“My wife and I were in the country a few weeks ago. We were standing in front of a wishing well and she fell in. I never dreamed those things worked.” – Milton Berle
Sitting in the audience at a publishers convention a few years ago, Roy Reiman heard a speaker describe his industrys impossible dream: that one day a magazine might be so beloved by its readers that it could survive without selling advertising. Mr. Reiman could only turn to an acquaintance and shrug. The 11 magazines in his stable carry no outside advertising. Yet they will pull in $300 million in revenue this year with a combined circulation of roughly 16 million.
Why have’nt you heard about Roy Reiman before? Because he’s from the Midwest? Or because he does’nt publish any of the glittery, gross, or glamorous magazines that are so popular on both coasts?
Rather than compete for the hot demographics of urban baby boomers and Generation Xers, Reiman focuses on the underserved market that is an older, rural America. His titles include Country Woman, Ranch Living, and Taste of Home, which, with 5 million paid subscribers, is the sixth-best-selling consumer magazine in the United States.
Long before open source and interactive became shibboleths of the publishing illuminati, Reiman hit upon a way to engage his readers in a continuing relationship. Reader contributions account for as much as 80% of the content of some of his magazines.
Aside from the publications, the company runs a tour operation, traveling cooking shows, and a mail-order business with $25 million in annual sales. (Biggest item: a sweatshirt emblazoned Im proud to be a farm wife.)
Two years ago, Reiman sold the bulk of his business to a group of Chicago investors for $633 million.
Reiman got his start 40 years ago by dabbling in magazine publishing and working as a freelance writer. (ETR principle: Learn the business before you try it.) In 1970, he noticed that two farming magazines had eliminated their soft womens features and he sensed an opportunity. He devised a prototype for a magazine called Farm Wife News.
Worried that he might have trouble attracting advertisers, he borrowed a mailing list of 400,000 farmers from an agricultural company and sent a test copy to a tenth of them, offering six issues for $5. (Observation: You cant borrow 400,000 names unless you have done some good networking.) The response was so great that he abandoned his test and cranked out the full run of 400,000 magazines.
Reimans early prototype evolved into Country Woman, which today has a paid circulation of 1.8 million, more than either Vogue or In Style.
Employees are encouraged to offer ideas. Reiman has been known to tape $100 bills near the coffee maker to invite good editorial suggestions. He takes pride in the fact that he has never posted an organizational chart, because it limits what people can do. When the company launches a new book or magazine, we dont staff up, he says. We just stretch people.
Reiman doesn’t use focus groups or fancy demographics to test new product ideas. He doesn’t feel he needs to. Instead, he reads customer-service reports and customer correspondence. And he meets his customers in person. When a title doesn’t work, he sends out a lengthy memo thanking his employees for their work and explaining the reason for the mercy killing. There’s not a big penalty for failure here, says one of his top executives. We just go on to the next thing.
Reiman, though a very wealthy man by anyones standards, still gets up with the sun and works all day because he likes to. These days, he leaves the day-to-day management to someone else, but continues to pepper his colleagues with ideas. An avid birder, he recently devised a way to entice birds to eat seeds from his hand by using a cardboard cutout of a human being and setting it next to a bird feeder. It really works, he says.
What I Learned About Life From My Father’s Death
It’s been a little over two months since my father died. After an unnecessary operation for a “pre-cancerous” stomach condition, the surgeons discovered a large tumor in his lung. They went forward with the removal of a length of gut, sewed him back up, and advised him to see an oncologist. Had they discovered the tumor prior to surgery, he probably wouldn’t have lived any longer. But he may have been able to spend his last few months in relative ease and comfort, instead of sick, groggy, and attached to all sorts of expensive machines.
Still, he would have died. As we all will. If you are old enough to read this, your chances of living into your mid-70s are very high. Your chances of living much beyond that? Very slim. So live well and enjoy your work. It’s not the extra years that count, for they are few even if you get them. What matters is the life you live during the time you have. For the most part, my dad lived as if he understood that. Growing up in the Bronx, he was an early standout in high school, winning top honors in both mathematics and English during his senior year — the first time anyone had done that in the city’s history.
After Pearl Harbor, he walked away from an opportunity for a career in radio (he was slotted to be Abbot in one of the early pre-Abbot-and-Costello comedy acts). He joined the Navy and spent the war as captain of a ship in the Pacific. After the war, he enrolled in a theater course at Catholic University of America. When he first saw his teacher (he liked to say she had the profile of a Greek goddess), his future was fixed. They married and moved to Guatemala, where my mother got a job teaching English. Dad worked as a security guard at night, which gave him time to write plays and novels during the day. In 1950, they had their first child.
