Life in Mufti
Outward Bound, Discovery, and MicroBilt
Before heading east, Jeannie and I decided to take a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. We would begin at Lees Ferry in northern Arizona, raft down the Colorado from Lake Powell through Marble Canyon, then hike to the South Rim. An ambitious plan—too ambitious for the teenage girls. They opted out and would spend time with Jeannie’s parents in Columbus. We cleared quarters, loaded up the mobile home, and set off.
Descending the river, it was easy to imagine how John Wesley Powell felt when his expedition entered the Grand Canyon in 1869. His account described the canyon walls polished smooth as marble. After five days on the river, we reached Phantom Ranch, the head of Bright Angel Trail. The eleven-mile five-thousand-foot ascent at an average 9 percent grade presented a real physical challenge. Whenever I looked at Jeannie and Tommy, their faces said, “Why did I ever consent to this?” Finally reaching the rim, we made a beeline to the mobile home and cranked up the air conditioning. Later, Tommy and I bought and presented Jeannie with a blue ribbon that read, “I Hiked the Bright Angel Trail.”
After a day and night pit stop to recuperate, I cranked up the motor home and started our long journey to Virginia. We spent some time in Columbus with the in-laws and a day with my mother in Tifton and then headed north.
Hard Reentry
Before my retirement, Jeannie and I had visited Reston and selected a suburban home on a cul-de-sac. Equivalent to our quarters at West Point, it was the nicest place we had ever had. Embarking on a new life with the knowledge that major changes confronted us all, we believed the job, the new house, and the pleasant northern Virginia town we would soon call home offered the promise of a soft reentry into civilian life. We had enjoyed the time we spent in Annandale while I worked at the Pentagon. For the first time, Jeannie and I had all our possessions in one place.
Sociologists speak of the army as a “total society,” as an internally organized community isolated, both physically and psychologically, from mainstream society. The army has a highly stratified social system where relations are regulated by law, ritual, and custom—even off post. Officers typically came from similar backgrounds—white, Protestant, middle and upper-middle class—and emphasized traditional ways of doing things. The majority espoused political and social conservativism. Military installations were self-contained and offered family, medical, and social services not enjoyed by most civilians; schooling, churchgoing, and leisure activities took place on post. I fit the mold: a small-town boy from the Deep South with entrenched values who had led a cloistered life in the army since entering West Point.
Much had changed in American life since the late 1940s, and none of it was so radical—and foreign to my way of thinking—as that produced by the upheavals of the 1960s. The intense political debates, colored by what seemed like a pervasive opposition to the war, often centered on censure of the army and those who served. If the sociologists were right—hard to say otherwise—then the adjustment to civilian life would be doubly difficult, given the altered atmosphere.
Reston seemed the perfect place for a new start. Reston itself was styled a “New Town.” A planned community of fewer than six thousand people founded in 1964, it served as a model for a fundamentally different concept for suburban satellite towns outside major urban centers. Reston balanced mixed-density and mixed-income housing with commercial developments; planners interspaced open spaces, connected by walking and biking paths, all centered on an artificial lake. Thirty miles from the Mall, Reston allowed effortless access to all the educational, social, and cultural attractions of Washington without the stress of living in a deeply fractured city. Plus I had an easy commute to the office. While I immersed myself in the new job, Jeannie looked after placing the children in schools. That appeared to go well: Tommy entered the sixth grade in the Hunter’s Woods School, and the girls enrolled in the district’s recently constructed high school in neighboring Herndon. After our twenty-two moves in nineteen years, Reston looked like the perfect spot to put down roots.
Murray Durst and wife Sue, a congenial pair, did their best to help us get settled. While the move of the national headquarters to Reston remained a work in progress, Murray began laying the groundwork for his vision of the organization’s way forward. As former director of the Outward Bound School in North Carolina, he recognized both the inherent strengths and weaknesses of the program.
Outward Bound used outdoor challenges to assist in the development of teamwork and self-confidence. The individual schools looked upon themselves as self-sufficient entities that required no control or guidance from some meddling national office. Since none of the schools were self-supporting, they wanted fund-raising assistance from Outward Bound International (OBI) and nothing else. In fact, the schools—the directors as well as instructors—saw OBI as a financial drain because they had to contribute to the national headquarters. Until OBI’s fund raising exceeded school contributions, this friction could not be removed and the organization could not move forward.
The week I reported for work, Outward Bound had three student deaths: one resulted from an accident in Minnesota, and the two others were caused by hyperthermia in the Pacific Northwest. These deaths provided a wake-up call. Outward Bound stood in significant danger of losing its liability coverage. The insurance representative stressed the importance of the creation of and strict compliance with a uniform safety policy. Although that period was not as litigious-crazy as today, one lawsuit for negligent death could sink the organization. As national programs coordinator, it fell to me to develop and implement safety guidelines and ensure their enforcement. Failure to do so would result in the cancellation of our coverage.
