I was sitting around trying to count my blessings recently, and I had to give up when I got to “innumerable.” Among them is the fact that of the amazing jobs I had with the six organizations I’ve worked for between 1974 and my retirement in 2013, including the very best, my home from 1979 to 1999, under a couple of different names, under the general rubric of CMP, a company which published newspapers and magazines (and eventually websites) for people in the computer and electronics industries, such as Computer Systems News, InformationWEEK and Techweb.
My employee number was in the 80s, at a company that hit 1,000 at its peak, and sold for a billion dollars shortly before it became worthless and disappeared. The culture that made it great disappeared when it was sold in 1999—not by coincidence, the year I was laid off. But I made my peace with that bonehead move a long time ago, and I’m not going to insult the leaders I disrespect, since some of them read this column now and then.
Instead, I want to sing the praises of the two finest business owners I have ever known, Gerry and Lilo Leeds, and the terrific company they founded. This isn’t easy for me; I am the son of a milkman, a lifelong member of the Teamster’s Union. My father’s opinion of American corporate management could not have been lower. Even he had to admit the Leeds were something else.
I’m not going to try to write a history of the company, or a memorial to the Leeds family. Instead, I simply want to say that I know a company can put human values first, because for a while I worked for one that did.
Yes, I know that some of you who worked with me there and still read this will be moaning. “Schindler is such a sucker. He drank the Kool-Aid.” Maybe, but to me it tasted pretty good, and it wasn’t poisonous until the end.
I’ll spare you the details, but the Leeds constantly put their people first. When I had newspapers and magazines shot out from under me, they kept me on the payroll until something else came along, because they knew I was good. And I know I’m not the only one of whom that is true. They encouraged a family feeling by holding a corporate retreat every summer (derisively nicknamed ‘Camp CMP.”)
There were people who found it cloying and hokey; I found it motivating and enjoyable. We were put up in nice resorts, heard interesting speakers, and got to know the other employees. I thought it was grand, and it was unique in my experience. The only thing that ever came close was the PC Week Black Tie dinner (see part 2 of this series, coming soon), but I only went to one of those, as opposed to 19 CMP retreats.
The owners of a thousand-person company knew the names of my wife and daughters. Gerry rode in an elevator with me once, and as we got out on the executive floor (I was just visiting), he said, “Who was that in the elevator with us. I hate the fact that I don’t know everyone’s name anymore.” He sincerely meant it. Since he didn’t have Pat McGovern’s eidetic memory (see part 3), he just did the best he could, because he cared.
Employees were treated with respect. Talent was recognized and rewarded. Managers were (with a few exceptions) good and decent people. It wasn’t until later in my career that I became familiar, at a small remove, with the concept of “management by rubber hose.” I’m not going to name the good managers, because I don’t want to insult the bad ones. No organization is perfect, but it was a warm and remarkable home. After I spent 10 months at Ziff-Davis in the middle of my CMP tenure, Gerry called me upon my return. “I just view it as a paid sabbatical, paid for by Ziff.” He restored my seniority (later stripped from me by the new owners). As it says in Black Beauty, for 20 years, when it was cold, I had a blanket and warm mash.
I know for a fact that most employees don’t feel this way. My father, for example, regularly referred to the owners for whom he delivered milk to the homes of Portland, Ore. as “unmitigated idiots.” And in fact, I had a few such managers along the way. But my time at CMP was a blessing.
Of course, the obverse is true: every silver lining has a dark cloud. In my last year, I was feeling pretty good about the fact my website Winmag.Com had zero turnover at a time when the division averaged 30% turnover. I ran into a manager I had known for 20 years, and said, “Pretty good huh?”
“I’m not your manager so I can’t say.”
Classy huh? He couldn’t say ‘Not bad?” Not every manager is classy and supportive.
See also: Department of Gratuitous Detail (from next week's column)
