July 2006: water plants
In the meantime, the plants of rose 03829 had been under water for some time, when parts of the Bogota Valley flooded. I had taken over the available plants from Preesman, 4 in Holland (planted in my garden), 25 from their showcase in Colombia and 25 from Ecuador. They were finally planted with Qualisa in Cayambe (Ecuador) and Ipanema (el Rosal, north of Bogota).
Before I started my big quest, I had already decided that the flowers had to be grown around the equator, at an altitude of some 2,500 metres. Why? A branded product must have the optimal quality year-round. After a hot summer in e.g. Holland, the flower heads will be smaller in the fall. So: no seasonal influences. To spread the risk, I wanted to be in two locations. I had known Ipanema and Qualisa as very disciplided growers and both immediately said yes to my proposal. In addition, the traditional route for Latin flowers was to North America. Through Miami, but that was on my list of changes in the supply chain.
Anyway, the plants arrived in bad condition at both farms, but I was confident that the ingenieros would revive them.
dinsdag 20 mei 2008
the TRUE. story
June 2006: true friends
My dream had been to launch a consumer brand for flowers in the U.S., but how realistic was this? I had prepared my plan, applied for the trademark 'Da Vinci Rose' (another lifelong fascination), prepared a presentation, googled addresses of florists and flower wholesalers and left for the Big Apple. Budget-aware, that is: I learnt that a lot can be saved by researching flight and hotel possibilities. For this last, Red Carpet Inn in Brooklyn, across the street from a subway stop, was to be my basis.
I met with plenty of skepticism, but also shared enthusiasm: Jan and Janny Ooms of Roses and Blooms, Bob Janmaat of 1800Flowers (wishing to take over the whole concept) and, for the PR part, David Carras and Sally Ferguson. Whereas other advertising agencies threatened to charge $ 20,000 for a first meeting, Sally and David (already working for the Dutch flowerbulb industry) were different.
Sally and David had done their preparation and in persistent questioning over the next few months managed to specify my picture of the brand. It should be up-market. It should not be 'Da Vinci Rose'. Away with the logo, business cards and oil paintings I had had made in China. Away with my vision of the website starting with my alternative genesis, from the creation of Adam (Michelangelo) to Da Vinci's drawings of submarines, plants, rose bushes, the Da Vinci Rose. Voice-over by Sean Connery (a third lifelong adoration), who I had actually written for the job. Luckily he did not apply. The Chinese paintings I will still frame and put on the wall, later.
When I started to trust Sally and David, they came to the conclusion that they were not the specialists I was looking for. We had not even started talking about money.
the TRUE. story
28 April 2006 - stop and start
My last day at Preesman in Preesman style: hectic and arranged at the last minute. I had taken over the lease car and, more importantly, obtained rose variety 03829 of which I took the following picture in Ecuador in 2002. I knew that it was difficult to grow, but would fit my purposes as I knew that all flowers opened and lasted.
A Rose Story - 2. Hare in the Elzas
Two: hare in the Elzas
Mid-page I stopped writing. I was completely lost. Since neither Father Dré nor Uncle Piet could speak French, the conversation with Monsieur Schmidt had been in German. Father Dré was there with his wife Sien, Mother Sien. Since they would drive on to the south in their big Volvo for a holiday, we had come in two cars. Monsieur Schmidt was a chain smoking gentleman, a true French host who, in anticipation, had had a special dinner prepared in a special restaurant. He was joined at the table by his (apparently new) girlfriend. There were different wines with every course, highlighted by hare that had been sated for several days. Since I was the youngest, I was served extra of everything. When finally I found myself in a big bed in a small hotel, I was drunk with the wines, the role of ‘commercial assistant’ and the dead hare. I did not sleep at all.
The next day, shortly after we said goodbye to our charming host and Father Dré and Sien set off in the opposite direction, I made my confession to Uncle Piet. “I must be honest with you, Piet, but this is not going to work out. I do not think I am the right person for the job. I have absolutely no clue what the discussion was about. The only thing I understood is that Monsieur Schmidt is looking to sell his business.” Nothing would ever disturb Uncle Piet, as I was to find out over the years, very unlike his twin. “Don’t worry,” he reacted, with his charming smile underneath his small grey moustache.