OBI called a meeting of instructor representatives from each school to begin the preparation of this policy. Each school sent two or three of its senior instructors to the host school in Colorado. I went there fully expecting opposition; all these people were technically qualified and highly individualistic and, in the past, had proved highly antagonistic to control from above. Remarkably, however, after reviewing each component of an Outward Bound program—the trek, rock climbing and rappelling, canoeing, sailing, and the solo—we achieved unanimous agreement. Returning to Reston and consulting with Murray, I assembled a policy statement and went out to the schools soliciting feedback. After a series of revisions based on inputs from the schools, we formulated a fixed policy.
Murray directed me to visit, together with school and OBI representatives, each of the schools. The initial focus on safety compliance expanded into all facets of school operations including program content, logistics, and administration. Each “peer review” lasted three to five days, after which I compiled the findings and returned the report to the school under review. Murray and I were pleased that the schools saw the peer review as positive and welcomed it. Over the next two years, I visited all the schools save the one in Oregon.
After about a year, it became apparent the national board wanted to reorganize and strengthen fund-raising efforts. That meant Murray was out. Durst had a sound business sense and the ability to get along with a very diverse group of free spirits, but he lacked what it took as a fund raiser. Both his support and wise counsel helped me over some rough spots. I submitted a résumé and went to see Kent Rhodes, the CEO of Reader’s Digest, our largest financial supporter, knowing my candidacy was a long shot. I never really wanted the job. Kent was cordial and went through the motions as a matter of courtesy.
The board selected a new executive director who lived in the New York City area. Obviously if the chief drive centered on fund raising, you go to where the money is, and that meant New York. OBI would move. The new national director-designate—a very polished individual—visited Reston and offered all the executive staff an assignment in New York. Jeannie and I invited him to dinner, and again he made a pitch for me to stay in the organization. Neither of us had any desire to pick up again and move to “the city.”
I decided to take the Outward Bound philosophy and form my own program. In my view, the organization had lost sight of its educational mission. Several private schools had approached Outward Bound expressing interest in creating joint programs. The Madeira School—an exclusive prep school for girls in Great Falls, Virginia—was one of those schools. I visited the headmistress, Ms. Barbara Keyser, to determine what she wanted. Keyser was all business and clearly stated her objectives and the parameters within which a program must operate. I returned to my office and drew up a proposal.
Outward Bound saw only problems and no real potential in running one-day-a-week hybrid programs. I returned to Madeira and told Keyser that while we appreciated her interest in Outward Bound, we could not accommodate her. In her direct manner she asked, “Why don’t you do it for me?” I reminded her, “I work for Outward Bound.” She retorted, “Why don’t you quit and do it on your own?” I informed her that I was considering doing just that. She said the school had set aside a considerable amount of money for what she had in mind, and if I became a free agent to get back to her.
The bluff headmistress made a significant impact on me. Because of her encouragement and confidence in me, I decided to take the leap and founded a company offering adaptive programs such as the one Madeira desired and called it Discovery. Aside from Madeira, the National Parks Service and the Washington public schools system offered possibilities. I told Murray and gave him my date for leaving. He wished me well.
Our suburban idyll turned out to be a real disappointment, more stressful than life in the army. After living in the cocoon of the army for nearly two decades, entering civilian life felt like living in an episode of The Twilight Zone. The country had changed, but we had not. The people in our Fairfax County neighborhood appeared more transient than military officers. There did not seem to be any social center of gravity. Our neighbors came from all over the country. Government agencies transferred their people as readily as the army. Within two years, the Pucketts had lived longer on the block than anyone else. At least in the army, the officer corps was communal; friendships and family relationships were easily formed. Jeannie and I shared little in common with the people on our street. To add to the problem, sleepy little Reston boomed in the 1970s. Its population increased by more than 500 percent, fundamentally altering the feel of the place.
Even affluent northern Virginia could not escape the culture wars that wracked the country. One of our neighbors, a minister, had a son heavily into drugs. While high one night he badly burned himself. Herndon High had its share of social problems, chiefly widespread drug use and violent clashes between students, often over race. The administration and teachers appeared impotent. It was, after all, the Age of Aquarius, whose creed was “Drugs, Sex, and Rock & Roll” and “Trust nobody over thirty.” The girls, who had led cloistered lives, were confronted by all these alien stresses. Jean had a rough senior year. Aside from attending her third school in four years, she was bullied.
