A young ensign is working late at the Pentagon one evening. As he

clocks out of his office at about 8 P.M. he sees the Admiral standing

by the classified document shredder in the hallway, a piece of paper in

his hand.

“Do you know how to work this thing?” the Admiral asks. “My

secretary’s gone home and I don’t know how to run it.”

“Yes, sir,” says the young ensign, who turns on the machine, takes

the paper from the Admiral, and feeds it in.

“Thanks,” says the Admiral, “I just need one copy…”

© June 2004

The Indian Mating Tree

by

J. Charles Cheek[1] 

Crews of clearing contractor, Junior Murray, were felling trees along the rights of way for the 500,000-volt electric transmission line being built by Pacific Power & Light (PP&L) from south-central Idaho to Medford, Oregon. Trees being cut down were on land of the Fremont National Forest. The PP&L contract required the contractor to make his workers fully aware of the possibility of coming across cultural resources. Workers were instructed to report any findings to their boss and the PP&L construction inspector.

When the men falling trees in the rights-of-way with chain saws came across a tree that had signs of an old blaze about three feet above the ground they pointed it out to the inspector. The inspector in turn reported it to the Chief Inspector, Bob Sires. Sires contacted Junior Murray and they went to the site of the tree with the mystery blaze. Along the way they decided to have some fun spoofing the Forest Service’s greenhorn archeologist.

Fresh out of college and newly employed by the Forest Service, the young archeologist was called to the site and informed by Murray and Sires that they believed the tree to be an Indian mating tree. They claimed they had heard a legend in the area that a young buck taking a bride would consummate the marriage under a tree then blaze the tree with his tomahawk. Sires and Murray suggested that the tree be cut about five-foot above the ground in order to preserve the culturally significant blaze. They were displaying overly serious faces in order to hide their prank.

Unfortunately for them the young archeologist didn’t see the humor in it. In fact, he bought their story completely and ordered the entire tree protected until he could talk with the Forest Supervisor. He said the entire line might have to be rerouted around the tree. Now, the humor of the situation disappeared from the thoughts of Sires and Murray.

I was the Project Manager for PP&L and heard about the Indian Mating Tree when I got a call from the Forest Supervisor informing me of the serious nature of the find. The archeologist was sitting in his office at the time and had convinced him that it was a legitimate cultural resource – an Indian Mating Tree. “He’s thinking that the line should be rerouted around the tree,” said the Supervisor. “Maybe you better come down here and we’ll both go out there and see it for ourselves,” he strongly suggested.

“I’ll catch the 6am flight tomorrow for Klamath Falls and meet you at the site by 10 AM,” I replied. Then I called Sires and asked him to pick me up at the airport the next morning. I told him about the call from the Forest Supervisor and he didn’t comment other than to confirm that he was aware of the situation.

Sires meet me at the airport then he drove us the eighty miles to the Forest Supervisor’s office in Lakeview, Oregon. Along the way he confessed that it was a prank gone sour. He said that his clearing inspector was an amateur historian and believed that the blaze had nothing to do with Indians. He had previously researched the pioneer history of the area and found that a line blazed through the forest at that location was done to mark the boundary between the open range for sheep and cattle. 

“Where is the book you read that in?” I asked.

“He said he got it from the library.”

The Supervisor, his greenhorn archeologist, and the PP&L inspector were already at the site when we arrived. It was a short meeting because the inspector had already told them about the history book that described a line that had been blazed in the late 1800s to separate the sheep and cattle people. The archeologist was instructed by his boss to find the book, review the situation further and report back to him with a recommendation.

That afternoon, I met the Supervisor back at his office and discussed the situation. Without revealing that the whole thing was a prank gone awry, I suggested that the archeologist might have been unduly influenced by Sires and Murray who were overly sensitive to the Indian cultural resource conditions of the Forest Service permit. He said he’d let me know what his decision was after hearing back from the archeologist.

It was a silent ride back to the airport at Klamath Falls that night as both Sires and I contemplated the potentially costly results of the prank. Rerouting the line around the tree would cost tens of thousands of dollars.