At the first coffee stop he started drawing different types of rose plants, and explaining how, where and when these were made in order to produce cut flowers in glasshouses. Half-year-old bushes were made by the millions in the province of Limburg in the south of Holland, using Inermis rootstock that came from the north east of the country, that were planted in rows in the field. After some time, an ‘eye’ of the flower producing variety was stuck on. The ‘eye’, Uncle Piet explained, can be found in every ‘socket’, the place where the leaf was connected to the stem. The new types of plants starting to be used were cuttings, in which the stems of the flower producing variety were cut in pieces to form their own roots and stentlings, in which part of the wild rootstock and a little part of the cut flower variety were stuck together. This was beyond my grasp.
Strange that one’s life can be 100% revolved in two days’ time: from teacher to student again. I was extremely fortunate to have Uncle Piet as a professor, calling it a day after this first lecture. I could have hugged him for stopping. I kept these plant drawings in my desk for years as a buoy on the wild sea of roses.
Mid-page I stopped writing. I was completely lost. Since neither Father Dré nor Uncle Piet could speak French, the conversation with Monsieur Schmidt had been in German. Father Dré was there with his wife Sien, Mother Sien. Since they would drive on to the south in their big Volvo for a holiday, we had come in two cars. Monsieur Schmidt was a chain smoking gentleman, a true French host who, in anticipation, had had a special dinner prepared in a special restaurant. He was joined at the table by his (apparently new) girlfriend. There were different wines with every course, highlighted by hare that had been sated for several days. Since I was the youngest, I was served extra of everything. When finally I found myself in a big bed in a small hotel, I was drunk with the wines, the role of ‘commercial assistant’ and the dead hare. I did not sleep at all.
The next day, shortly after we said goodbye to our charming host and Father Dré and Sien set off in the opposite direction, I made my confession to Uncle Piet. “I must be honest with you, Piet, but this is not going to work out. I do not think I am the right person for the job. I have absolutely no clue what the discussion was about. The only thing I understood is that Monsieur Schmidt is looking to sell his business.” Nothing would ever disturb Uncle Piet, as I was to find out over the years, very unlike his twin. “Don’t worry,” he reacted, with his charming smile underneath his small grey moustache.
At the first coffee stop he started drawing different types of rose plants, and explaining how, where and when these were made in order to produce cut flowers in glasshouses. Half-year-old bushes were made by the millions in the province of Limburg in the south of Holland, using Inermis rootstock that came from the north east of the country, that were planted in rows in the field. After some time, an ‘eye’ of the flower producing variety was stuck on. The ‘eye’, Uncle Piet explained, can be found in every ‘socket’, the place where the leaf was connected to the stem. The new types of plants starting to be used were cuttings, in which the stems of the flower producing variety were cut in pieces to form their own roots and stentlings, in which part of the wild rootstock and a little part of the cut flower variety were stuck together. This was beyond my grasp.
Strange that one’s life can be 100% revolved in two days’ time: from teacher to student again. I was extremely fortunate to have Uncle Piet as a professor, calling it a day after this first lecture. I could have hugged him for stopping. I kept these plant drawings in my desk for years as a buoy on the wild sea of roses.
maandag 12 mei 2008
the TRUE. story
28 February 2006: the dream
March 2006, Bogotá. At long last, Preesman would have its first (and last) Open House at the Marinyanna Farm in Colombia. Coinciding were two gerbera seminars at the farm and in Medellin, for which the Dutch specialist Erik Kuiper and the new manager for Latin America, Avinash Mokate, of Indian origin, were flown in. One of the first nights, in the hotel in Bogotá, I woke up dreaming. I realized that the dream was different, appearing symbolical, and decided to write it down. Then the alarm woke me up. I read: “Again in a canoe in the canal next to Opa’s former house, this time returning to collect the last blue plant.”