At first, Tommy flourished. Hunter’s Woods School featured an “open classroom” team-teaching approach. Tommy loved school and made good grades. That changed dramatically when he entered intermediate school. His grades dropped precipitously, and he became morose and uncommunicative. Each night as we settled around the table for supper, he invariably said, “I hate school.” Jeannie and I asked for a meeting with the principal and Tommy’s teachers. The Hunter’s Woods teachers described Tommy as an “exceptional” student, which translated at his new school as “special needs.” He ended up in the “slow learners” class. The teachers assigned him small tasks such as distributing papers and work materials. By the time the teachers assessed his intellectual abilities, they decided on keeping him because Tommy was so cooperative and helpful with the other students. Detecting our alarm, the principal promised to move Tommy into the streamed cohort at the beginning of the next grading period.
Jeannie and I left convinced we needed to pull Tommy out of the public school system. He needed a school that valued learning and tried to meet the individual needs of each student. On the advice of Barbara Keyser, we settled on Woodberry Forest, a postcard-perfect prep school about forty minutes north of Charlottesville on the banks of the Rapidan. Sending Tommy there meant his separation from the family and imposed a heavy financial strain, but it was the best thing we could have done. Tommy got back on track and blossomed at Woodbury.
Jean went off to college at the same time. While at West Point, Jeannie and I had made a number of trips, scouting out colleges. Many of these carried us into New England, usually in autumn to take advantage of the beautiful scenery afforded by the leaves changing. The landscape is dotted with small liberal arts schools. Talking to the admissions people, we found these schools a little too liberal for our taste. Eventually Jean settled on St. Lawrence University. As the name suggests, the small private school was located about twenty miles from the river and the Canadian border. The chief attraction was skiing, for which Jean had a passion. Her parents hoped that passion would not be diverted to any of the hockey players. We feared she would marry a hockey player and end up living in Canada. With Jean in school and Tommy at Woodbury, that meant we only had Marty with us. That took some adjustment. We did make plenty of trips to see Tommy at what we came to call Camelot, so perfect was the environment at Woodbury.
Meanwhile, Discovery began to take shape. Totally lacking any business background, I faced plenty of hurdles. First I put in place an administrative structure and designed the program and established safety procedures. Then I worked up a promotional brochure. A commercial artist created a logo that depicted in stylized form our four core activities: canoeing, rappelling, skiing, and backpacking. The next step involved assembling a team. Somehow the word got out among the outdoorsy people in our area, and applicants arrived.
Discovery evolved around our mission statement: “Personal Growth through Safe Adventure.” The safety-first approach stood as the pillar tenet. Our first foray presented a real challenge. A local public school experienced a large turnover in staff, and the principal wanted a one-day “team building” exercise. We obtained permission from the Parks Service to run the program in Great Falls Park on the Potomac. We christened it a “Day of Discovery,” and that became the company’s marketing slogan for the single-day program built around ropes and initiatives, individual and team-building activities. The weather turned out perfect; the activities proceeded without any glitches. All sixty participants completed every event. The discussion session—and the very positive feedback—brought the day to a successful end.
Discovery developed as an organization that planned and conducted wide-ranging programs tailored to a very diverse clientele. Participants over the years included males and females from age five to retirees. We worked with physically, emotionally, and intellectually challenged people and All-American high school athletes. The University of Virginia offered a three-credit doctoral-level course in conjunction with Discovery. In addition to Madeira, the National Parks Service and the Capitol District school system, Discovery ran programs for juvenile delinquents and youths at risk, the deaf and physically challenged, and gifted students. Although each program contained one or more of our basic activities, the exact mix and level of difficulty was adapted to specific requirements. Confronting a steep learning curve, we made constant adjustments, and over time Discovery offered a larger package of diverse experiences than the competition.
The staff was as diverse as the programs. The typical job candidate was a product of the 1960s generation—rebellious young people who had “dropped out.” The great outdoors presented an escape from the urban, materialistic society they scorned. At least one visited a psychiatrist; some of the others might have been advised to do likewise. Another instructor who worked for me for a year slept in a jeep and used a restroom in a park. At the onset, the situation reminded me of my first days commanding the Ranger company in Korea. In both cases, I confronted a very eager but inexperienced group of untrained individuals far from acting and thinking as a team. As I had twenty-five years earlier, I established a vision, set requirements, trained and required adherence to standards, and set the example. The training program concentrated on fundamentals. We would repeat each activity until we got it right, no matter the number of repetitions. The initial group consisted of eight. In the first training session, none appeared at the appointed time. Evidently, punctuality was fascist; none of them owned a watch. Creating a team would be a test.
