that your new job is no sinecure. Unless you have a perverted sense
of what is expected of you, you'll find that your previous positions
were child's play in comparison. You have taken upon yourself a world
of responsibility that must not be discounted. While you may believe
yourself to be popular with the organization under your jurisdiction,
it's a hundred-to-one shot that--especially at first--you'll be
about as popular as the village drunkard at a Sunday School Picnic.
Your managers might have liked you as a brother manager, but it's
only natural that they'll accept you only on suspicion until you've
demonstrated to them that you're a rudder on the boat instead of a
barnacle.
That's your first and biggest job, old Red Top, and if you're smart
you'll realize that although the title may carry some prestige, the
most important commodity you have to sell at first is--Red. Be sure
to differentiate between the class of men you have been directing
and those now under your jurisdiction. Although your managers were
once salesmen--they're managers now. Big, broad, clear-thinking,
hard-hitting business men. You cannot succeed without their respect and
you haven't got that to start with, because you've yet to demonstrate.
You cannot buy respect of these men with fancy dinners, too much
dignity, funny stories or “old maid” tactics. Your authority of title
or position don't mean anything to them. You must be first a “he-man,”
the happy medium between a “yes-ser” and a chronic debater, an exponent
and amplifier of your company's policies, a happy mixture of hard work,
tolerance, constructive suggestion and leadership.
Don't hold that respect to be attained lightly--worry about it! If
there's a single manager that will not co-operate and the others do, it
would look as though it were his fault--not yours, but if six out of
the ten are luke-warm after you've been on the job a while, that's a
condition and looks like your fault and is plenty big enough to worry
about. After you've burned the midnight oil long enough on either of
the two cases, you'll probably come to the conclusion that you will
sell yourself to that one man, or get rid of him, because a balky
manager--a man not in step with the aims of the company--the fellow
who doesn't believe in the policies and methods one hundred per cent,
is like a rotten apple in a barrel of good ones--if you leave it there
long enough, it will have the whole barrel on the garbage wagon. But in
the case of the six out of ten who are not working right, it should be
obvious that it's another case of “they were all out of step but Jim”
so you'd better take yourself off to one side, hold a few star chamber
sessions and operate on Red. You're the point of contact, Boy, between
the officers and directors and the sales organization.
During the war you heard a lot about morale, and morale is nothing
more-or-less than mental attitude--point of view. Yet, morale has
overthrown dynasties, won battles and brought success out of failure.
The sales battle of your company will not be won unless it is
ever-apparent in the salesmen--the salesmen cannot be expected to have
it unless their managers believe, with an infinite faith, in the aims,
policies and personnel of your institution and those managers cannot
be expected to have it unless their point of contact with the dynamos
in the power house are capable of carrying the proper voltage with an
unbroken current, rather than be merely a broken live-wire that can
only sputter, fuss and shock those with whom it comes in contact.
Boy, this has been a rambling letter and I hope the things I've told
you will prove entirely unnecessary, but you're just now embarking
on an uncharted sea. You'll no doubt run into breakers, squalls and
stormy weather, yet, there is bound to be clear sailing ahead of you
if you'll be ever alert to stay off the rocks of conceit, leisure and
intolerance.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
P.S.--Am sending you that hat you won on the election bet. You'll note
that it's the same size as the last one I bought you.
_Dad Drops in on a Branch Manager and Finds the Spirit of the Time_
Dear Hal:
I've been reading a great deal recently in the newspapers and
magazines, particularly in articles relating to sales problems, about
the new order of things with respect to this year rewarding only
fighters. In addition to what you say in your letters about your own
company's activities, the bulletins and circular letters you have
sent me, it seems that every sales talk I listen to, or read, bears
down particularly on that very apparent change that has come about
in all business in recognizing changed conditions and cutting your
expense-cloth according to your result-pattern.
You know, you sent me a copy of a letter not long ago written by the
Big Boss himself, in which he said that they did not contemplate
reducing their man power, but he said he expected you to do away with
all incompetents; have one good man do the work of two mediocre ones
and he intimated in no uncertain terms that your company had no use for
drones around its bee-hive.
I have been just a little mite curious to get around and see just how
literally your organization was taking the instructions so I welcomed
the chance that presented itself last week when some business took me
out of town for a few days. I happened in a town, Red, in which your
company had a branch house (not in your territory, Boy, although I
wished it were). This was what might be called a baby-branch, in that
it has been in operation only a few months. Not having much to do, I
dropped around to chat with the manager. The thing that first impressed
me was that although it was before eight A. M. they were on the job and
working. The next thing I noticed was that they didn't have any surplus
office furniture to loll around in. In fact, after I introduced myself
and indicated that I was going to stay a few minutes anyway, they had
quite a time finding something for me to sit on.