Before I finished showering, the meaning of this message was clear to me and my mind made up: I would start my own marketing business to launch a consumer brand for roses.
Explain. My grandfather, Opa Jan, has been my great example in life. Born in 1892, as a teenager he would work extra in the moonlight at the farm of Mr. Elsgeest. The extra money earned was saved by Elsgeest’s daughter Koosje, his first and only love and thus kept out of the hands of his alcoholic father. After their marriage, Mr. Elsgeest lent my Opa some money to start his own bulb and chrysanthemum nursery.
Their firstborn died after a year’s sickness, another drowned as a toddler in the canal in front of the house. Twelve boys, one girl, nearly fatal cancer and two wars later, they bid farewell to three emigrating sons. Opa formed a flower firm with three of his sons, the youngest dropping dead at his feet, just married, his wife pregnant. Opa sat in his chair for a day, staring with his coat still on, hands still dirty from harvesting the flowers. Then he dragged himself up, held his wife, whispering “Koosje, we must move on. We must.”
And he did, working every day with one of the sons after the firm broke up. They travelled to Australia to visit their sons and families and celebrated their golden wedding. Opa stopped working when he was 80 to look after Oma Koosje, who had started to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. “She has looked after me all her life. Now it’s my turn,” he explained. He learned how to cook, do the laundry and other household chores. He picked up drawing as a hobby, childish at first, but very realistic later on. People he found difficult to draw, but his animals and especially flowers were beautiful. Oma died peacefully, one week before their 60th wedding anniversary. Opa had lit a candle, held her hand. Together they had prayed a Saint Mary. He had felt her last heartbeat, closed her eyes and then slept by her side.
He then set to writing his memoirs and when he became blind at 90, the light disappearing from his beautiful blue eyes, he started to play the harmonica. “Just go on,” he would say, “see what you can do instead of what you can’t.” Soon he would be playing all sorts of popular songs. A year later, he had an eye operation. “Look,” he said, after the bandage had been removed, “look at the carpet”. I looked down, but there was nothing to see. “Look at the colors. Fantastic!” He gave me the gold watch that Mr. Elsgeest gave him for his engagement. I cherish it, but even more his lessons. “Go on. Discover what you can do, don’t look back.”
The canal by his house. No doubt in my dream I was peddling forward in life when I was reminded of my exemplary Opa with his eyes reflected in the delicate blue plant. The plant itself an opportunity to be seized, a talent to be tapped before it was too late. The message was clear: I had been thinking about starting my own business for 15 years and introducing a rose brand for 10 years. The time had come.
March 2006, Bogotá. At long last, Preesman would have its first (and last) Open House at the Marinyanna Farm in Colombia. Coinciding were two gerbera seminars at the farm and in Medellin, for which the Dutch specialist Erik Kuiper and the new manager for Latin America, Avinash Mokate, of Indian origin, were flown in. One of the first nights, in the hotel in Bogotá, I woke up dreaming. I realized that the dream was different, appearing symbolical, and decided to write it down. Then the alarm woke me up. I read: “Again in a canoe in the canal next to Opa’s former house, this time returning to collect the last blue plant.”
Before I finished showering, the meaning of this message was clear to me and my mind made up: I would start my own marketing business to launch a consumer brand for roses.
Explain. My grandfather, Opa Jan, has been my great example in life. Born in 1892, as a teenager he would work extra in the moonlight at the farm of Mr. Elsgeest. The extra money earned was saved by Elsgeest’s daughter Koosje, his first and only love and thus kept out of the hands of his alcoholic father. After their marriage, Mr. Elsgeest lent my Opa some money to start his own bulb and chrysanthemum nursery.
Their firstborn died after a year’s sickness, another drowned as a toddler in the canal in front of the house. Twelve boys, one girl, nearly fatal cancer and two wars later, they bid farewell to three emigrating sons. Opa formed a flower firm with three of his sons, the youngest dropping dead at his feet, just married, his wife pregnant. Opa sat in his chair for a day, staring with his coat still on, hands still dirty from harvesting the flowers. Then he dragged himself up, held his wife, whispering “Koosje, we must move on. We must.”