For the first couple years, I personally conducted all the training. If the army taught me anything, it was how to plan, organize, implement, and evaluate training. We went to work on “ropes and initiatives.” Rappelling was an example of an individual activity. Not particularly difficult technically, backing over an eighty-foot cliff proffered a definite emotional challenge. Success built confidence. “The wall” was a team builder. The “patrol,” usually eight to ten students, had to figure out a way to get every member over the obstacle. All participants had to make it. If one person failed, the team failed. Some of the new instructors possessed some familiarity with our other activities—rock climbing and rappelling, whitewater canoeing, caving, backpacking, and solos. Discovery developed a “repertoire” of approximately twenty-five individual and team events. Together we created the “story” that would be recounted to set the scene for each event, the control exercised by the instructor, and how students would be encouraged to do their best. Instructors and participants observed stringent, realistic rules. First, staff members would comply with the safety policy, a condition of employment. There would be no drugs or tobacco used and no co-ed nudity. Once we achieved a measure of staff stability and the safety ethic had been engrained, appointed instructors acted as course directors. They assumed charge of all aspects of the program: planning; staff briefings; assembling necessary food, equipment, and transportation; implementation; postprogram student discussions; staff critique; and cleaning and stowing equipment.
Obtaining, training, and retaining people presented the biggest headache. The staff included a former army officer and Vietnam veteran, a son of a West Point classmate, and university graduates, but mostly they were in their late teens and early twenties with no real work experience and fell into the general category of “dropouts.” Many came from advantaged backgrounds. Typically they led austere, transient lives, staying in one place “for the experience” only long enough to save enough money to move on. All had one thing in common: in varying degrees, they were casualties of the “culture wars” sharing the quest to “find themselves.” Tom Hardy, a graduate of the airborne and Ranger schools who had served as an advisor in Vietnam, was a godsend. Hardy stayed with us for three years and proved indispensable in those first struggling years as middleman between me and the staff. Although outwardly “squared away,” Tom could relate to the others. Two other instructors deserve mention. Vance Ellis got the sack for violating a safety rule. About a year later he returned and asked for a second chance. Everyone missed his humor and willingness to shoulder tasks; his leaving had left a hole. Vance’s forte lay in conducting the three-day rappelling, caving, and backpacking trek, something that became known as the “Ellis Special.” Dave Kolb came to me as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school during our first summer in operation. His timing was good; I needed bodies for a week-long program mounted for the Madeira School. Against my better judgment, he got his opportunity and never let me down. He continued working for Discovery after he left high school and entered a local community college.
As the staff matured and turnover diminished, our individual and collective capabilities increased. They fully embraced Discovery’s educational mission and commitment to safety. The ratio was usually 60:40 males to females, but on occasion that was reversed. In the beginning they heard my mantra: “You did a great job, but I’m not satisfied. We can always do better!” The instructors responded and suggested steps to improve their performance and safety, learning outcomes, and the satisfaction of their students. Before long I was saying, “You did a great job. I can offer no suggestions for improvement. I’m very proud of you.” Our emphasis upon safety paid dividends. Discovery experienced only one serious accident—a fall during an initiative event—and the student recovered completely. Our insurer, the largest carrier of policies of outdoor programs in the country, reported that Discovery boasted the best safety record. Despite being young, inexperienced, and free-spirited, my staff made Discovery a great success.
By 1979, Discovery was in great shape. The organization achieved a degree of stability, all the programs were subscribed, and we had a substantial bottom line. Although the personnel turbulence had subsided, we constantly recruited and trained new people. The root problem rested in my inability to offer high enough pay to retain people. Discovery staff had no difficulty—provided they wanted to continue in outdoor adventure work—finding better pay elsewhere. The apparent success of the company did not translate into any windfall for me. I drew less salary than my underpaid staff, depending mostly on my army pension. To cut costs, the family pitched in: Jeannie handled the secretarial and bookkeeping tasks, Tommy helped hauling equipment, and Marty worked one summer as an assistant instructor. The daily physical and emotional grind took its toll. The backpacking aggravated my Korean War wounds. Trying to hold the staff together and meet payroll elevated the stress. For seven years I had been pounding away, without stint or little downtime, trying to ensure the endeavor succeeded. Weekends, usually the busiest times, were just other workdays. Something had to give; I could not continue at that pace forever. Muscle spasms were a constant source of discomfort, but the break came when, one night, I experienced thirty-three of them. The next morning I told Jeannie that I was either going to sell Discovery or close it down. She empathized with my feelings, having long worried about the emotional and physical drain on me. When not at work, I was so exhausted that I could do nothing but catch a few hours of sleep. Both of us were aware of the strain on our marriage and family life.
Prior to making the decision, I started grooming one of the most mature instructors, Randy Smith, as my number-two man and eventual replacement. Randy wanted his own business and jumped at the chance to acquire Discovery. We made an inventory, and Randy bought the equipment at cut-rate prices. I sold everything except the name. Three of my staff stayed on. I assisted Smith with promotional efforts, helped him put together proposals for Madeira and the Fairfax County Department of Youth Services, and met with the current headmistress of Madeira and the appropriate people in Fairfax County. Subsequently, Randy signed contracts with both, providing the financial bedrock for his first year.
