A Capitalist Walks Into A Bar
My father grew up in East Tennessee during the Great Depression. The collapse of Nashville based financial conglomerate, Caldwell & Company in 1930 triggered a domino effect of bank closures throughout the South. Each afternoon, he would walk home from school, passing food lines of silent, ghostly men. Their faces hollowed by hunger and uncertainty. He would stop at a certain sidewalk vendor who was selling fruit out of a crate. My father would buy, for five cents an apple, an orange and one piece of hard candy. Then he’d make his way to his father’s pharmacy, working the soda fountain as he did his homework. At closing, he watched his father quietly exit the store to deliver drugs — free of charge to households who couldn’t afford their cost.
Even Thomas Collinsworth Jr.;“Daddio” to us, went on to graduate from the University of Tennessee with a degree in chemical engineering. After a stint in the private sector and work on classified projects during World War II, he earned his graduate degree from Harvard B and quickly rose through the ranks to become a titan of industry. Yet the memories of walking past once-proud but defeated men of the Depression never left him. As CEO of a multinational company, he served the shareholders, yet his heart, his guiding concern, belonged to his employees. Their well-being mattered above all else. He believed capitalism and a free market uplifted all. He knew innovation and meritocracy were significant factors to a company's growth. He once was touring a plant where the overhead lights literally kept blowing up. The plant manager was mystified as to the cause. An African American janitor slinging a mop behind them muttered something. My father turned around and asked him to speak up. The man said the cause for the light failures was due to faulty wiring combined with incorrect bulbs. Daddio asked the janitor to join him for lunch. That man became plant manager within the year.
My Old Man believed that hard work and a willingness to take bold risks were requisite for opportunity. When I retired from my law enforcement career and told him that Denise and I thought there was a market for pure, unadulterated honey, he was delighted. His guidance in our nascent venture was instrumental to our success. He knew nothing about the power of social media, SEO, organic search or the difference between click through rate vs engagement rate. What he did know and impart to me was classic old school: you succeed by creating or producing a superior, tangible product. One that fills a need leading to high engagement, retention and thus, profitability. Success isn’t a one time thing, but a continued process of delivering a genuine, high value product. Something that reflects the integrity and courage of the people who made it.
I wish he was around to see what Killer Bees Honey has become. In retrospect, he’s still here, in me, in our ethos, a tribute to his legacy. Speaking of which, the following is one of many unforgettable memories. A glimpse into a bygone era.
In the mid 60’s, my father was building a commercial plant, one of the first in South America. He noticed a line item which made no sense. He called the VP in charge of SA operations to explain why there was an expense that essentially, disappeared off the books. There was a long pause on the scratchy connection. With a certain amount of trepidation, my father was told by the VP that it was protection money for an organization called Ñancahuazú Guerrilla, or the National Liberation Army of Bolivia (ELN). Daddio asked for a face to face with the leader of said guerrilla group. There was an even longer pause on the phone, “Mr. Collinsworth, one doesn’t set up a meeting with Commander ‘Che' Guevara”. My Old Man told the VP to set up the meeting, or he'd find someone that could.
Before Dad flew down to Latin America, two buttoned-down CIA men paid him a visit. Behind closed doors, Daddio was briefed on everything “Che.”
A week later, he and his VP —serving as translator, were deep in the jungle, seated at a rough wooden table in a dim jungle village bar. Across from them sat Ernesto “Che” Guevara himself, the fiery leader of one of the era’s most feared guerrilla movements. Over warm beers, Che opened with a not so veiled threat: accidents, he said, often happen to new construction projects. It would be a shame if a nearly completed building burned to the ground.
Daddio said nothing, letting Che’s anti-imperialist fervor roll out in full—his talk of injustice, of native poverty, of revolution. My Old Man didn’t argue. He understood hardship. He’d seen the food lines in Knoxville, the hopeless expressions of families in Appalachia, the shantytowns of Seattle, New York, and D.C.
Then, quietly, he gave Che a history lesson of his own. Poverty wasn’t unique to one hemisphere, but progress could be. A modern plant would lift indigenous peoples out of despair. More than that, it could give them hope. Che was silent. Daddio imparted one last bit of information before he left: Always respectful, he told “Commander Che” that he didn’t pay extortionists and if the nearly completed plant burned to the ground, he wouldn’t rebuild.
One of South America’s first automated plant’s went into full operation without incident. Several months later, on September 26th, 1967 and after an extended firefight, Che Guevara was wounded and captured by CIA trained, Bolivian Special Forces. He was executed the next day.
Happy birthday, Daddio. Capitalism and your legacy lives here at Killer Bees Honey.
The above oil painting of KBH's CEO hangs in our fulfillment center. It is permanently lit.
Even Thomas Collinsworth, Jr. — Oct 11th, 1921 - Dec. 6th, 2016
