Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

Dear Hal:

Mother just finished reading your last letter aloud to me and while I know my quick reply will sort of shock you, I cannot help but unload a few pet ideas I have along the lines suggested in your letter.

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.”