And he did, working every day with one of the sons after the firm broke up. They travelled to Australia to visit their sons and families and celebrated their golden wedding. Opa stopped working when he was 80 to look after Oma Koosje, who had started to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. “She has looked after me all her life. Now it’s my turn,” he explained. He learned how to cook, do the laundry and other household chores. He picked up drawing as a hobby, childish at first, but very realistic later on. People he found difficult to draw, but his animals and especially flowers were beautiful. Oma died peacefully, one week before their 60th wedding anniversary. Opa had lit a candle, held her hand. Together they had prayed a Saint Mary. He had felt her last heartbeat, closed her eyes and then slept by her side.
He then set to writing his memoirs and when he became blind at 90, the light disappearing from his beautiful blue eyes, he started to play the harmonica. “Just go on,” he would say, “see what you can do instead of what you can’t.” Soon he would be playing all sorts of popular songs. A year later, he had an eye operation. “Look,” he said, after the bandage had been removed, “look at the carpet”. I looked down, but there was nothing to see. “Look at the colors. Fantastic!” He gave me the gold watch that Mr. Elsgeest gave him for his engagement. I cherish it, but even more his lessons. “Go on. Discover what you can do, don’t look back.”
The canal by his house. No doubt in my dream I was peddling forward in life when I was reminded of my exemplary Opa with his eyes reflected in the delicate blue plant. The plant itself an opportunity to be seized, a talent to be tapped before it was too late. The message was clear: I had been thinking about starting my own business for 15 years and introducing a rose brand for 10 years. The time had come.
A Rose Story - 1. Coming Out
One: coming out
“They’re coming out!” Maurice comes in, excited. I had been on phone-duty after a brief instruction earlier that morning, so I could not go out. I had no idea what he was talking about. I had no idea whatsoever. At 34, desperate for change, I ended up at Witte de Wit’s Nieuwe Rozen B.V. in a tiny village in the center of Holland, some glasshouses and a small office, two brothers on the verge of retirement and their cousin Maurice, management assistant for 25 years. A fourth desk was fitted in. Luckily the computer age had yet to start. In 1990, they were modern with fax and electric typewriter.
Just before lunchtime--Maurice was out at lunchtime, so I had to be in--I walked into the glasshouse to find out what the excitement was about. I made my acquaintance with the guys looking after the place. It seemed everybody was called Witte de Wit. The glasshouse turned out to consist of four different sections, the one to the left apparently the most valuable or secret, as it was closed off by an extra lock, operated with a code. Only after a year or so was I included into the fellowship of code-knowers of, what turned out to be, the house with the parents subjected to crossings. Until that time, I could enter with one of the code-holders or peek through the window.
I was informed of the code to the central entrance of the greenhouse within a week: X1234. The entrance area contained some tables for, as I found out months later, seed cleaning and sowing, with two small cold stores and a room containing vases with flowers. To the right, you first entered an area with flower beds to the left and right with roses in all kinds of colors. They were not planted in soil, but in, what Ben, Uncle Piet’s youngest son, said, “rockwool”, some creamy hairy looking stuff in long loafs. Months later I was surprised to learn that the name for this material should really be taken literally. This was Section II.
The next compartment contained big aluminum tables full of miniature rose varieties in pots. Some were flowering, others were not and here two guys were cutting off the stems of the pots on some of the tables, putting the stems in different little plastic bags, each containing a tag with a number. The last two sections, IV and V, had similar tables, but holding bigger trays with turf, from which here and there tiny plants were appearing. “One section for pot roses and the last for cut roses, as you can see,” my guide informed me. I could not tell the difference.