At a small farewell party I made a short but heartfelt speech. I expressed my gratification in what we accomplished, which more than fulfilled my original vision, and then thanked individually my fifteen employees. I was proud of their achievements and would miss them. But I would not miss Reston. Jeannie and I decided to move to Atlanta. We would be close to Jean and Marty, who had settled there after graduating from college.
Georgia Back on Our Minds
Georgia acted like a magnet, drawing the Pucketts, except for Tommy, back to the Peach State. Other than family connections and a stay in Columbus during my year in Vietnam, none of the children had any particular southern roots; they were typical “army brats.” Nevertheless, both girls started their adult lives in Atlanta. Jean was the first. After two years in northern New York, she transferred to the University of Georgia (UGA). In 1976, Jean graduated from UGA with a degree in political science, and after paralegal training she joined the staff of a law firm in Atlanta. Marty left for school in 1975, entering Lynchburg College in Virginia, which made Jeannie and me “empty nesters.” Four years later, she graduated with a degree in special education. An outgoing and engaged teenager, Marty always wanted a career in education, and at Lynchburg College she discovered her calling teaching special needs children. After completing her practica, Marty decided to move to Atlanta. The same year, 1979, Jeannie and I made a trip to Atlanta to scout out a house and found one in Buckhead, an upscale suburb north of Atlanta. We went back to Reston, packed up our belongings, and made the twenty-third move in our married life.
For the next few months we settled in and tried to decide on what to do next. Jeannie did not wait; she opened her own interior decorating business. Before long, she had plenty of clients as she worked from home and affiliated herself with the nearby Atlanta Decorative Arts Center. I still wanted to remain in the outdoor experiential education field and approached Westminster School, probably the most elite private school in the Southeast. The principal of the boys’ high school, Charlie Breithaupt, arranged a meeting; we clicked, and I left with a job. Charlie wanted a program for both the ninth-grade girls and boys. He reminded me of Barbara Keyser of the Madeira School in that he knew exactly what he wanted: a required course that would build teamwork and combat cliques.
Discovery was back in operation but with a different business model. The staff would consist of me and an assistant. The only applicant, Bob Coursen, came aboard and remained for two years. The instructors would come from the student body. We started building our ropes and initiatives course on campus, the core of our afternoon sessions. The program involved attending a two-hour session once a week climaxing in a three-day trek “in the wilds.” The region provided plenty of options for three-day weekend jaunts. From its modest start, I operated on the assumption the program would grow. We rotated student leaders for different ropes and initiative events with the view of determining who would act as patrol leaders on the expedition and potential instructors should Westminster decide on expanding the program.
As expected, the first year was a hit with the kids, parents, and the administration, and the school wanted to extend the program. The difficulty in developing leader/instructors was not talent—we had a wide selection of bright, mature for their age, and highly motivated young people—it was finding the time, between vacations, heavy academic loads, and extracurricular and social demands, for properly inculcating in them the skills required of patrol leaders. When properly motivated, youngsters are capable of a lot more than most adults expect. Student leadership never presented a problem. When Coursen left, I brought down Dave Kolb from Virginia. As I knew he would, Dave provided a strong right arm and excelled as a leader-trainer. By the fourth year, Discovery ran co-ed programs from prekindergarten through the senior class as well as for parents and alumni. Breithaupt provided invaluable support from “the front office.” By any measure, the program went from strength to strength. And this was all achieved by relying on students as instructors.
The only hiccup occurred one winter weekend on a trek in Cheaha State Park in Alabama. Whether through bad luck or faulty intelligence, we mounted the expedition in what one newspaper reported as the “coldest weekend of the century.” Wind chill pushed daytime temperatures into the single digits and below zero at night. Back in Atlanta, parents and school officials were anxious and expected—probably hoped—the trip would be curtailed. When we arrived back on campus at our scheduled time on Sunday, the waiting parents were greeted with tales of derring-do: night camps, climbing a sheer rock face, rappelling over a one-hundred-foot cliff, all without a single cold weather or other injury. The kids—especially our cohort of patrol leaders—faced real challenges and responded like hardened veterans.
Attachment to a school like Westminster provided me with valuable contacts. In 1984, I met Gene Sadler, founder, president, and CEO of MicroBilt, a computer start-up company. Gene and his wife, Dot, invited us to spend a weekend at their beach house. Out of the blue, Gene asked if I would come and work for him. After explaining that I knew nothing about computers, he replied the company had all the computer types it needed. What MicroBilt required was someone to organize the company. Over the ensuing months, we discussed what role I might play. Naturally, the offer of a job as vice president with a very attractive package proved difficult to refuse.
