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DeWeese--Little Things Mean a Lot

June 1998
About 10 years ago, when my waist was 10 inches smaller and all my parts were alive and well, I wrote a column about the contributions that the so-called "little people" make to the success of their printing company employers. In 1988, my wit was still quick and I opened the column by rewriting the lyrics of the great old standard, "Little Things Mean a Lot."

My version began like this:

"Blow me a kiss from across the room.

Say I look nice when I'm not.

Give me smile if I've waited a while.

Little things mean a lot…"

My revisions butchered the great lyrics of the composers, Edith Lindeman and Carl Stutz, but, hey, I'm the Manaña Man, and I had a point to make.

If I could only remember that point...

Maybe, just maybe, it was that you salespeople, managers and owners ought to show more respect and more frequently acknowledge the folks—CSRs, receptionists, secretaries, accounting people, production people, and shipping and delivery people—who rub up against customers and prospects every day. Yep, that had to be it. Love the little people a little more, and they'll love your customers a lot more.

The Man Meets a Fan
Actually, it was lunch that reminded me of this old column. Lunchtime always reminds me of a lot of things. Lately, lunchtime reminds me that I haven't had lunch. I'm so busy that most days I forget lunch until about 3 p.m. and then have lunch sent in so I can eat while I work. This, of course, is terrible for my digestive system and accounts for the supply of Tums I keep in my desk.

About two weeks ago, I'd had my fill of printing industry deals, so about noon I put my phone on "do not disturb," slipped out the back door of our offices and headed for Joe's Place. Joe's food is a lot like me: ugly but good.

I took the last stool at the counter and began to study Joe's collection of famous resort postcards tacked on a large bulletin board next to the grill. Joe never goes anywhere and loves to complain about "being chained to the grill." So Joe's patrons have mailed him postcards featuring bikini-clad women cavorting on famous beaches around the world. There must be 300 cards haphazardly tacked and layered on the bulletin board. The whole thing is permanently held together with a coating of grease from the grill.

 

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