By Bill Catlette
When I was about 15 years old, my family moved to a
brand new house that my parents built. During the
construction phase, it was necessary to use a
substantial amount of fill dirt to bring the front and
side yards up to grade. Instead of dirt, my dad took
advantage of the fact that we had a number of
neighboring factories and chemical plants whose
smokestacks belched huge clouds of foul smelling
stuff into the air, and left behind tons of fly-ash. Our
home became the new home for a LOT of this fine,
gray, gritty stuff. I remember it well because my dad
needed a way to get the fly-ash distributed from the
spot in the front yard where the giant trucks dumped
their load, to where it was needed around the
foundation of the house. That's where having two
teenage kids can become an asset.
Conscripted for the summer, my brother and I spent
every day pushing wheelbarrow loads of this stuff to
where it was needed and then dumping and
distributing the load. Fly-ash is nasty. It gets on (and
in) everything - your eyes, ears, underwear - you get
the picture. It was hot, sweaty, dirty work, the
upside of which was that my dad had committed to
pay us for our efforts. Though I don't remember the
exact amount, it wasn't a lot. As I recall, there
wasn't exactly a surplus of household funds after dad
got done paying the builder, and besides, my father
takes pride in throwing nickels around as though they
were manhole covers.
Growing up in West Virginia, it didn't take my brother
and me long to figure out that a well-timed, well-
publicized work stoppage might help improve our
economic lot. So one hot sunny Sunday afternoon,
we brought out the picket signs we had spirited away
in the basement, and went on strike. We chose
Sunday because we figured we might get a sympathy
vote from our minister, who lived just up the street.
Moreover, since that was our only day off each
week, we could get back to working (and earning)
the next day if the strike thing blew up on us.
Long story short, the strike ended after two days,
chuckles from neighbors, and yes, a chat dad had
with the preacher. My dad summoned my brother and
me and asked us each if we hadn't agreed to work for
the 50 cents an hour or whatever our wage
was. "Uh... yes sir." Then came the hammer. "When
someone, say one of your friends, makes a deal with
you, and then breaks their word, how does it make
you feel?" he asked. Gulp. And then came a valuable
lesson, a gift from my father that has stood with me
throughout my adult life. "A deal is a deal," he said.
To dad's credit, a day or so later, he compassionately
(and wisely) renegotiated 'the deal' from pay for time,
to a more lucrative (for everyone) piecework rate.
Owing to that childhood lesson, in business and in
life, I've made it a point to surround myself with
people who believe similarly that 'a deal is a deal.'
Michael O'Donnell, world-class ice climber and
mountaineer, is a good friend and occasional business
partner. When he's at work, Michael reeks of
professionalism, which, to me means that you never
have to look over your shoulder to see if the guy is
doing what he's supposed to. He would rather cut off
his left arm than let someone down. Maybe in his
case that comes from his climbing background, where
climbers are taught from the start that uttering the
words, "on belay" means that you've got someone's
life in your hands - quite literally. I do know this - it's
a lot more pleasurable (not to mention productive)
working and just being with folks like him.
The same can be said for my full time business
partner, Richard, and my wife and life partner, Mary.
Ditto for the folks at Voice One who answer our
phones, and our other virtual partners. Their word is
their bond.
I was reminded of this 'a deal is a deal' thing
yesterday. Having flown to Minneapolis to deliver a
keynote speech for the state's SHRM conference in
St. Cloud, I was perturbed (no, highly p. o'd.) when
the airline refused to allow me to board the
Minneapolis - Memphis flight that I held a paid,
reserved seat on because I had not taken the
preceding St. Cloud - Minneapolis flight. I won't name
the airline, but let's just say that, owing to the
location of their headquarters, they fly to Minneapolis
a lot.
Breaking promises seems to be the thing to do these
days for a lot of folks in the airline business. The
extra $700 I had to fork over to get home from
Minneapolis (trust me, it was a different airline) was
puny, compared to what United and USAirways (or
whatever their name is this week) retirees are
experiencing. Abrogating one's deal with customers,
suppliers, and people still in the workplace is bad
enough. Doing it with retirees who don't have a lot of
options is reprehensible.
Sadly, it's not just the airlines. Many professional
athletes seem to feel that having one or two good
seasons entitles them to demand that their contract
be renegotiated. If it's not, some sulk like babies,
get 'hurt,' or demand to be traded. A certain wide
receiver who made Sharpie pens famous comes to
mind.
Though it's not yet at critical mass, I fear that we
are dangerously close to the point where each new
baby born in America will be issued from birth, their
own personal weasel-word spouting lawyer who will
protect them from a land of insincerity, and vice-
versa.
The good news? We still have a choice. Personally,
I've made mine, and I'm not waiting for New Year's to
make and implement a few resolutions. Henceforth,
I'm going to:
1. Make it a point to let those around me know that I
appreciate their sincerity and being good to their
word.
2. Revisit my own Commitments (upper case 'C'
intentional) to ensure that the risk of my letting
others down is narrowed substantially.
3. Stop doing business with folks who can't
absolutely, positively be trusted.
As for that unnamed airline? Maybe if and when they
emerge from their self-induced bankruptcy, they'll still
fly to Minneapolis a lot, and call it their home. I don't
really care, because they won't need any seats for
me.
