Part 6

If the proverbial innocent bystander, or casual observer were to pick up your letter in the street and would take it seriously (which I don't) he'd certainly pick you up as hopeless, for the whole wail of your letter, in criticising the way the home office is handling you in particular and the sales organization in general, reminds me so much of the kind and constructive verbal barrage that a Republican Senator lays down every time a Democratic colleague intimates in public that his party won the World War.

A little over a week ago, I found time hanging a little heavily on my hands so I thought I'd take a run out to the Stock Yards and visit a little in your company's office. I don't know why I did it--guess it was a little touch of parental pride, or sentiment that must have come over me and I thought I'd go out and let 'em kid me along about that red-headed son of mine. Anyway, knowing them so well out there, I thought I'd enjoy the trip and I wasn't disappointed. Things have changed quite a little since my time, but if I'm any judge they haven't forgotten the Old Man's admonition to “keep up the quality” not only in the product, but also in the caliber of the men who are running the business from the “boss” himself, clear down to the office boy.

Then I sat down at the boss' desk and just as I expected he had some very nice things to say about you which, of course, were hard to take. After talking to him as long as I thought I dared, I went over and sat down at the desk where all the General Sales Department mail was being sorted and I summoned up enough courage to ask to see the open files they had with you. Don't know why I did it--guess it was just because I was curious to see how well you handled things and I suppose they thought they'd gratify an old man's whim by allowing it--anyway, they handed me a big bunch of correspondence and I went over and sat down in one of the private offices so I could digest it.

The first letter I picked up from the pile ran something like this, “Attached please find a letter from Salesman Hooiszis, asking that we purchase an automobile. What do you want to do with it?” And, as I expected, the salesman's letter was typical of what could be expected from your letter. It merely said he “thought” he could get more business working with an automobile than he could by walking--no data--no estimates--no logical reasons, in fact no nothing on which anyone could base an intelligent opinion as to whether the request was justified.

Then I picked up another one of your letters that ran something like this, “Salesman I. M. Whatshisname was sick all of last week. Please advise if I shall pay him or not.” A flat statement with no recommendation as to what action you, as a Manager, would like taken.

Then I picked up a third letter that ran a good deal like this, “We have on hand twenty-eight Christmas Boxes which we have been unable to sell. No doubt some of the other houses have a market for them. Will you not please give us disposition.”

By the time I got through with that, Red, I'll confess I had mingled emotions. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wondered if they were framing up on me to give my pride a jolt and I looked out the door at the two men who handled those letters--noticed the bald spots on their heads, the wrinkles beginning to show around their eyes and the gray commencing to come around the temples and, Red--on the level, Boy, I didn't wonder.

I couldn't help but think of the story of the long suffering Job or how the songs and stories of the centuries have told of the long suffering patience of Mother Love and I'll confess I couldn't figure it out, for those fellows didn't have the appearance of the Job I'd had described to me, nor did they resemble doting mammas, so I gathered up the bunch of letters, red in the face I'll admit, and went out and asked one of 'em how in the double-jointed, concentrated essence of modern profanity they managed to reconcile their keeping you on the payroll after writing such letters as those first three. He looked at 'em, scratched his bald spot, smiled--think of it, Red, (you red-headed pepper-box) smiled when I was all ready for the thirty-second degree of apoplexy and said, “Well, Dad, the only trouble with you is that you quit after reading the first three.” Then he took up the rest, one by one, and showed me stuff that gradually brought me down to earth.

He showed me a dozen along the same line and ended up by saying, “You see, Dad, Red is a pretty good boy after all--it wasn't very long ago that he was made Manager and he sometimes overlooks the fact that more is now expected of him and we'll admit that some of his letters do smack of the kindergarten, but he's sensible and we're trying to teach him that we employ Managers to come to us with a decision or recommendation, not for one; something that we can approve or show him why it is impractical. In other words, to think for us, not we for him. And again, we are trying to pound through that red pate of his that stock he has is his responsibility--must be moved in his territory--not shipped to a more aggressive brother Manager.

“Don't you worry, Dad, Red has his faults, but he'll grow up.”

So I left, Red, feeling that your company was a little more tolerant than I would be and I guess after all, I'll have to take some of the blame for your last letter, in that you're my son, but when I read that letter of yours--full of criticism, but strangely minus suggestions--I couldn't help mutter, “Take off the rompers, Boy, take 'em off--get on the long pants--you're a big boy now.”

Just remember--anyone can criticize, but the boy with the sensible suggestion for improvement and the definite logical recommendation, doesn't have to sit on the bench when they play the World's Series.

Goodnight Red--think it over.