A funny coincidence was, the manager was red-headed and sitting across
the desk from him was a red-headed youngster who reminded me a good
deal of you when you were his age. As I sat there chatting with the
manager, I just couldn't keep my eyes off that boy. Evidently he was
office manager, voucher clerk, cashier, chief clerk and everything in
the office except the stenographer. The stenographer, by-the-way, was a
young man about the same age as the red-head who wasn't bothered about
having to powder his nose, fix his back hair, or go to the rest room
every twenty minutes like some female stenographers I've heard of.
Both of these chaps were neatly dressed and a credit in appearance to
the office. About nine o'clock Red (I'll just have to call him that)
said to the stenographer “Come on, Boy, let's go” and both of them got
up from their desks and went out the door. I didn't think much of that
until a few minutes later I heard the clanking of chains and squeaking
of pulleys and looking out I saw Red and the stenographer--now dressed
in overalls and jumpers--out bringing stock down from the third floor
to the shipping floor by means of a chain and pulley.
I questioned the manager and he said their business there so far was
small and his entire force was himself and those two boys. It was, of
course, obvious that had he a combination warehouseman and shipping
clerk he couldn't be kept busy but about half the time, so the work
must therefore be done by his present force. I watched those fellows
while they brought down some hundred or more cases, stenciled them,
piled them neatly on the sidewalk in front awaiting the transfer
wagons. When finished they came back in the office, picked up their
office work where they left off and went to it. I was so interested
in that combination that I made it convenient to stay around there
all day--I was afraid there was a joker in it some place and I wanted
to see. When the transfer man came Red went out and helped load the
goods onto the wagon. He wasn't very big physically--just a boy I tell
you--but you should see him get a toe-hold on those pickle barrels.
Why, Strangler Lewis never had a thing on him in his palmiest days--and
smile--Red--why doggone it he was actually happy in that job and took
just as much interest in his work as if he owned the place.
In talking with the manager he got to explaining the different routes
of his salesmen and I noticed on the map that there were several large
towns that his salesmen didn't touch. When I asked him specifically
about them, he told me he worked them himself and he gave me to
understand that he wasn't one of those chair-warming “directors of
sales” but a real, red-blooded, hard-hitting he-manager--one who sent
in orders in the same mail with his expense account. It was very
apparent that in addition to working the trade he also found time to
direct his salesmen, answer his correspondence and be all that a branch
manager should be.
Red, I walked out of that branch and down the street and do you know
what I was thinking of? Well, I'll tell you--do you remember that
grand old patriotic picture of the drummer, the fifer and the color
bearer, tattered, wounded and bandaged, but with set jaws, courage
and determination fairly bristling from them--that picture's called,
“The Spirit of '76”? Well, Boy, I couldn't help but think of the
similarity of the spirit portrayed in the picture and that evidenced by
that two-fisted, working manager with his two combination office-men,
stenographer, shipping clerk, and warehouseman.
Now, of course, I suppose you've got men working for you who would
say, if you told them about this occurrence, that they thought it
was beneath a man's dignity to do the things those fellows did and
perhaps they're right in it too, as applied to some places and some
conditions. I know all of your managers cannot spend seventy-five per
cent of their time out getting orders; I know that office managers,
clerks and stenographers cannot be shipping clerks and warehousemen
in addition to their other duties, but the big thought I want to get
across to you Red, is that here was a place where it not only could be
done, but necessary that it should be done if that baby-branch was to
get a foot-hold and live, and the beautiful part about it all was, it
was done, cheerfully, happily and with a determination to win just like
the spirit that was in the minds and hearts of those grand old boys at
Valley Forge.
You know, one of the chief duties of a district manager is to be
continually on the lookout for good timber--a sort of a scout for the
Big League as 'twere. All I have to say is--keep your eye on that
combination.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
P. S.--I'll bet you a new brown derby that red-headed kid will not be
pushing pencils and juggling pickle barrels all his life.
_The Boy Gets a Chance to See Himself as Others See Him_
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have been sitting out in the porch swing all evening
watching the neighborhood youngsters play ball in the street. In the
bunch was one red-headed boy, who, of course, reminded me a little
of you when you were his age and it was only natural that I got to
musing a little over your experiences and problems and I couldn't help
wondering just what kind of ball you were now playing.
After the last youngster had heeded the paternal whistle and laid aside
his ball and glove for the night, the shouts died down, the street
became quiet and Mother and I sat out there in the twilight talking
of you--your good points and bad points--your fads, fancies and pet
peeves. We fell to discussing your qualifications for this job of
district manager that you have had now for some time and wondering if
you were finding it possible to control that bombastic, nitro glycerin,
TNT disposition of yours, in the face of trying circumstances that I
know you have to face daily.
