I have a friend… Glenn Grossman. He went to Union with me. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s not like we’re the best of friends, and all. But we are friends. At Union his nick name was “Spider”. I think it might have been because of his love of the NY Giants (who still played in Yankee Stadium in those days)… and specifically his appreciation of the talents of one corner back by the name of Carl Lockhart… Carl “Spider” Lockhart.
But to the point. After Union, Glenn became a very successful man of business. As I worked in my family business at Chipp, Glenn became a hot shot at Canter-Fitzgerald (the firm that suffered near complete devastation at the World Trade bombing).
I mention this latter detail parenthetically… it is not meant to distract from this story. No. This is a story, as the title suggests, about family businesses. A subject that I am intimately familiar with.
Glenn Grossman’s family had a dry cleaning establishment in a fancy shmancy Westchester burg. That business helped fund Glenn’s expensive education at Union College.
Good. We all work hard for our kids. But there came the time that when he had well established himself that Glenn stepped up for the “small guy”… the time he made it known to his wife, Joyce, not to buy books from Barnes & Noble or shirts from Brooks Brothers. He would pay more to buy the same item from the individual guy, the small guy… I don’t know, he may have even said this, “we’re buying from the ‘small guy’… my Dad was a ‘small guy’ & his business provided for my family and paid for me to go to Union.”
Glenn was more than willing to pay extra to protect the individual entrepreneur, to protect the retail diversity that has made this country great.
Maybe if more folks had his attitude, I would have remained in my family business.
But I have led you astray. This is not a tale about Mr. Grossman’s dry cleaning store in Scarsdale, it’s not about Chipp of New York, nor about the corner-book-store-with-an-owner-who-wears-a-cardigan-and-has-a-cat-that-sits-in-the-window (by the by, there is a book store as just described in Taos, NM).
This is a story about Smitty’s Shell Station on Westport Ave. in Norwalk. I still call it Smitty’s Shell even though he recently changed his “flag” to Gulf… to me it will always be Smitty’s Shell, regardless who the “man” is.
Gas stations are unique businesses. They are part of the corporate giant; but they can retain the individuality of “entrepeneurship”. Maybe not every gas station is a family enterprise; but make no mistake, Smitty’s is 100% family.
I am reminded of this as I glance across the bar to see who was my benefactor… who was responsible for the inverted shot glass placed in front of me (bartending code for “you got a free one”). I scan the patrons, and Sean Smith lifts his glass to me in recognition. I would reciprocate, and put his, and his lady friend’s next round on me.
I have known Sean and his brothers since they were in middle school. At that time, their Father Dave was the major domo of Smitty’s Shell, having acquired the “family business” from his Father. Dave’s Father filled-in on weekends allowing Dave to spend time with his kids: David, Sean and I-forget-the-name-of-the-third-son (it’s a mental block folks, like not remembering the name of the seventh dwarf).
When the kids were old enough (probably not long after being toilet trained) they started to help out around the station… pumping gas, wiping windshields and the like… this was in the days before “self serve”.
I know nothing about cars. And prefer it that way. Give me the key, let me start it, let me drive to where I have to go. And whenever something pertaining to the vehicles I owned had to be attended to, I would trust the Smith’s to the task. At no point has my trust ever wavered… at no point did I ever feel that they took advantage of my automotive naivete.
And that trust has been handed down generation to generation. Not only do I trust the Smith’s; but I have handed that trust down to my kids…
I sip some of my favorite whisky, smile and nod to Sean again. I poke at the ice with my swizzle stick. Well… it’s a gas station… a Gulf gas station. There are thousands of Gulf Stations that dot the land. But still… it’s Smitty’s, and it’s like no other Gulf Station extant.
And like Glenn Grossman, who went out of his way to give business to a particular establishment, to reward the “small guy”, I encourage us all to not “buy on the cheap”… to make sure to support those enterprises that still express individuality… those places where caring and pride more than justify the extra expense.
Smitty’s deserves our patronage.
Thanks for the drink Sean… and while I’m thinking of it, thank you Glenn Grossman for buying suits and shirts from me… and let me lift my glass in salute to all the small guys out there who battle against all odds… here’s to all those little guys who stand amidst a sea of sameness, to present personality and character in whatever their pursuit.