Upon returning to the office, Maurice immediately asked “Did you see them? What do you think?” Assuming he referred to the rockwool section with the big roses, I answered that I found the variety of colors spectacular. Later, Dré Junior, Father Dré’s youngest son would say to Alex, no son, “I hope that Maurice will be busy enough counting money not to put in too many sticks this time.” In the course of the next weeks I found out, that the excitement was in the last two sections with ‘seedlings’ and that a limited number of staff were privileged to take part in the ‘selection’ by putting their own-colored sticks next to their favorite seedlings. Maurice’ sticks were pink, Dré Junior’s’ blue and Father Dré’s were yellow—but, Junior and Alex would comment, “Colors and sticks are sacrificed, except for the blacks, on a Dréing Sunday.” Black was the color of Sjef.
Sjef would arrive once per week in his black BMW to make his selections and discuss the exact mixture of the ingredients in the ‘A’ and ‘B’ containers. My last bit of romantic preoccupation in the growing of roses was killed by the addition of this chemical formula to the well-being of the plants. Only the rain water that was collected from the top of the glasshouse and contained under the concrete floors of the different glasshouse sections seemed to be the only influence of nature. Even the light and darkness was manipulated by big lamps (‘5000 LUX light assimilation’) hanging over the crops. Strict environmental legislation ruled that no drop of water was allowed to enter the soil or surrounding canals and even the condense water from the inside of the glass was to be collected separately from the rest. All water used in the greenhouse was filtered and recirculated. At regular intervals the place was officially inspected. The rain water had another use: 72-year old Mrs. Hassefras, who came in every Friday afternoon to clean the office, swore by rain water and rain water only to clean the windows and rest of the building. On Monday mornings Maurice would pour chloride in the toilets. Mrs. Hassefras refused to use any kind of detergent. After 30 years of service nobody dared to change her mind, let stand fire her.
After leaving the glass world of fake nature and chemicals, I was happy my job was in the office. After the bizarre job interview and the outcome that I was hired, it was decided that my function was ‘commercial staff’. With the retirement of the twin brothers in two years, I would take over the international business, breeder’s rights and contracts from Father Dré. In due course a new breeder would be hired to replace Father Dré’s role in the greenhouse and likewise for the successor of Uncle Piet as contact for the clients in Holland. Maurice then would take over the throne as the next Witte de Wit. Since I spoke a few languages and was a quiet person, they thought I would be fit for the job of ‘commercial staff'.
It turned out to be the first job interview the brothers had ever done and instead of getting a better picture of the business, I walked out in a daze, only to be completely baffled to hear from them a week later that they wanted to make me an offer. But I was dying to get out of my teaching job and in the highlight of the economic depression, one could not be picky.
My start with the company two days earlier coincided with a planned trip to the Elzas, to see Monsieur Paul Schmidt, the agent for France, Italy, Greece and the Middle East. On the agenda was a new agent’s contract. On Monday I was explaining English grammar in a cloud of chalk, on Tuesday at 6.00 a.m., I was in the Mercedes of Uncle Piet, clad in suit and raincoat, armed with pen and notebook, making my way into the world of roses.
“They’re coming out!” Maurice comes in, excited. I had been on phone-duty after a brief instruction earlier that morning, so I could not go out. I had no idea what he was talking about. I had no idea whatsoever. At 34, desperate for change, I ended up at Witte de Wit’s Nieuwe Rozen B.V. in a tiny village in the center of Holland, some glasshouses and a small office, two brothers on the verge of retirement and their cousin Maurice, management assistant for 25 years. A fourth desk was fitted in. Luckily the computer age had yet to start. In 1990, they were modern with fax and electric typewriter.
Just before lunchtime--Maurice was out at lunchtime, so I had to be in--I walked into the glasshouse to find out what the excitement was about. I made my acquaintance with the guys looking after the place. It seemed everybody was called Witte de Wit. The glasshouse turned out to consist of four different sections, the one to the left apparently the most valuable or secret, as it was closed off by an extra lock, operated with a code. Only after a year or so was I included into the fellowship of code-knowers of, what turned out to be, the house with the parents subjected to crossings. Until that time, I could enter with one of the code-holders or peek through the window.