The problem was my commitment to Westminster. The administration, teachers, and parents offered their unqualified support; interacting with the students was a joy. Unlike in northern Virginia, there were no personnel, payroll, or personal liabilities. After accepting Gene’s offer, I went to the headmaster. Why not repeat the experience with the first Discovery and hand the program over to the very capable Dave Kolb? It proved a surprisingly hard sell, but Westminster named Kolb interim director on a single-year probationary status.
Jumping from experiential outdoors programming into a corporate boardroom was a big leap. Joining a start-up venture like MicroBilt proved far different than entering an established company with a defined management culture. That was clear from my first staff meeting. Gene never bothered to show up, nor had the specifics of my job description been laid out. Clumsily I introduced myself as the new executive vice president, gave a brief prospectus on my life, and expressed my management philosophy. My immediate task centered on establishing organizational procedures and practices with the overriding goal of creating a supportive environment to enhance the company’s performance. They looked at me blankly, and when the meeting concluded they went off to their offices.
At that time, MicroBilt developed software and leased computer terminals to companies. Some programs ran credit checks on clients; others tallied items sold against inventory, which granted companies greater control over purchases and just-on-time distribution. In the mid-1980s, MicroBilt offered cutting-edge technologies. As soon became apparent, MicroBilt provided corporations the wherewithal to enhance their efficiencies and improve cost accounting, yet its own organization was in shambles.
The first task rotated around gaining some appreciation for how things worked. In a pattern probably common to all computer start-ups, Gene was a visionary who found a lucrative market niche and hired talented young computer-wise people who had their own ideas. Many people on staff reminded me of my instructors in northern Virginia except some of them wore suits. Gene’s two sons held vice presidencies; one oversaw sales and the other, logistics. A rift existed between the computer development side and those who provided the deliverables. The company paid rock-bottom salaries to the salesmen, who naturally wanted a bigger slice through commissions, and the support staff. Morale obviously suffered.
Taking what passed for the organizational wire chart, I met with each department and section to determine the existing standard operating procedures and what needed changing. After considering the inputs and recommendations, I drafted and circulated for comment a paper matching functions with tasks, proposing organizational and procedural improvements. As a subset of this initiative, I began preparing a job description for each member of the staff using Department of Labor criteria. Again incorporating feedback, I wrote a final draft for Gene’s perusal. As always, he agreed with the proposals and distributed the findings to the various vice presidents for implementation.
While undertaking this study, I uncovered a glaring problem in accounts receivable. Many accounts stood months in arrears. Companies entered into contracts containing provisions for penalties for past-due payment. The total added up to a small fortune. I took the problem to Gene, thinking my sleuthing would be a revelation; MicroBilt could increase its income by 25 percent. Gene knew all about this and calmly doubled my figure.
Meeting with the vice president for finance, we agreed to go after the outstanding payments. After compiling a list of delinquents and gaining Gene’s approval, the company sent out a carefully crafted form “reminder” letter. In no time at all, we received a torrent of telephone calls from irate clients demanding to talk to Sadler. I told the switchboard to direct the calls to me. In many cases, the complaints proved valid; the problem rested with MicroBilt’s faulty billing and maintenance accounting records. I bore the unhappy task of calling our clients with the results of our internal review, apologized for the error, and informed them a revised statement was on the way.
Needless to say, Sadler was less than pleased with the outcome of my initiative, which succeeded primarily in angering our customer base and exposing company mismanagement. He ordered a stop. I argued that if we did not intend to enforce the letter of the contract, the company should delete the penalty proviso. It was just like at West Point; the regulations remained on the books even if obeyed only in their nonenforcement. Gene remained adamant; MicroBilt would let the arrears ride.
Obviously this fiasco did nothing to enhance my standing in the company, which became clear when Sadler handed me the job of policing the appearances of our offices. Gene had a thing about messy desks. I had always been a “clean desk” man, and Sadler wanted that as the standard. Some staff improved the way they left their desks at the end of the business day, but most made little or no effort. Again, Gene never made it an issue, and that policy, too, went observed mostly in the breach. Another issue was the slipshod work of the cleaning and janitorial service. A call from me to the head of the company and a couple of night checks resulted in only incremental improvements in performance. I was now vice president for vacuuming and clean wastebaskets.
After about ten months, the job descriptions and enhanced office procedures manual was completed and issued to the offices of the vice presidents, where it immediately took up residence on the bookshelf unread. The company’s senior management liked things precisely as they stood, and Gene preferred a happy shop over an efficient one. The exercise did have one salutary result. Sadler needed capital for expansion and attracted the interest of some British venture capitalists. The prospective investors arrived in Atlanta to look over our operations. They met with the senior managers and appeared impressed with my work on improving the organizational structures and standardizing procedures. Sadler’s motivation for bringing me on board to undertake the assignment now made perfect sense.