I don't know that I ever told you, but I have had the privilege of
knowing and studying different district managers--not in your concern,
but in other lines where the problems are somewhat similar. I was
telling Mother about some of the species I had met up with in my
time and durned if she didn't spring a couple of quotations from the
Scriptures (just like Mother, isn't it?) that seemed to fit my line
of musing so well that I just thought I'd use 'em for a basis--a sort
of Golden Text as 'twere and come in and write you a letter before I
forgot what I wanted to say.
The particular district manager I was telling her about at the time,
was a fellow whom I was pretty well acquainted with in the old days. He
was a bright fellow, one who knew his game about as well as any I ever
met and those in power in his company had every reason to expect him
to make a big success. He was a good salesman--had more than ordinary
knowledge of the fine points of the manufacturing end, had had a broad
experience and was a keen analyst.
This man was a likeable chap and had taken more than a correspondence
course in diplomacy and tact, so there wasn't anything on the surface
that would indicate other than smooth sailing in his job, but the boys
on the road who ran onto him frequently, soon began to intimate to
their confidants that he wasn't making such a success as it was thought
he would.
One day I got hung up on a big deal where I had to wait over a couple
of days before I could get the signature on the dotted line and I
accidentally met this chap in the dining room of the hotel one morning.
After he found out I had a little time to kill he asked me if I
wouldn't like to go with him to call on one of the branches under his
jurisdiction. I guess it was curiosity more than anything else that
prompted my acceptance of his invitation, but anyway, we went over to
the branch in that city and all I had to do was to sit over in a corner
of the private office, read a newspaper--or rather pretend to--and
watch the wheels go 'round.
The first thing I noticed was a sort of new dignity that he assumed
the minute we walked into the office--pleasant enough and smiling as
he saluted the manager and clerks, but you know Red, one of those
“holier-than-thou” atmospheres seemed to creep into the room like a
Lake Michigan fog in late October. Not being familiar with the fine
points of the business I wasn't able to get much from the various
conversations that I overheard during the day, but I particularly
noticed that every once in a while the manager would relate some
particularly good thing that had come to pass and invariably the
district manager would lean back and say, “Sure, I'm responsible for
that!” or “Didn't I tell you how to do that?” or some such comment.
Whenever those remarks were made I noticed particularly that the
manager's face would sort of lengthen and he apparently bit his lip a
time or two, as I surmised, to keep from telling the D. M. that he too
should share in the glory.
Several times during the day while the district manager and manager
were discussing some problem, various clerks and stenographers would
come in for a decision, or deliver some verbal message and it was
noticeable beyond mistake that the district manager always answered
the question, or handed down the decision, regardless of the fact
that the manager was the one usually addressed. Later on in the day
in discussing some situations they did not always agree on all points
and mild, but healthy, argument arose. In such cases, the district
manager invariably raised his voice to a high pitch, to all appearances
lost his temper and in effect, brow-beat and bulldozed the poor little
manager into an eventual agreement on the point in question.
When we got ready to leave, I know it was more than imagination when
I noticed the look of tired relief that came into the eyes of the
manager and I couldn't help but feel a deep sympathy for him, because
instead of receiving helpful suggestions and counsel, encouragement
and intelligent, collaborated analysis, he had only been subjected to
ill-concealed egotism and arrogance, had been belittled in the eyes of
his subordinates and shouted at like a coolie-laborer on a steamship
dock.
When I came to this place in my narrative, Mother just gazed out over
the chimney tops of the homes across the street into the canopy of
stars that twinkle over you tonight, the same as they twinkle over
us and said, “Well, Red will never be that kind of district manager,
because he'll remember that part of the Scriptures that says, “He that
exalteth himself shall be abased, but he that humbleth himself shall be
exalted” and again in Proverbs where it says, “A soft answer turneth
away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.”
I didn't have any comeback, Red; I hope Mother's right (she usually
is) and I'm not laying any odds on whether you remember the Biblical
quotations, but I am willing to vote with her on your being smart
enough to keep from assuming that cheap variety of dignity that only
looks good on an undertaker; that faculty of self-effacement when
it means the strengthening of another's position in the eyes of his
subordinates and having the breeding to speak with firmness, but in a
low voice, that can only make for respect and withal, a love--if you
please--in the hearts of your fellow-workers that is more priceless
than empty-sounding titles, fame, or five figures on the salary check.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_Dad Tips Off the Boy to a New Job_
Dear Hal:
I got a letter the other day from an optimistic friend of mine out
in the short grass country, where the principal industry is cattle
raising. He admitted that, like all other business his particular line
had gone through its depression, but I couldn't help but be impressed
with his cheerfulness. Among other things, he told me that they had
experienced an awful dry spell out his way, but that the cattle
business wasn't so bad after all. He seemed to be full of pity for the
poor hog raiser, for he said that it had been so dry that the natives
had to soak up their hogs by turning water on them before they could
get them to hold slop.