I was informed of the code to the central entrance of the greenhouse within a week: X1234. The entrance area contained some tables for, as I found out months later, seed cleaning and sowing, with two small cold stores and a room containing vases with flowers. To the right, you first entered an area with flower beds to the left and right with roses in all kinds of colors. They were not planted in soil, but in, what Ben, Uncle Piet’s youngest son, said, “rockwool”, some creamy hairy looking stuff in long loafs. Months later I was surprised to learn that the name for this material should really be taken literally. This was Section II.
The next compartment contained big aluminum tables full of miniature rose varieties in pots. Some were flowering, others were not and here two guys were cutting off the stems of the pots on some of the tables, putting the stems in different little plastic bags, each containing a tag with a number. The last two sections, IV and V, had similar tables, but holding bigger trays with turf, from which here and there tiny plants were appearing. “One section for pot roses and the last for cut roses, as you can see,” my guide informed me. I could not tell the difference.
Upon returning to the office, Maurice immediately asked “Did you see them? What do you think?” Assuming he referred to the rockwool section with the big roses, I answered that I found the variety of colors spectacular. Later, Dré Junior, Father Dré’s youngest son would say to Alex, no son, “I hope that Maurice will be busy enough counting money not to put in too many sticks this time.” In the course of the next weeks I found out, that the excitement was in the last two sections with ‘seedlings’ and that a limited number of staff were privileged to take part in the ‘selection’ by putting their own-colored sticks next to their favorite seedlings. Maurice’ sticks were pink, Dré Junior’s’ blue and Father Dré’s were yellow—but, Junior and Alex would comment, “Colors and sticks are sacrificed, except for the blacks, on a Dréing Sunday.” Black was the color of Sjef.
Sjef would arrive once per week in his black BMW to make his selections and discuss the exact mixture of the ingredients in the ‘A’ and ‘B’ containers. My last bit of romantic preoccupation in the growing of roses was killed by the addition of this chemical formula to the well-being of the plants. Only the rain water that was collected from the top of the glasshouse and contained under the concrete floors of the different glasshouse sections seemed to be the only influence of nature. Even the light and darkness was manipulated by big lamps (‘5000 LUX light assimilation’) hanging over the crops. Strict environmental legislation ruled that no drop of water was allowed to enter the soil or surrounding canals and even the condense water from the inside of the glass was to be collected separately from the rest. All water used in the greenhouse was filtered and recirculated. At regular intervals the place was officially inspected. The rain water had another use: 72-year old Mrs. Hassefras, who came in every Friday afternoon to clean the office, swore by rain water and rain water only to clean the windows and rest of the building. On Monday mornings Maurice would pour chloride in the toilets. Mrs. Hassefras refused to use any kind of detergent. After 30 years of service nobody dared to change her mind, let stand fire her.
After leaving the glass world of fake nature and chemicals, I was happy my job was in the office. After the bizarre job interview and the outcome that I was hired, it was decided that my function was ‘commercial staff’. With the retirement of the twin brothers in two years, I would take over the international business, breeder’s rights and contracts from Father Dré. In due course a new breeder would be hired to replace Father Dré’s role in the greenhouse and likewise for the successor of Uncle Piet as contact for the clients in Holland. Maurice then would take over the throne as the next Witte de Wit. Since I spoke a few languages and was a quiet person, they thought I would be fit for the job of ‘commercial staff'.
It turned out to be the first job interview the brothers had ever done and instead of getting a better picture of the business, I walked out in a daze, only to be completely baffled to hear from them a week later that they wanted to make me an offer. But I was dying to get out of my teaching job and in the highlight of the economic depression, one could not be picky.
My start with the company two days earlier coincided with a planned trip to the Elzas, to see Monsieur Paul Schmidt, the agent for France, Italy, Greece and the Middle East. On the agenda was a new agent’s contract. On Monday I was explaining English grammar in a cloud of chalk, on Tuesday at 6.00 a.m., I was in the Mercedes of Uncle Piet, clad in suit and raincoat, armed with pen and notebook, making my way into the world of roses.
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