Norman’s House of Flowers

I’ve walked past his house many times over the years. It’s on the way to a store I frequent. In the spring and summer, his front yard is full of flowers. It’s in stark contrast to all the carefully manicured lawns around him.

All these years I’ve enjoyed the garden during every season yet I’ve never seen the person or people who inhabit this house. Until today. Today, I met Norman.

I was standing in front of his house, admiring the field of poppy plants springing up amongst the hyacinths and daffodils. “Spring is on the way!” he said. “And isn’t it grand!” I replied.

The Gardener

Norman is a stately older gentleman. He’s also one of those good old fashioned characters.  Nothing cookie cutter about him.

He was wearing his gardening clothes. “Gardening is so very therapeutic” he said. “Definitely. Better than yoga,” I said. He smiled.

We fell into talking about his front yard and all the plants in it. We discussed the soil, how he managed to grow so many poppies. I’d always failed miserably at growing them. “They’re the tall opium poppies with deep red flowers. These over here are albino poppies, lily white,” he said.

It was a warm spring day and I was in no hurry so I took the time to chat with Norman. He was full of details and information.

Vancouver Historian

Eventually the conversation veered away from the flowers onto his past. He’d lived in Vancouver with his wife for over 50 years, originally coming over from England. He had been in the hotel business and had worked in all the high end hotels: The Bayshore, the Devonshire, the Georgia.

He knew all the big names from Vancouver’s bad old days, the original moneyed families in Vancouver: The Rogers, the McGavins, the Mulligans.

Treasure Hunting

He and his wife had gone to auctions to collect treasures that the wealthy families of Vancouver were throwing out of their Shaugnessy mansions. “You know, when granny dies, the rich kids don’t want all that old stuff. It’s not modern enough for them so they get rid of it. They simply have no idea of the value of these objects,” Norman said. They had enjoyed trying to outbid the other people for objects that had caught their fancy. “I remember Uno Langman out bidding us on this one lot. It had a Rembrandt painting in it. It came from old Mrs. Rogers’ mansion. Her kids had no idea. They just wanted the old junk gone. Uno made a lot of money on that, selling most of Mrs. Rogers’ treasures in California,” said Norman.

“Say, have you got a minute?” he asked. “Absolutely,” I said. “Come on inside then,” he said, “I’ll show you a few things.”

Through the Looking Glass

Stepping into Norman’s house was like stepping back in time. It had the elegance of an Edwardian sitting room and yet felt strangely uncluttered.  It was as unique as it’s owner.

He began to take me on a tour of his house, pointing out pieces of furniture and showing me his various treasures.

“That painting came from Chateau Neuf de Pape in France.”

“This set of china is from Russia. It belonged to Mrs. Rogers. See that blue, that’s origin cobalt blue from Saxony.”

“Look at this inlay on this cabinet. It’s original Italian.”

“See this table; it’s English Walnut with inlay. Feel how smooth it is.”

He opened one intricately carved cabinet after another. One contained a complete set of crystal glasses: water, white wine, red wine, beer, gimlet, cocktail. There were decanters and water jugs. “Now take a look at the bottom of this glass,” he said, as he held it up to the light. “If it’s real Waterford crystal from Ireland, you’ll see this etched name on the bottom.” I peered over his shoulder and looked at the bottom of the glass. The word Waterford was delicately etched into the base of the glass. “I went to the Bay and looked at the Waterford. It’s made in Czechoslovakia now.”

His Oasis

In the back yard, Norman and his wife had created a little oasis. It was a neatly tiled patio area. “See those statues. They used to stand outside of the Strand Theatre.” “Where was that?” I inquired. “Down on Georgia and Granville. Across from the Bay. London Drugs is there now,” he replied. “We’d often lounge out here in the sun. I was going to turn the garage into a cottage with a bar in it. But after my wife died, I lost interest.”

Then he pointed out his lovely plants.

“This is a Jamaican trumpet plant.”

“This is a rare old magnolia tree. The flowers are huge and smell beautiful. My wife and I often sat out on our deck at night, under that lamp, so we could enjoy the magnolia’s scent.”

He pointed out his clematis and camellia bushes. “This weather makes all the plants topsy turvy. They don’t know when they’re supposed to come out,” he said.

A Final Look

We went back into the house and he showed me a few more intricately inlaid cabinets. He opened another and showed me yet more lovely china. “You can get cheap knock offs of this pattern now but this is the original Booth Willow pattern,” he said as he turned the porcelain over in this hands to show me the marking on the bottom.

We made our way back to his front door and chatted a bit more about the rich Vancouver families he’d known. “Yes, some of those old money kids act like they’re better than everyone but their family’s history would say otherwise. A couple of them made their money on slaves and sugar,” he smiled.

Back to the Flowers

As we stepped back out into the sunlight on his front steps, Norman talked a bit more about his philosophy of life and the fate of Vancouver’s future and his precious little house.

“As soon as I’m dead, they’ll tear all this down. Likely no one will want all these treasures; they’ll think it’s just old junk. I have 4 brothers just waiting for me to pop off. They’ll give the lot away for whatever price. It’s just all about the money,” he said.

I thanked him for sharing his treasures with me. “I’m Norman. It was lovely to meet you,” he smiled as he shook my hand. “I’m Sharole. It was an absolute pleasure, Norman. I’ll be back in June to see your magnolia in bloom,” I said.

“By all means. It really is lovely. Now I’d better get back to my garden,” he said. “Enjoy the sunshine.” And with that, he disappeared around the corner of his house.

I glanced at my watch. I’d been chatting with Norman for over an hour.

Definitely time well spent.