In the spring of 1975 while serving as Dean of Admissions at Ohio Wesleyan University, I got a letter from a communications firm. It read, “Firms like ours can help colleges like yours if we’re not braving an ill wind.” Not being in the market for a firm to assist in developing admissions materials, I tossed it. 

A month later, I saw a tersely evocative ad in the “Chronicle of Higher Education,” which said something like, “President of a communications firm in Baltimore seeks creative individual to serve as his assistant. Slackers need not apply.” Intrigued, I sent off a resume. A few days later, I got a call from David Barton, President of Barton-Gillet, a nationally known marketing firm specializing in creating admissions and fundraising materials for colleges and universities around the U.S. David was the same person who had written me earlier. I went for an interview; got an offer; and accepted, eager to follow a career path that better tapped my writing skills. 

A few weeks into the job, it was clear that we had a bad fit. He didn’t really want an assistant, and I didn’t want to be an assistant. I wanted to be an account executive, like the other people in the firm I had come to admire. David couldn’t decide whether to train me to be an account executive or fire me, so he got the two senior account executives to take me out to lunch and return with a recommendation: Keep David or fire him. Happily, they recommended that I be kept on. 

Account executives at Barton-Gillet, it should be noted, were not like account executives at traditional communications firms or ad agencies. In addition to dealing with the client and working with designers and photographers, the account executives wrote all the materials. That required really getting to know the client through scores of on-campus interviews. 

David assigned my first three clients to me, an experience that proved problematic since he seemed to have, shall I say, a “special” relationship with two of them. (David Barton was a ruggedly handsome man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes, kind of a Cary Grant look. Some people referred to him as “The Silver Fox.”) 

I decided it would be best to bring in my own clients, so David invited me to accompany him on a one-day sales trip to Philadelphia. We visited two colleges, two universities and a hospital. David introduced me as his assistant. I said nothing at the meetings, most of which included several people. After each meeting, we would return to the car and he would ask, “Now, what happened at that meeting? Who was in charge? What do they really want? Is it a real prospect? What is the best next step?” At first, I stumbled with the answers, and he would set me straight. He was an expert at reading the room. 

At the end of the day, David said, “There, I’ve taught you how to sell; now go do it.” 

So I did. I got into my orange Datsun and traipsed around Maryland and Pennsylvania, trying to land some clients, not an easy task as Barton-Gillet was known for being rather expensive, although very creative and professional. 

In a few years, I had developed to the point were I brought in almost all my clients. Moreover, David Barton decided that I should be his proposal writer. He’d return from a sales day or conference; brief me on a prospective client; and have me write the proposal. At one point, I was writing 20-30 proposals a year for him. (Call me “Words R Us.”) If we landed a client, he would usually hand it off to one of the other account executives. 

David Barton was a tough challenging boss, but, on balance, a fair one. He didn’t hover over our shoulders. For most of my accounts, he never got involved until it came time to cash the checks. His mantra was: “I don’t care what you do; just make it pay.” He had many other sayings: “Success is never final; failure is never fatal.” If we showed too much exuberance after landing a client, he might say, “Even a blind pig can find an acorn once in a while.” If he, himself, failed to land a client, he might say, “It was like casting pearls before swine.” 

David treated account executives well. We received a certain percentage of the “gross profits” in addition to a base salary. Those who brought in their own work received higher percentages. How the “gross profit” figure was determined remained a mystery, but we were well paid. 

Inevitably, at a firm like Barton-Gillet, people who bring in and manage their own work begin to ask themselves, “Maybe I should go out on my own.” And that’s what I did after eleven years. 

Although David Barton could be impatient and imperious, he did impart valuable lessons, especially for those who want to run their own businesses. Here are a few: (1) Go for the “big idea,” not the easy answer; (2) Pay your people well and give them independence: (3) Always pay your suppliers on time, without fail; and (4) Keep your overhead low. 

And here, perhaps, is his biggest lesson of all, although it might sound cynical. You must be able to “sell” if you are going to succeed. That’s so true. People who run non-profits must be able to “sell” their vision to potential funders. Leaders in any field must “sell” their vision to the people below them. Individuals must “sell” themselves to their bosses and co-workers. Aspiring artists and actors and writers must be able to sell themselves and their talents. Colleges and universities might do well to incorporate the “everybody-must-be-able-to-sell” principle into their curriculum. 

David Barton died last month at age 94. I can’t say that I will miss him, as we never developed a close personal relationship. But I am thankful for the lessons learned in the den of the Silver Fox. 

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old’” columns. [email protected].