As time went on, I became more isolated from Gene. As we passed in the hall, I often asked to speak with him about some matter. He would say “later,” but later never came. I never worried about getting sacked because that was not Sadler’s style. At the same time, I could not in good conscience come to the office, have a cup of coffee, put my feet up on the desk, go through the motions, and go home having accomplished nothing. I was not wired that way. Unlike others, I never just walked into Sadler’s office, but finally I did. Citing no reason, I resigned my position, effective in sixty days. Gene appeared surprised but not displeased.
In typical Puckett fashion, I never discussed leaving MicroBilt with Jeannie. She knew my frustrations. I joined the company expecting to use my experience, education, and personal leadership talents to launch a new career. MicroBilt offered me a great opportunity. I envisioned being a significant player, contributing to the growth of the company. Instead, I achieved nothing concrete and now found myself ineffectual and sidelined.
The next two months I finished my projects and wrote a number of memoranda for the record. On my last day I said my good-byes and thanked everybody for their cooperation. Most had no idea I had resigned. “I have been with Gene a long time,” a colleague confided in me. “No strong personality has ever stayed with him for long.” About six months later, my replacement called and asked where he could find a copy of the procedural manual. I told him to look in his right-hand drawer. Evidently, Gene had reconsidered and wanted the changes implemented but could find no copy of the manual.
When I drove out of the MicroBilt parking lot, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Jeannie continued doing well with her business. We had the financial resources for me to retire, but I was not sure I was ready for that. I knew I would never work for anyone again or start any business that required any employees other than a secretary. That did not leave many options. An obvious benefit of being unemployed was the ability to spend more time with the family.
By the summer of 1985—when I left MicroBilt—Jean was married and would soon present us with our first grandchild. By this time, she had left the law firm and opened her own wedding consultancy and planning business. Marty began at a private school teaching special education sections and working with children with behavioral issues. Later she moved to a public school as a resource person for problem students. In 1987, she married Bob Kinnett from Columbus.
Tommy never joined us in Georgia. After graduating from the University of Virginia (UVA) in 1982, he moved to New York. Like Frank Sinatra sang, “If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere,” and that challenge drew Tommy to the “big city.” During spring break his first year at UVA, Tommy decided school was a waste of his time and talents and that he would leave Charlottesville for the bright lights of the metropolis. One summer of looking for a job in New York convinced him that school was a better course of action. He returned to school, graduated with honors in English, and set off again for New York. After many rejections he finally landed a job as a copywriter. Once he got his foot in the door, there was no stopping him. He finally got his big break in advertising with a prestigious firm. Tommy’s flair for creativity—which he inherited from his mother—and the skills he learned in English expression at Woodbury Forest and UVA made him a natural.
As for me, I became a man of leisure but still remained active. Shortly after leaving MicroBilt, a friend, Bob Valentine, approached me with a request. Bob was head of the administrative board of the Northside Methodist Church, where Jeannie and I were members. The church had plans for a major expansion. Fund raising did not loom as the major obstacle; what worried Bob was that all the attendant stress would splinter the already fractious church leadership, staff, and congregant volunteers. I offered my services gratis and embarked on a project that in many ways resembled what I had just completed for Micro-Bilt. Bob was right about the fractiousness. Trying to hammer out an agreed common approach was like herding cats, and it took a deft hand not to alienate anyone. After much commotion, we finalized a business and organizational plan, the central component of which was hiring a professional lay manager. Pleased with the results, I decided full retirement was now in the cards.
Retirement permitted space for some self-indulgence in the way of traveling. In October 1985, the commandant of the Escuela de Lanceros invited me to return to Colombia for the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the school. The offer held a second enticement. I had always wanted to see Machu Picchu, the Inca citadel in Peru. I could make the trek into the high Andes if Tommy went along. Plus the expedition would provide the opportunity for spending some real “quality time” with him. Trekking in the mountains of Peru would act as a bookend to the South Rim hike.
Tommy jumped at the chance. We flew to Lima and spent three days taking in the sights and visiting museums. Our travels took us to Cuzco, the capital of the Incan empire and “gateway” to Machu Picchu. Incan military engineers really knew their stuff, as evidenced by the superb planning and workmanship that went into the construction of the fortifications. The train ride through a massive gorge to the base of Machu Picchu must be one of the most impressive in the world. Instead of doing the usual four-hour tourist “drive-by” tour, Tommy and I spent three days and nights there and much of the time had the magnificent site pretty much to ourselves. One day we climbed Huayna Picchu, a nearby peak that towered above the ruins of Machu Picchu. No trip to Peru would be complete without a visit to the tropical forests at the headwaters of the Amazon. Tommy had never seen a rainforest, and we both marveled at the amazing variety of flora and fauna.
