Parents: the older you get, the smarter they become
I remember the only time I saw my father cry. It was April 1958, and we were living at 421 Redman Avenue in Haddonfield, New Jersey. He came into my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, and said "Grandpop Harry died last night." As I sat up in bed, I had a mental flash of a stout first generation immigrant with a slight accent, a proud father of four sons. Grandpop Harry had always been there during my childhood, giving all the grandchildren dollar bills to the admonishment of my parents and assorted aunts and uncles. He didn't care. I had just received a letter from Grandpop. I made a mental note to save it forever.
"He was my friend," my dad said. Then he put his face in his hands and wept. I've never felt more helpless. I tried to cry too, but I couldn't. I was too shocked and afraid at witnessing my dad's vulnerability.
The funeral hall was packed. At 13, it was my first funeral; I didn't know what to expect. When our family arrived, we walked to the front of the room. Everyone was in black, with men in suits and women in veils.
There was an open casket. Grandpop looked somewhat pale. I remember thinking that was the way he's supposed to look he was dead. I looked to see if he would move. He didn't. Every adult family member was crying except my dad. He just stared forward with resolve and remembrance. I thought someday I would be in the same situation, but could not picture it.
The funeral ceremony was long. A rabbi said nice things, but my brother Josh and I (and six other first cousins) were fidgety children, just waiting for the event to end.
There was a funeral procession to the family cemetery in Carmel. It was an old Jewish cemetery with graves from the turn of the century, and had a section where every tombstone said "Gitomer" in one form or another. I looked at every one.
Then we gathered at the place Grandpop Harry would be put in the ground. His four sons and two others carried the casket to a device that would lower it into the ground. The casket seemed so heavy that I wondered if anyone had ever dropped one. As Grandpop was lowered, prayers were said, the male next of kin threw shovels of dirt, and everyone cried except my dad.
Sitting shiva, the traditional Jewish 8-day period of mourning, took place at our home. Mirrors were covered, yurtzite (special mourning) candles were lit, and the mourner's kaddish (prayer) was said by a minyan of 10 men twice a day People came from all over the country to mourn and comfort the bereaved. Food of every description lay on our extended dining room table at all times for the visitors. Masses of food and Judaism seem to go hand-in-hand.
Many people cried except my dad.
Grandpop Harry Gitomer was born on April 1. I always remember him on that day. I remember all the times we would go to visit Grandpop Harry at one residence or another in Atlantic City, and my dad and Grandpop would disappear behind closed doors and talk for hours. My dad was looking for worldly advice in his drive for the elusive brass ring of success.
My dad often told the story of Grandpop visiting his new machine shop in Wenonah, where he and his brother had formed a partnership they called Mar-Mac Industries.
My dad and Uncle Marty had a big order to produce, and were machining the parts to meet the deadline. My grandfather walked in unannounced and motioned for my dad to come over. My dad, dressed in overalls and covered in machine oil, obliged. "What are you doing, son?" asked Grandpop. "Making parts for this order," answered my dad with entrepreneurial eagerness. "Go hire someone today for $2.25 an hour to do your job, and tomorrow morning put on a suit and go out and sell," Grandpop replied.
The next day my dad went to the Frankfort Arsenal, a military base in Philadelphia. He called on the only person he knew. That guy referred him to another guy, and my dad left with an order for $100,000, the 1954 equivalent of $2 million by current standards. It put him on the road to business success. I'm sure my dad has reflected on that day more often than he'll admit.
The lesson I learned is that good parental advice is useless unless you follow it. It makes me think of my dad's simple wisdom offered to me as I seek my brass ring.
I will never know if my dad cried again. I will never ask him. Somehow, I don't need to know.
Jeffrey Gitomer is the author of "The Sales Bible," and "Customer Satisfaction is Worthless, Customer Loyalty is Priceless." President of Charlotte-based Buy Gitomer, he gives seminars, runs annual sales meetings, and conducts training programs on selling and customer service. Inquires should be faxed to the WBJ at (48 22) 646-0576 or e-mailed to salesman@gitomer.com
