They were glittery confections of shiny ribbon and tinsel, with a miniature bauble or two, and very popular.

Then there were the holly shipments. Since holly doesn’t grow in most parts of Canada, but does very well on Vancouver Island, Dad had built up a very good business shipping boxes of holly as gifts all over the country. The holly was shipped by train in sweet-smelling cedar boxes like miniature coffins. These boxes had to be nailed together in the already crowded back reaches of the store, usually by a nephew of an appropriate age, a penny a box. Eventually Frank had his tum at this job, but I believe by the time Chris was old enough, most of the holly was shipped bulk.

By now the real Christmas rush was in full swing. Orders were coming in constantly. The plants arrived and were selected by the customers, but put aside, labelled, to be delivered on Christmas Eve. Cut flowers also, though ordered, could not be delivered until the last minute. This usually meant several late nights, getting the orders out, and lots of hours for Dad, getting out the last deliveries. Finally, the rush was over, but only for a few days. It seemed everyone was going to a big party or ball on New Year’s Eve and needed a corsage at the last minute.

Christmas at Woodward’s Florist Clip

Through all this hectic year Dad kept his cool. He was always ready with gardening advice, and knew all there was to know about plants. He had a cheery smile for every customer. Through it all, he suffered terribly from Eczema on his hands. First the daffodils and Hyacinths, then the ‘mums, made much worse by holly prickles. He swore by a strange Chinese ointment he’d discovered, called Teen-Jore, but really was never free from fiery itching hands. Probably he should have been in another profession.

Next:

The Gorge House: Dad