We continued on to Bogotá, Colombia. The day we arrived, terrorists attacked a city bus and killed several Colombians. Our Colombian hosts escorted us to Melgar. Gen. Jack Galvin, head of Southern Command in Panama, was the guest of honor. Jack had risen far in the army since taking over for me as asesor (advisor) to the school. Jack very graciously insisted that Tommy and I accompany him and share in the VIP treatment. Like Jack, the Escuela had come a long way from its near-foundling beginning, and I felt a blush of pride remembering thirty years before. The ceremonies complete, we flew back to Atlanta.
One winter Tommy and I took a ski trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. On the final leg from Denver, I told him about a ski instruction book I was reading, How to Break Out of the Intermediate Rut. On the first run on our first day I took a nasty spill. I did everything right, pulled my arms and elbows to my side and tucked my head for the jolt to come. I hit with a thud and immediately knew I had done some real damage. A ski patrolman arrived and asked if I needed a sled to get down. The “James Bowen Effect” kicked in, and although the pain was excruciating, I would “be a man” and make my own way down. The medic at the aid station wrapped my chest in a snug bandage on the assumption I had a couple broken ribs. When I returned to my room I spotted two pillows stacked in the middle of the bed propping up my book with a note: “Dad, you better read the book again.”
After reviewing the X-rays taken by the medic, the doctor in the local hospital telephoned to advise that I come in immediately. When I arrived by taxi, I spotted a sign on a clinic bearing the name Dr. John Feagin. Was it the same doctor who had treated my knee at West Point? The X-ray indicated five broken ribs, with others cracked, and I was admitted to the hospital. Later they discovered a punctured left lung that was filling with fluid. The hospital hooked me up to some sort of fluid evacuator that required an incision under my left arm. There I remained for a week.
Tommy came to visit each evening after his day on the slopes. He called Jeannie every night but always made excuses why I could not come to the phone. Eventually she suspected something was amiss and made Tommy come clean. He handed me the phone, and I assured her there was no reason for her to fly out to minister to me. Finally I was released but instructed not to fly for another week. John Feagin came to see me a couple times and invited me to his house for dinner. Finally I made it back to Atlanta but continued the regime of inhalation exercises the therapist taught me in the hospital. Months passed before the pain in my chest subsided.
Broken ribs just added to the long list of injuries I had sustained over the years. They would mend. To that point, the family defied medical actuary charts. That was about to change. Nothing could prepare us for the scourge about to ravage the family. The first casualty was Jeannie’s mother, who died of lung cancer. A heavy smoker, we saw her condition as a clear case of cause and effect. The Admiral, Jeannie’s father, experienced his own health problems. He stayed with us in Atlanta before moving into a small apartment back in Columbus. He was battling pancreatic cancer. The deaths of parents who have lived normal life spans, while intensely dismaying for family members, are expected as a natural rite of passage. After heart disease, cancer claimed the most victims. But cancer hits irrespective of age or lifestyle. If life is a crap shoot, it appeared the dice were loaded, because in 1990 Jeannie was diagnosed with breast cancer.
After the lumpectomy, three physicians—the surgeon, an oncologist, and our family doctor—arrived in Jeannie’s hospital room. The remedies required invasive procedures—a mastectomy followed by a round of chemotherapy. I experienced a kind of numbing dread never felt in the worst of circumstances on any battlefield. In a firefight, you fall back on your training, and, guided by intuition, you regain control of the situation. Nothing prepared me for this. Jeannie took the news entirely in stride, never wavered, and agreed immediately to take the most aggressive measures to fight the cancer. Later, the oncologist confided to me Jeannie’s probability of winning that fight stood low, perhaps 30 percent. I had had better odds on that hill in Korea.
The surgery complete, we settled into the routine of treatments every three weeks over the next six months. The rotation never varied: the chemo totally zapped Jeannie, leaving her as weak as a kitten; once home she experienced waves of debilitating nausea that lessened over time until the next treatment, when the cycle started anew. At each step you wondered if the treatment was worse than the cure and struggled with doubts that the chemo regimen was having any positive effect. In the midst of all this, word arrived the Admiral had succumbed.
One morning, Jeannie walked into the living room and without so much as a “Good morning,” announced, “I am moving to Columbus. You can come if you want.” What could I say? That would be the best, and only, offer I would get. We had been thinking about moving back to Columbus for some time. Atlanta was getting more and more congested, and the cost of living continued to rise. When you lead a peripatetic life in the army, nowhere is really home. Sure, you have strong attachments to your childhood home where so much of your personality was formed, but as the title of one of Thomas Wolfe’s novels correctly warned, “You can’t go home again.” Jeannie put a different twist on that. “You can go home again,” she told me, “if you don’t expect to find the furniture arranged the same way!”