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November, 1958. A sunny day and I was feeling pretty good about
things. I'd been writing ads and commercials in Chicago for over
eight years, and found it both rewarding and satisfying. Heck, I'd
only been fired once. Even that wasn't all that horrible; my boss
offered to cancel the firing, but I told him to forget it. Who
wants to work for a guy who's just fired you? So that day I was on
my way to my new job at Grant Advertising. Good job, good agency.
Things looked terrific. But how was I to know that in a year I'd be
transferred to the Detroit office to work on the big Dodge account?
And how was I to know we'd lose the account within days and
transfer me to the New York office? And how was I to know that New
York would be fun for a while and then a pain in the neck? And how
was I to know-? Well, you get the idea. And I hope you enjoy coming
along.
Okay, time for a little confession. Three things: 1. I spent about
forty years writing ads and commercials for various advertising
agencies, and for about 85% of that time I absolutely loved it. 2.
For the other 15% of the time, I absolutely hated it. 3. But in
spite of the disasters involved in that 15%, I wouldn't have traded
jobs with anyone. Not even the President of the United States. But
why in the world had I chosen to do it all in Minneapolis? Beats
me. Minneapolis, as you probably know, is in Minnesota. And
Minnesota means unusual weather, to say the least. In June-which is
when I decided to take the job-there are several wonderful days.
Maybe four or five. But the rest of the time it's mostly winter.
With snow up to your ears and the thermometer plunging helplessly.
And that was only the beginning of the problems.
Conventional wisdom said it could never happen. For starters, he
was from Arizona and she was from Pennsylvania. Almost a whole
continent apart. And he was a widower and she was a widow. With 42
and 47 years, respectively, of happy marriage behind them. And if
that wasn't enough, he was a young 75 and she was a lovely 69; old
enough to know better, one might say. Then one day they boarded a
plane for Paris. They noticed each other, but didn't meet. When the
plane landed they ended up in the same hotel. Arranged by the same
tour group. But both so engrossed in Paris they still didn't see
each other. Then it happened. On the third day their group gathered
for an introductory meeting and dinner. They ended up sitting
across from each other. He said, "Hi." She said, "Hello." And the
sparks began to fly.That's when the love story that couldn't happen
began to happen...
One man's memoir about a decade in Chicago. One story that's a
hundred stories, about: -- The Great American Novel that never got
written-- -- A young writer's introduction to big-agency
advertising-- -- Ads and commercials and clients and bosses-- --
Hits and misses and triumphs and catastrophies-- -- A lovely young
lady who became a supportive wife and mother-- -- Three young sons
who kept both parents hopping-- -- Garrets and apartments and dream
houses in the suburbs-- -- And an interesting look at America in
the '50's from a front-row seat in the advertising that helped
propel it. How it worked and didn't work, scored and struck out,
rewarded and punished, and just about everything else.
After World War II training on every weapon in the infantry, the
author was shipped oversees, handed a typewriter, and typed his way
through 2 1/2 years of North Africa, Italy, and Austria. He didn't
fire a shot and still feels guilty about it.
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