The Forest Supervisor telephoned me the next day and said he had decided that the line would not have to be rerouted around the tree. However, the tree was to be high-cut at ten feet above the ground. I was relieved and passed the news on to Sires who informed me that the clearing crew had bypassed the tree and would have to bring their equipment back to high-cut the tree. He said Murray had already told him it would cost an extra $1000 to bring the crew back. Then he quickly added, “But I’ll see to it that he does it for no charge.” 

E – N – D

Banks and Credit Unions

By J. Charles Cheek

© November 2005

Not for profit, for charity, but for service. That is the motto of the credit union movement. I learned about the service component vividly in my first few days of employment at Pacific Power & Light Company.

In January of 1961 I was a 27-year old new college graduate with a wife and four young sons. I asked a large Portland bank for a $900 loan to consolidate debts accumulated during my last semester in college.  The bank loan officer insisted that I make out a written net worth statement even though I told him my total holdings included only a $50 car and some used furniture worth about the same amount.  I told him my net worth was about minus $800. The young loan officer chastised me for, “not being worth more at my age,” and again said I would need to furnish him a written net worth statement.  Among other loan papers he said the bank would require me to sign a chattel mortgage – a lean on my $50 car and other personal assets such as furniture and clothing. 

I took the bank loan application forms and fumed out the door into the lobby of the Public Service Building. More than annoyed, I took the elevator back to the 15^th floor of the Public Service Building then walked up the stairs to the 16^th floor loft location that housed the design engineering section. I later learned that some top executives and other employees derogatorily referred to that attic location as the “drafting room.” That attitude was a byproduct of the authoritarian management style of the organization at that time. But I digress. Stories of management at PP&L are better dealt with separately in stories central to that subject.

Back at my drafting desk a fellow employee noticed my annoyance and asked, “Are you okay, John?”

I blurted out the story of my just finished visit with the bank loan officer.

“Screw them,” he replied. “Why don’t you check with Electra Credit Union[1] for a loan.”

 “What is a Credit Union? I have never heard of that, but then I didn’t know what a chattel mortgage is either until that loan officer said I would be guaranteeing my loan with everything I own. ”

“Yeah, well don’t worry about it. That A-hole loan officer probably never heard of a moment diagram either. He’s probably just jealous of you being a graduate engineer.”

I was easing up and beginning to see a little humor in the situation. But very little, as my $900.00 loan was due 30 days after graduation and that date was fast approaching. At this point in the story let me make it clear that I am not against banking per se. I am not opposed to the free enterprise system in its entirety. My annoyance is against big impersonal national and multi-national corporations, including large financial institutions. Many recent examples are available to show that the pursuit of profit for the personal gain of those running the big corporations is a prime motivation. Notable examples of the dishonesty, greed and hypocrisy in corporate America today are Exxon, WorldCom and even Arthur Anderson, the giant and formerly prestigious giant auditing firm. Even cooperatively owned credit unions are not immune from the drive of individuals to make huge personal gains by devious and cunning maneuvering. Almost two dozen have converted to banking institutions. That is another story that needs telling, a story of the cunning, devious, and legal process that has been used by some credit unions to convert the net assets of a credit union into a stockholder bank. But I digress.

Anyway, I owed the $900.00 to a little family owned bank in Pullman, Washington. That little bank had just a few employees and the loan officer was the owner himself. When I told him that I had just one semester left to get my degree in civil engineering and already had several job offers he readily agreed to loan me enough money to finish my engineering education. I simply went to him at the first of each month and told him how much money I needed for the next 30 days and he would write me a check for that amount in exchange for my signature on an updated loan paper. I would have been pleased to extend the loan with that little bank but in those days it was inconvenient to do business when physically separated by several hundred miles.

Electra CU had a one-employee closet size branch office on the fourth floor the Public Service Building. I told the lady running the branch my story and Electra CU readily loaned me the money.  No net worth statement was needed, just my signature on a promissory note and an agreement to have the monthly payment deducted from my paycheck.  From that day forward I have been a diehard believer in credit unions. Today, seventy percent of my total liquid assets are invested in insured deposits at Credit Unions. So, in addition to being a diehard believer in the credit union way, I have a highly vested interest in keeping credit unions as successful financial organizations.