Somehow this set me to thinking about your business and having a
little spare time on my hands I thought I'd drop down to the main
office of your company to renew old acquaintances and to listen to the
gossip. When I got down there, the first thing that impressed me was
the pruning that had been going on in the office force. I didn't see
any strange faces to speak of on my visit, but I noticed the absence
of a good many whose duties during the war period were no doubt
dignified by the title of First and Second Pencil Sharpener and Envoy
Extraordinary to His Flipness, the Office Boy, and other strange and
sundry nonessentials that crept into all offices during the period of
commercial hysteria that we have been recovering from in the last year.
Everybody had their coats off and were working under high pressure and
I had considerable difficulty getting anyone to talk to me. I suppose
it was out of respect for the fact that I have a red-headed son on
the payroll, that finally got an audience for me with the Boss and we
had a very pleasant chat. He told me that business was much better
than it had been and took me down past the order desk where the old
time activity was beginning to show again. He always takes me into his
confidence in illustrating his points and I was particularly impressed
by some of the letters from salesman managers that were coming in.
It was really amusing to a fellow like me, Red, who has been out of
touch with the present situation to quite an extent, particularly
his illustrations of the mental attitude of different managers. The
majority of letters he showed me were written in an enthusiastic,
optimistic tone and recited the strengthening of the market on certain
items and were accompanied by contracts for futures, as well as a spot
business, while some few were evidently written by managers who didn't
know that the wholesale grocers had taken their last fall sugar losses
and were still devoting their time to thinking up fancy alibis for poor
business.
After so long a time, we got to talking about you Red, and I suppose
he just wanted to tickle an old man's parental pride, but anyway he
said some nice things about the way you were getting along. He told me
something in confidence that I'm going to tip off to you, although he
said you didn't know yet, but am sure he will not mind my telling you.
He said that the first of next month you were to be brought into the
Chicago office as one of his product sales managers. Just about that
time he was called into a meeting and had to tell me good-bye hurriedly
and as a result, I didn't get to find out just what job it was, or
whether it was permanent, or just a tryout for you, but anyway, I went
home walking on air for, regardless of what it is or whether or not it
is a promotion, it certainly will be a change of base for you and will
add to your already diversified experience.
Now Red, I've spent a lot of time in my life watching the antics
(yes--I say that advisedly) of some of these product sales managers
and there are several things I want to warn you of before you tackle
the job. In the first place, the biggest mistake you could make would
be to get the impression that all you had to do was to “direct” the
efforts of the organization on the particular items you were following.
Of course, you'll have some of that, but if you think you will only
have to dictate to a good looking stenographer, you're as mistaken
as a republican candidate for alderman in the first ward. And again,
if on account of your army experience you imagine you're going to
be top sergeant for the general sales manager and let him carry the
responsibility you'd better stick pins in your chair and come out of it.
The only excuse for having a product sales manager is that the
particular product in question will have a “daddy” in the main office,
instead of having to be nurtured a la incubator and grow up like Topsy.
Don't think for a minute that the general sales manager is going to
do the thinking for you, or lay down a set of instructions for you to
follow out. I take it that you're getting more than twelve dollars
a week now and if so, they expect you to be “creative” and use that
torch-thatched swelling on top of your shoulders for something else
beside a hat-rack.
Now get this clear to start with--everything the company manufactures
in your line is YOUR product. Yours to sell--it doesn't belong to the
factory, the branch house, the jobber, the retailer or the consumer.
It's YOURS--the weight of responsibility is on your shoulders from the
time it comes out of the retort until the can is peacefully reposing
on the breeze-swept side of the hillock in the city dumping-ground. If
you think you can sit down and dictate a “pep” letter to managers and
salesmen, wave your arms and plant Old Glory rhetorically in the azure
blue of the heavens until some temperamental manager becomes so moved
by your chin music that he orders a carload--if you think you have
then accomplished something worth crowing over, you better go back to
calling on the retail trade. Those goods are yours, Red--you've only
then started them in the channel of distribution and the REAL WORK for
your think-tank has only commenced. You must think up schemes--selling
plans--watch stocks and keep them moving--give advice and counsel to
your managers--in a word, you must be the dynamo that generates the
sell-juice and believe me, it's your job to see there are no broken
connections.
There are a lot of things about a product sales manager's job that can
be well or poorly done, but I cannot begin to comment on all of them in
this letter. Am sorry I didn't get to talk just a few minutes longer
to your Boss, for I'm curious to know whether they thought you were so
all-fired good at your other job that they gave you this, or whether
somebody just left the gate open and you sneaked in.
I haven't told your mother about this yet, so I suggest that you write
her a letter and just mention it casual-like. After I get her comments
I'll write you some more of my observations, which I imagine you relish
about as much as salt in your ice cream.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_Dad Gets a Lesson from a Trip to the Farm_
Dear Hal: