Having raced through my last 3 years of Harvard as a returning veteran, I was anxious to get on with a career. We veterans felt compelled to rush things---accelerated curricula, marriage, and job---as we thought that the War years had left us seriously behind. But, behind whom? We were all behind, our whole generation! What an illusion.
Looking back on those early years in New York, it is hard to think about anything but good times. None of us had much money, we were all starting at the low end of careers, but life was cheap, and lots of fun was to be had with classmates and other Ivies who were like us. My job at the Grace Bank paid less than $ 200 a month, and Renée made about the same in the Macy Executive Training Program. Every morning we would leave our tiny basement apartment in Jane Street ( rent $57 per month) in the Village ( where else in those days ?), and walk to the subway, where we would wave goodbye from either side of the platforms, Renée going uptown and I going downtown . We ate simply, and drank mostly beer. A great treat was to go up to 74th street for Sunday dinner at Renée's mothers' who would fill us up for the week with a standing rib roast. Afterwards, we would generally go the movies at the Museum of Modern Art, a very cheap afternoon. On Sunday mornings, we often played touch football with Harvard friends, in a public park in the Lower East Side slums; No security worries in those halcyon days.
We had married very young, full of delightful romantic and idealistic dreams. Practically all young people in post-War America felt the same: it was grand time to be young and living in America.
In 1951, I answered an ad in the Wall Street Journal that got me a job in the Overseas Division of Procter & Gamble. At the time, only two years -and-a-half out of college, I was working in the market research department of the big advertising agency McCann Erickson, having recently left Wall Street where I had been a trainee at the Grace Bank. I had had high hopes of a business career overseas working for Peter Grace in one of his vast South American holdings; Unfortunately, Peter was just going through a review of investment opportunities in North America, at the same time curtailing new investments in South America. There was a rumor going around at the time that Peter had been stung by some remarks of Yale classmates, to the effect that he had never really been challenged in business, that profits were too easy South of the Border, and that he appeared to shy away from the tough challenges of the North. This psychology may have played a part, but I think Peter's intelligence in the field gave him the first warning of the social unrest that was eventually to make investments in Peru and other countries South America, extremely risky. In this, he was very prescient. Interestingly enough, I worked in the Statistical Department, grinding out 80 column analyses of US companies, some of which Mr. Grace eventually purchased. Anyway, I learned how to read a balance sheet, an acquisition that has served me well all through my professional life.
In any case, I didn't see myself in a Wall Street setting, so I took the advertising job, as Madison Avenue was exciting, and furthermore, McCann had a big international business. Looking back on this phase of my rather hesitant career in business, it really wasn’t terribly well thought out, but I had to do something, since I was already married, just a few months out of Harvard.
At McCann, we worked out of most prestigious offices in Rockefeller Center (where, 25 years later, I found myself in the same building, running the US operations for the French group, CGE). I was part of a young group of researchers which meant, in the ad business, analyzing data in the markets of the clients' products. The work was interesting because we could actually relate sales results to advertising and sales promotion campaigns. TV was just beginning to have a commercial impact, and we eagerly awaited the monthly Nielsen figures.
The Department was run by a very attractive and personable Yalie, Don Armstrong, who had been a conscientious objector during the War. However, his “substitute" duties had been hardly less dangerous than anything we had experienced in combat: he had volunteered to replace forest rangers who were in the Service, and had repeatedly risked his life parachuting into Western forest fires. The experience made him a chain smoker, and the recurring drama in the Department was his repeated attempts (mostly unsuccessful) to break the habit. Of course, we all smoked in those days, to a greater or lesser extent.
At the time, McCann was known as a serious intellectual agency because Marion Harper, who ran it, believed in a scientific approach to advertising, hence his emphasis on our research efforts. We even had some noted sociologists working with us, including the famous Professor Herta Hertzog, the author of a number of distinguished papers on human behavior and motivation.
We all had to undergo repeated Rorschach and other personality tests, as captive subjects.
It was all very stimulating, but it wasn't going both lead to a big career in the ad game. It became evident to all of us that the only juicy position was that of Account Executive.
I did make one life-long friendship at McCann - Bill Bryan, whose path I crossed a number of times in the future. Also, I helped get a job in our Department for Sue Solomon Cardozo, who ended up years later as the chateau-based wife of a French marquis. (And whom I still see from time to time in France).
In any case, since I was bent on an international career, the P&G opportunity was most welcome.
Very quickly, in response to my reply to the ad, a gentleman called from Cincinnati, setting up a date in a hotel room. When I met him, without further to- do, he had me take a short written test. When he read the results, he smiled approvingly and told me that I would be contacted shortly by a Mister Harold Staff, Vice President of the Overseas Division. I couldn't believe that I could be hired on the basis of a short test, but it turned out that way. When I met Mr. Staff, (this time in a better hotel--the St. Regis, I believe), it seemed that he was just making sure that I was presentable, and gave the impression that the job was mine! From then on, things moved quickly. Employee forms arrived, a medical examination was arranged, and an offer was made, subject to, one, my giving notice to my current employer by a certain date, and, two, and a final interview with Mr. Staff ----to meet my wife. This seemed to be very important to P&G, as I learned later. Apparently, a number of American wives didn't take well to the international scene, and their husbands' careers suffered as a result. Renée, however, easily passed the test.
At this, our decisive meeting, Harold Staff outlined my next steps. He told me that I was to be trained in Brand Management, the key career path in the Company, and especially important in the new Overseas Division, where products were constantly being launched in new markets. However, salesmen were traditionally jealous of the “Brandmen” who called the shots for them. At P&G, the Sales Department was a service, carrying out policies and strategies that were designed by others. Salesmen were basically tools ( although vital ones ) to meet demand created by massive advertising which was under the control of the Brand Managers who in turn managed the budgets of the advertising agencies.
Therefore it behooved the potential Brandman to have the respect of the Sales Department, which could only be acquired by showing that he could sell, too.
So the bombshell was dropped. I was to spend the summer (of 1951) selling P&G products as a retail salesman in Queens. At the end of this “Sales Training ", if I didn't make a complete mess of the assignment, I would be sent to Toronto, to be formed as a Brandman, and future key executive in one of the overseas subsidiaries. Toronto was the headquarters of P&G Canada .As a quaint sign of the mentality of American business at the time; Canada was considered a very foreign culture.
As a sumptuous dinner (he was a bon vivant) drew to a close, Mr. Staff gave me a final sendoff, which had both a sweet and a sour taste. He said, "Tener, you won't see me again for several months, but always keep in mind that you are in the Overseas Division while you are out selling soap. But, if you have any problems, take them to the local Sales Manager "(!)
It was to be several months before I any further contact with anybody in P&G outside the Sales Department of Queens, New York. I suddenly felt a bit isolated.
Meanwhile, we had left our Jane Street cellar for a fifth floor walkup on lower 2nd Avenue... Climbing up those steep stairs with grocery bags at the end of a working day was tough , but it was an improvement over a situation in which a Murphy bed , when pulled down, took up 90 % of the space of our living ( and only ) room. We were now in a typical old-fashioned New York ""railway flat", consisting of one long room running from one end to the other. The landlord was a creepy abortionist who lived on the ground floor, and there was a mad (genuine) woman on the second floor. Since we were on the top floor, we had the roof to ourselves, but the City was so polluted in those days, that one was covered with soot after a half hour sun bath. I used to chat with a charming gentleman across the space between our two apartment buildings, but that pleasant diversion ended when he was arrested for spying for the Russians.
The Cold War was in its most intensive period, and I was almost caught up in it. At lunch one day at the Harvard Club ( in those days, cheap, if you had the huge Chef Salad, along with which you could stuff yourself with free popovers), my classmate, Charlie Winchester, talked me into applying for a reserve commission in U. S. Army Intelligence. The reason was to learn about the kind of realpolitik goings-on that you couldn't read about in the papers. It also was good pay for attendance at classes only one evening a week. I duly applied and was interviewed by an impressive lot of senior officers, passing the test to become a Second Lieutenant (Intelligence). In the event, the classes turned out to boring and banal. As I remember, we spent a lot of time on Map Reading.
Then the Korean War broke out, and there were serious rumors to the effect that we would be put on active service and sent to Korea. This seemed a real possibility, especially since our commanding officer was a gung-ho type, ready for immediate action.
Fortunately, P& G stepped in and saved me from going back to war a second time in the space of a few years. A letter was sent to the War Department requesting deferment for me because I was already practically overseas (a weasel), and Renée was pregnant ---with Riggs. It worked, but I kept my commission for many (unpaid) years.
We bought our first car in 1950, a little Morris Minor, on the never-never. It was a real bonanza, especially since we could drive out to the Lawrence Beach Club on weekends, sponging on Lola Marshall's membership. Correction: we had an antediluvian Packard for awhile, which took us to Lake Placid for our honeymoon in 1948, but shortly after, it became moribund in a blizzard on the way back from skiing in Stowe. The Morris Minor, although very small, was a peppy convertible, and we raced around the City and Long Island with great élan.
Things were better in almost every way. Renée’s career had moved upmarket, to designing fancy windows for Lord and Taylor. We started to entertain more, burdening our guests with those five flights. For some reason or other, going back down seemed to be troublesome as well, and quite a few of our guests ended up spending the night on our sofa.
However, my work was hardly peaches and cream. My first meeting with my new boss, a P&G veteran who was so loyal to the Company that he shampooed with Ivory Soap (until P&G came out with Prell, never a great seller)., who told me that the Company would always stand behind me when I would be accosted by shopkeepers----and I took this to mean a fairly frequent occurrence! I was given a black Ford sedan, a route list of customers in Eastern Queens, a price list, and a hearty sendoff. I was not allowed to use the Ford on weekends, and mileage was strictly controlled.
I soon realized why the shopkeepers---half of them were German-Jewish deli owners---hated P&G. Because detergents, especially Tide, the market leader, were essential goods, they had to stock them. Moreover, they had to overstock because the Company periodically distributed coupons to all their customers. So the trick was to force them to buy large quantities to meet the promised coupon demand, and a good salesman could blackmail them into ordering more than they really needed---causing them to discount the merchandise that was always left over after the promotion period. The stuff became “Loss Leaders ", and smart shopkeepers, especially the bigger ones, successfully used the technique. They were our allies, but in lowdown, small-store Queens, they were not numerous. There was only one small supermarket in my zone and it was serviced from headquarters!
I was required to count every item in every store and tie the tally in with orders. I had to count and record everything manually. “Loading up" the trade was the key to salesmanship and promotion, and I was not particularly good at it. I was shown no quarter, no favoritism, and I frankly hated the work, but I did a creditable job. It was a very hot summer, and of course neither the car nor the stores had any air conditioning. I was motivated by the prospect of the experience ending soon, and the anticipation of my overseas career.
It was the year when P&G launched its first liquid dishwashing product, Joy. We had to stack the bottles in every outlet, and my worst memories are of cleaning up messes of Joy spilt on grocery store floors, under the sullen eyes of proprietors.
Finally, the long summer drew to a close, I mailed in my last sales report, and we prepared to leave for Canada. The great adventure was about to begin.
Tener Eckelberry