In 2003 I got vitally interested in the governance of credit unions when one that I was a member of, Columbia Credit Union,  announced that they were going to convert to a mutual bank. I was adamantly opposed and joined a small group who waged a battle over the issue and stopped the conversion. I hope to tell that story elsewhere and reveal the process that white collar thieves use to get a credit union’s net assets transferred into the ownership of a very small group of former credit union officials and a few knowledgeable investors.

 E – N – D

By J. Charles Cheek

© June 2004

A Handshake to Riches – The Story of Charley James

Charley James was a little man that smoked big Cuban cigars and always drove a new Cadillac automobile. He worked out regularly and looked good in his silk suits. I would have been a nervous wreck smoking cigars while wearing a very expensive silk suit. Charley was very careful and tidy though. His car was always showroom clean and shiny. Tom Edwards, a substation designer during that era, told me that he once witnessed how proud Charley was of his Cadillac. Someone on the street struck a stick match on his car and Charley read him the riot act. The offender responded with a finger gesture so Charley knocked him out with one punch, climbed into his car and drove away. 

Charley was the exclusive sales representative in the Northwest States for the Lapp Insulator Company. Charley was the first sales representative to buy me lunch after I went to work as a design engineer for Pacific Power & Light Company (PP&L) in February of 1961. Unlike the other sales representative who took the managers and supervisors to lunch, Charley bought lunch for up to six of us at the same time. Also unlike most of the other reps, he never talked business before, during or after lunch. Business talk took place back at the office one on one with each person.

I met Charley after my supervisor, Ken Stevens, gave me the assignment of designing the first transmission line using a brand new insulator being peddled by Charley – the post insulator. I told the story of that design experience in a short story titled, 16^th Floor Engineering Design. I won’t repeat it here but suffice to say that it was my first introduction to an on the job training course that could have been titled, Management Reality 101.

Charley and I became working associates and business friends. One day I did something unique, I asked Charley to allow me to take him to lunch. He accepted and we met in the dinning room of the Hilton Hotel located directly across the street from the Public Service Building at 920 SW 5^th Avenue. My motive was greed. I wanted to earn more money. I wanted to find out about the business of being a successful manufacturing representative like Charley. After regular working hours I had obtained a part-time job selling Cutco Cutlery. I had also completed the Dale Carnegie Sales Course. I forced myself to discuss other things for a few minutes but finally gave in and asked, “Charley, you are obviously very successful at what you do. How did you get into the business of being a sales representative?”

“You’re the first person who ever ask me that question,” he replied with obvious pleasure.  He then proceeded to tell me a fascinating story of his ambition, effort and risk taking toward becoming a successful manufacturing sales representative.

Just out of the army after WWII, Charley went to work as a inside salesman for General Electric in their office in Seattle, Washington. “I was just a glorified clerk,” said Charley, “but I worked hard and after a few years I was promoted to a sales representative position. After learning the basics of that job from my boss and the other sales representatives I worked my butt off and did well in sales. Since my pay was mostly salary based there was not much reward for working extra hard. I complained to my wife about not being rewarded enough for getting much better sales that the other sales representatives working out of the Seattle office. She kept reminding me that my income was sufficient to support the two of us and our new baby plus save some money.”

Charley explained to me, in a serious tone, his feelings of being torn between settling for a comfortable salary as compared to working for a commission only where the monetary reward is totally dependent on results. He knew that General Electric would not change their large sales operation just so one salesman out of hundreds in the country could work on straight commission. “Okay, I’ll just have to bide my time until I can get a supervisory job that pays more,” he said he kept telling himself.” He was depressed when he began to look at that possibility. Both his boss and the Northwest Manager was just a couple of years older than he was. GE’s Vice President of Sales was also just a few years older. 

“Then one day,” he said smiling, “my depression turned to excitement when I read about a new insulator called a post insulator. It was being manufactured by a company called Lapp back on the East Coast.” I could feel the excitement in Charley’s voice, “I told my wife I was going to change jobs and sell those insulators in the Northwest. I’ll make a lot more money.” His wife was not enthusiastic but went along with it since she knew he was not happy in his present job.

Charley took some vacation time off, bought a round-trip train ticket and headed for the Lapp Company office on the East Coast. He walked in the door and asked to see the National Sales Manager. “I want to sell those new kind of insulators out in the Northwest,” he told the Manager.

