I do not intend to psychoanalyze myself in this post. I will simply convey my issue(s) and impressions thereof to the best of my memory and in the hope of getting something persistent off my chest.
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| WON'T YOU PLEASE COME IN AND BUY SOMETHING FROM ME! |
In my formative years I was painfully shy, sensitive and overly accommodating. Influenced by my parents, I was always polite and respectful, careful of what I said and how I said it. Somehow, however, I got the feeling that people were getting the wrong impression and not taking me serious. In short, it was not working for me. In later life as I found confidence in myself as a conveyor of the written word, I developed the courage of my convictions and ultimately the crustiness to be outspoken. That hasn't necessarily always worked for me either, but I digress.
In 1952 I began working for Don Weese in his men's clothing store in Dresden, ON as a 14-year-old high school student. When Don sold his business to Art Bowen of Wallaceburg in 1955 I stayed on as interim store manager. In those days Dresden, with its population of 2,000+, had four downtown establishments selling men's clothing. I didn't think much about it at the time, but in all of those five years I can honestly count on one hand (with a couple of fingers left over) the number of people who actually came into the store specifically to buy something from me. Oh sure we had customers but they were few and far between...Quite honestly I do not know how Don and Art kept the store open as long as they did. Certainly it wasn't because of me.
I remember a young fellow my age, Lorden Crosby, asking me if he could buy a pair of GWG bluejeans ($9.95) "on time" and I agreed to let him have them for $1 down and a dollar a month until paid. Another friend, Jim Simmons, bought a pair of made-to-measure dress pants from me shortly before joining the Canadian Navy. That was it...No member of my family or other friends from school, church or sports ever stepped foot in the store, although Don Brooker and town character Dave McCracken would drop in for long chats on quiet Saturday evenings. One Christmas my mother gave me a pair of socks that she bought from Cunninghams in Chatham. If that doesn't tell you something, nothing will.
Things did not change much when I joined the Jack Fraser chain in 1956 after a short stint in professional baseball. Jack Fraser management used me, then a local ball player, as a drawing card(?) for their store in St. Thomas but I'm sure that proved to be an advertising failure. Funny how things stand out in your mind and again I can recall only two individuals who came in the store specifically to deal with me -- one a girl friend who bought a sweater for her father and another the son-in-law of my landlady who purchased a suit. Fortunately the St. Thomas store had an otherwise established clientele, but not sufficient for me to ever meet a weekly draw against commission.
I was transferred to a store in Chatham as assistant manager in 1959 and after a 13-month stay I was completely shut out. I didn't know anyone in Chatham at that time but I still had family and a few friends in nearby Dresden who would surely have shopped for men's apparel on special occasions if nothing else; but you wouldn't know it by me. One very close fashion-plate cousin, in fact, was known to buy all of his substantial wardrobe from Boyes and Herd at the other end of King Street in Chatham.
Eventually I came to two conclusions...1) People simply did not like the merchandise in my stores, or 2) there had to be something about me that made them feel uncomfortable and they took patronage elsewhere. What that something was remains a mystery to me. After subsequent years as a newspaper editor, public relations practitioner and lay minister I am still self-reflecting and looking for answers, all the while coping with a culpable carryover paranoia of disrespect and resentment toward me for who I am and what I stand for, real or imagined.
In retrospect, I am left to conclude that I am not the type of guy to draw people to me. Sadly the communicator within me has somehow failed to communicate. I am comfortable in who I am, but sometimes it gets lonely.
Pitifully perhaps, I still strive for understanding and keep coming back for more...That's how dumb I am!
...But I know no other way. The desire to make that elusive meaningful impact in some way, shape or form before time runs out, continues to drive me.
Maybe they'll come to my funeral...as long as they don't have to buy something from me -- or read something I've written.
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