Your loving, “DAD.”

The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad's Counsel

Dear Hal:

Your last letter made me happier than I can begin to tell you. In it you related some of your problems and really asked advice. I was beginning to think you are getting “fed up” on my unsolicited counsel but feel complimented to know you now want more of it.

But, leaving the personal side out of it, you know, Red, the smart man is the one who collects ideas from every one he meets, separates the wheat from the chaff and then capitalizes them, and it's a sincere pleasure for me to know that you've at last arrived at the age when you are big enough to admit that when brains were passed around you didn't get all of 'em.

So you're wondering what's the matter with your salesmen, eh? They don't seem to take things seriously and worry whether they get business or not--always looking forward to pay-day and that's all--eh, what? All right--your description of their attitude is so good that I believe I know just where the trouble is.

I suppose you were too young at the time to get the lesson, but, Red, your case reminds me of something that used to happen regularly when you were a little boy. Do you remember years ago when you used to have that brindle pup? He wasn't much to look at--had no pedigree, or anything, but was just plain dog--the kind whose only excuse for living was that he was a playmate of a freckle-faced, red-headed boy. Well, anyway, the little girl next door had a cat for a pet, if you'll remember. Similarly to the dog, the cat hadn't taken any blue ribbons and about the only thing she did worth mentioning now, at least, was to notify the family that claimed her, ever so often, that she was the proud mother of a mess, and I say it advisedly, Red, a mess of kittens.

But the Boss of the house didn't appreciate her being so prolific--not being as interested in cat farms as our old friend Charlie Emery. So ever so often, while you and the neighbor girl were out to a toddle party, her father and myself would sneak down in their basement, ostensibly to look over the last sad remnants of his private stock (which is speaking in an unknown tongue to you now), but primarily to increase the mortality list of the cat specie by holding each kitten in the bottom of a pail of water until eight of their proverbial nine lives had taken flight for cat heaven.

Now, Spud, your pup and Puss, the mother cat, were never what you might call affinities. Even though the two families with whom they were living were always close friends, the same measure of respect and esteem was not shared by Spud and Puss. As a result, every time Spud would spy Puss in the backyard he'd let out a mongrel yelp and start for her with the obvious intention of annihilating her.

Now the thing that used to impress me about this almost daily scene was that when Puss didn't have any kittens--no family responsibilities, as it were--when Spud rushed for her she'd turn tail and do a double-quick for the nearest tree, registering all the fear and retiring qualities that we come to expect in the female of the species.

But when Puss had kittens, still undrowned, particularly when she was enjoying a siesta in their presence, Spud could make his flying start with all the gusto and bluff that is common to cur tactics, but when he arrived at the point of contact Puss would bow her back, never budge an inch and show all the courage of the early Spartans. The result, of course, was that on such occasions the fun was all out of the game for Spud and he was clearly “sold” on the proposition that Puss could not be bluffed, and he'd beat a hasty retreat before getting within paw-length of the confident Puss.

Now, Red, that's all there is to the story, except the moral. Just consider the salient points. Same dog, same cat, same backyard, but different performance. Why, Red, why? Ah!--you've got it, I know. Inspiration--that's it--that's the word. Puss with kittens had an inspiration that Puss without them didn't have.

Now, Boy, take this lesson right home with you and apply it to your own problem. What your salesmen lack is inspiration, and you're the little doctor with the hypodermic to give it to 'em. Of course, it doesn't apply literally, even though some people do claim that the man with the big family has as many more reasons as he has mouths to feed, why he should make a success, but--I don't mean it that way, Red--I don't mean it that way. You must teach your men to speak and feel about your company as “We,” not as “the house.”

Any man with a single spark of ambition should look forward to an eventual goal, considerably farther than the weekly pay-check. His permanency on their payroll and the advancement he should hope to merit, depends entirely upon the combined efforts of the company family. His success is their success, and without favorable results neither he, nor they, can prosper.

Teach 'em, Red--show 'em their responsibility! Fire their minds and hearts with the fact that they're not working for the company--bless your heart, Boy, they are the company to all intent and purpose on their territory, and either their lackadaisical or their aggressive, businesslike demeanor and actions will be interpreted by their trade exactly as they appear and the company will be so reflected. And when you tell 'em, Red, be sure that the enthusiasm you have, which as you know, is the fuse that ignites opportunity, is showing in your eyes, your face and is reflected from your heart. Enthusiasm--Inspiration. Ah! Red, it's contagious--show 'em how proud you are to say “We”--show 'em that it's a privilege to be a part of an organization that holds the place it does in the firmament of a big business. Sell 'em the company idea first--then sell 'em the line.