“Do you live in the Northwest?” asked the Manager.

“Seattle,” replied Charley.

“Did you come all the way from Seattle just to ask me about that?”

“Sure did. Right now I’m a real good salesman for GE and I want to get out on my own. I’m sure I’ll sell a lot of those insulators.”

“Wish you would have called. I would have told you that I have already looked at the Northwest and decided that it would not provide enough business for us to afford to pay a salesman to cover that area.”

“I’ll sell on a straight commission,” replied Charley. “If I don’t sell anything you don’t owe me anything.”

The startled Sales Manager was speechless for a few seconds. Then he said, “I guess I can’t turn down an offer like that so let’s see if we can agree on an appropriate commission. What do you suggest?”

How about a straight 10% commission on the dollar amount of all the Lapp products I sell in Washington, Oregon and Alaska?” The Sales Manager agreed and they shook hands to seal the deal. Charley returned to Seattle with a suitcase full of literature on the post insulators and other Lapp products. He went directly to his General Electric boss and turned in his two-week resignation notice. Then he went home and told his wife.

“How much will you get paid?” asked his wife.

“It depends on how much I sell,” replied Charley. “I get a ten-percent commission on everything I sell for the Lapp Company. Don’t worry honey. We have enough saved to live on until I get my first commission check.”

Within a couple of years Charley was selling more post insulators than any Lapp sales representative elsewhere in the country. In fact, income from his commissions exceeded the salary being paid to Lapp Sales Managers in other parts of the country. After a few more years he was making more that the new National Sales Manager at Lapp who, jealously, tried to cut Charley’s sales territory in half. The man Charley had made the deal with was now President of the Lapp Company and he refused to allow Charley’s territory to be cut. He said, “Charley and I made a handshake deal and that is the way it’s going to stay.”

After several more years Charley was making more in commissions than the President of Lapp was being paid in salary and bonuses. Another effort was made to cut Charley’s income by lowering his commission. “No way,” said the man Charley had made the deal with who was now Chairman of the Board of the Lapp Company. “Charley and I made that deal and shook on it and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

And, as long as Charley lived, that’s the way it stayed.

Post script: I never became a sales representative but I used Charley’s information and that of the my sales study for my personal benefit on the job and beyond.

 
E – N – D

By J. Charles Cheek[1]

© May 2004

The Patriotic Draftsman 

Hundreds of Vietnam Peace Marchers were parading south on SW 6^th Avenue in downtown Portland. The leader was carrying an American Flag held upside down. The local media was filming the whole procession and interviewing participants and observers. Suddenly, someone darted out from the sidewalk, wrestled the flag away from the parade leader then proceeded to chew his butt and lecture him on patriotism. It was Bud Romans, one of the draftsmen that reported to me. 

The media rushed in and interviewed Bud extensively. Of course the interview was the lead story on the evening television news and identified Bud as a Pacific Power & Light Company employee. The VP of Engineering, Jack Stiles, wanted Romans fired for dragging the company name into the political quagmire of the Vietnam War. The word came down through two levels of supervision that I could have the honor of telling him he was fired. I was not pleased to be selected for the task. 

I jumped the two level of supervision, went straight to the VP’s office and asked for a private talk. I convinced him that firing Romans would only make it worse as Romans would go directly to the media and tell them he had been fired for being a patriotic American. The VP reluctantly agreed then called me up the next day and thanked me for intervening. “I got caught up in the emotion of it,” said Stiles. 

Romans quit a few months later and became a successful charter fishing boat captain on the Oregon Coast.

E – N – D

 Lock both in the trunk of your car for half an hour, then open it up and see which one is really, really happy to see you.

Ron’s friends are very upset that he can’t go, but what can they do.Two days later the three get to the camping site only to find Ron sitting there
with a tent set up, firewood gathered, and dinner cooking on the fire.

“Dang man, how long you been here, and how did you talk your wife into letting you go?”

“Well, I’ve been here since yesterday. Yesterday evening, I was sitting in my
chair and my wife came up behind me and put her hands over my eyes and said, “Guess who?” “I pulled her hands off, and she was wearing a brand new nightie. She took my hand and pulled me to our bedroom. The room had candles and rose
petals all over. On the bed she had handcuffs, and ropes! She told me to tie and cuff her to the bed, and I did. Then she said, “Do whatever you want. So
here I am.”

1. Know what you’re worth.
2. Don’t lie.
3. Don’t be first to name your price.
4. Don’t take the first offer.
5.  Negotiate salary first, then benefits.

See entire article here:http://finance.yahoo.com/career-work/article/109903/how-to-get-the-salary-you-want?mod=career-salary_negotiation

By J. Charles Cheek[1]

© September 2005 

Executive Advise in Three Envelopes

Don Hodel, BPA administrator from 1972 to 1978,  told one of my favorite management stories a year or so after his reign as the head honcho at the Bonneville Power Administration. 

After accepting the appointment as the BPA Administrator, Hodel asked his predecessor, H.R. (Russ) Richmond, “From your many years of experience as the BPA Administrator, do you have any advise for me?” 

Richmond didn’t hesitate, “All the advise I can offer you that will be of any lasting value is contained in three sealed envelopes that I left in the middle drawer of the Administrator’s desk.” 

“Why three envelopes?” asked Hodel. 

He ignored Hodel’s question and went on, “After your first year honeymoon as head of the agency you’ll begin to feel some pressure. If you just can’t figure out how to handle it, open the envelope marked  #1 and read my advice therein.” 

“What about the other envelopes?” asked Hodel. 

“Open them in numerical order whenever you feel you need my advice.” 

All went well for the first year but then Hodel got in hot water over some issue and couldn’t decide how to handle it. He opened envelope #1. Handwritten on a 3×5-index card in block letters were the words, “BLAME IT ON YOUR PREDECESSOR.” 

That made a lot of practical sense so Hodel called a news conference and began his presentation by saying, “This issue began before my watch at BPA so I obviously I had no control over it. However, I will get to the bottom of it and fix the problem.” It worked. The issue blew over and was forgotten. 

A couple of years later Hodel got in big trouble again and found it necessary to seek Richmond’s advice. He opened envelope #2. The block print on the card said, “REORGANIZE.” 

After appropriate consultation with his staff, Hodel called a news conference. “I have studied the problem that occurred and determined that we can reorganize in a manner that will prevent it from reoccurring.” Sure enough, the issue blew over again and was soon forgotten. 

All went well for a couple of more years even thought the Sierra Club was becoming an environmental thorn in the side of the BPA and Hodel began to take it personally. Finally, in an outburst of retaliation, Hodel gave a blistering criticism of the Sierra Club in a luncheon speech at the City Club of Portland, Oregon. His complaints against the Sierra Club appeared prominently in the Oregonian Newspaper the following day. The Sierra Club was not amused and began an intensive all-out counter attack. 

As the pressure mounted day by day, it finally was too much and Hodel opened third envelope #3. There, in large block letters and underlined in red, was the message, “PREPARE THREE ENVELOPES.” 

E – N – D

Digressions of J. Charles 

My Writing Mentor

By J. Charles Cheek[1]

© June 2004 

He was a buddy I never met. We were e-mail friends. After reading his novel, In the Shadow of Glory, I wrote him and told him that I enjoyed his book. It brought back a lot of memories. I told him I had written some notes many years ago in anticipation of writing a book, as he had done, based on my experiences during the Korean War. He became my mentor as I embarked on my novel. Periodically, I e-mailed my progress to him and he always sent back words of encouragement. Regrettably, he died unexpectedly on November 27, 2002 just a few days after I finished the first draft of my novel. The story below is one he posted on the Internet for all to read. I am proud to reproduce it here in his honor.

THE OLD MARINE ON 9/11

By Robert B. Campbell 

The old Marine lay motionless on the narrow bed in a veteran’s hospital. Despite the oxygen flowing into his lungs from the plastic tubes inserted in his nostrils, his breathing was labored and painful to watch.  His sunken eyes were open, fixed on the softly murmuring television set mounted high on the wall at the foot of his bed.  He didn’t need to hear the sound; the captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen were more than adequate to explain the ghastly pictures flashing on the screen.

As he watched the horrifying scene playing over and over, tears slowly formed in his eyes then coursed down his hollow cheeks.  His mind was in turmoil.  This can’t be happening, he moaned to himself.  No! Not here in America!  He winced as the big jet flew into the second trade tower; this time the footage was shot from a different angle, showing a rearview of the plane as it plowed headlong into the majestic structure.  His heart lurched violently in his chest, just as it did each time the grisly, mind-boggling scene was repeated on the screen.  Now the station shifted back to live coverage.  Both towers were burning fiercely, sending huge gouts of greasy black smoke into the blue September sky.

The minutes passed in agonizing slowness.  Each scene on the television was like a hammer-blow to the old man’s soul, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen, no matter how deep and painful the hurt.  His almost hypnotic attention to the newscast was snapped when the young nurse quietly slipped into the room.  Her normally sunny face was a pale and grim mask now, her eyes reddened from crying.

“I’ll just turn the television off now,” she said softly, reaching for the remote lying on his bedside table.

“Leave it alone,” he rasped.  His voice, though weak, still had a tone of command that stopped her from turning off the set.

“I- I’m sorry.  I thought it might be… uhh… too disturbing,” she murmured.

“I ain’t no baby,” he growled.  “Now leave me alone.”  With that, he turned his attention to the disaster playing out on the screen.  He was no longer aware of the nurse who stood watching the television a moment before leaving the room as silently as she had entered.

Just then one of the burning towers gave up the ghost and began to collapse onto itself, blanketing the entire area in a boiling shroud of dust and smoke.  To the old man, it almost seemed to be happening in slow motion.  When the second tower collapsed not long after, he moaned and gasped for air.  It took several long minutes before he could suck enough oxygen into his tortured lungs.  Omigod!  All those people.  Dead… all dead! his voice shrieked in his mind.

Now he could no longer bear to watch the mesmerizing scene of chaos coming from the television.  He moaned again and slowly rolled his head on the pillow until he was staring at the stained wall a scant few feet from his bedside.  Though open, his eyes were painting nothing on the canvas of his mind.  Ohh, God, he groaned inwardly.  If only I could do something… anything. 

The tragedy he had spent the morning watching had saddened him deeply, but it had also angered him as nothing had angered him before.   The worst part was knowing that he was totally helpless to do anything about it.  This was almost as unbearable for him as watching the terrorist attack unfold before his eyes.

“Jesus.  Oh Jesus,” he muttered.  “I’d give anything to be there now.”  He didn’t know what he could do, but just being there ready and able to pitch in and lend a needed hand was something.  It wasn’t as though he’d never been in the thick of things before, by God. 

He became aware of the wall in front of him.  It was bare except for the glassed shadowbox frame containing medals, ribbons, dogtags and other small bits of military memorabilia– mementos from his hitch in the Marine Corps a half century ago.  He was so proud of them and of what they stood for.  His wife had brought in the framed collection and hung it by his bedside, hoping the sight of it would cheer him a little.

The old man squinted his eyes, focusing them on the gaudy display of cloth and metal.  Though his sight was a little dimmed by age and infirmity, he saw the ribbons and medals as bright and shiny as the day he was awarded them for his service in the Korean War.  Yeah… he’d done his duty for his country back then, and by God he’d willingly do it again today if only he wasn’t bound to this damned bed.

The image of the two magnificent towers crashing to the ground played in his mind again.  He felt his heart constrict as though some giant hand were squeezing it.  Pain… piercing, agonizing pain shot through his entire body.  He couldn’t breathe.  Frantically, he tried to suck air into his starving lungs but to no avail.  Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, the pain suddenly lifted, and he could breathe easily now.  He became aware that he was standing at the foot of the bed… looking at the old man lying there.  He glanced up at the television set mindlessly playing away high on the wall, then returned his gaze to the man in the bed.  There was a rictus of a smile on the wasted face, but life had mercifully departed from the old Marine.

The young Marine heaved a sigh of relief, then drew himself stiffly erect and saluted the old Marine in the bed.  With a look of grim resolution on his lean face and with a firm step, he marched out the door.  The old warrior was on his way to New York City to report for duty one last time. 

E – N – D