About a month later, a revolution broke out. My father baptized my sister under the kitchen table after a bomb flattened the refrigerator. One child led to another, and before Dad knew it there was no room in his life for writing. What started as a promising career in the arts changed into a long and faithful lifetime of teaching. He wasn’t alone in this. Thousands of other men and women of his generation and mine have done the same. He turned out to be an exceptional teacher.
For 30 years, he taught English literature to undergraduates, math skills to high school students, and business writing to executives. It wasn’t until he retired that he was able to get back to his youthful ambitions: flying planes, acting, and, finally, writing a book (which he never finished). During his life, he had the gift of good friendship. Thanks to my mother’s wide soul, he enjoyed the warmth and companionship of professors and plumbers, scientists and union bosses, playwrights and criminals, artists, priests, and bag ladies. There was never a day that passed in our house of eight children that some guest or neighbor wasn’t sitting in the living room when I came home or at the table at dinnertime.
Many of these guests were nuns and priests that taught at the Catholic college my parents worked for. They ranged from fundamental to evangelical to freaky. My father himself would have been described at the time as a “lapsed” Catholic — but I prefer to think of him as devotedly agnostic. (See “Word to the Wise,” below.) Like everything else in his life, his relationship to religion was compromised and complicated. He didn’t keep his ambivalence a secret. But the religious people whom he worked for never seemed to mind too much. One, a priest and writer, composed the following eulogy, which he read at the funeral.
It says something about religiosity and living a good life. I thought you might enjoy it, as I did. In Memory of a Great Man by Father Tom Catania, July 17, 2004 “No one who knows the full saga of Frank’s life would say he bore a light burden, howsoever lightly he bore his burdens, nor that his yoke was always easy, howsoever many yokes he cracked in the course of making the delightful omelet that is, in retrospect, his incomparable life. Dedication always comes at cost, and Frank was nothing if not dedicated — first and foremost to his family, but with fierce passion too to his art, his profession, and to the endless possibilities that human life held out to him.
And so I would say, to turn the gospel on its side just a bit, that in Frank we who were graced by him were able to have a first-hand experience of this text; Frank’s life was to make our yokes a bit easier and our burdens a bit lighter. Be quiet in there, Frank, you were a model Christian. “For a Christian is not one who by a regimen of rigid obedience wins in the end a kind of supernatural Good Conduct Medal; still less one whose searching soul is silenced with the censure of incense.
A Christian is simply one who finds joy in living, in living for others, in living amid mystery. And, Frank, admit it, you were all of these. Let’s take a look, Frank, at what we remember of you — the legacy you left us that will stretch our souls as you did the imaginations and minds of legions of students. “You were a teacher — a great one, I might add — and specifically a teacher of language at its loftiest (and its most lecherous).
You were an actor — it is reputed that the spirit of James Burbage leapt in amazement the first time you delivered a speech of Othello’s to a post-bobby-sox generation. And you were a man of the cloth; all right, a cloth napkin . . . all right, a paper napkin . . . all right, a Kleenex — whatever it took to provide a modicum of tidiness at the reception . . . all right, party . . . all right, downright dig-in and down-’em-it-ain’t-such-a-bad-life-after-all bash! “Language delighted you; you delighted the language. Speech for you was no filling of air with sound, but the making-it-boom-with-mystery magic that only a few possess.
And it was the mystery of meaning that you probed till your dying day through the medium that enchanted you; words and their shapes and sounds and silliness. When you spoke to us you were also in harmony with a kind of bloom that made your whole self shine like one who’d caught a breath of the ineffable ether. The kind of thing Jesus must have exuded in his sheer delight in what could be. “And too you were an actor — what good teacher isn’t? — but no mere chameleon or chewer of scenery. Your delight was not the extrovert’s alone — though shrinking violet is not a phrase I would apply to you — but the explorer’s. With a fascination for the mystery within the selves the dramatists out-spelled, you delved. And who could do that who did not have a wide soul, eager to meet the whatever and the why ever and the whoever that pollinate and people and perplex our planet still?
The kind of magnanimity we would need to ascribe to a Jesus who found no one he could not call to, cry for, comfort. “But it is time for me to be honest; I never had you in class, nor did I ever see you perform. I met you first and last at feasts — and Frank, now you be honest; your soul was created to party! Isaiah’s ‘choice beef and good wines’ are yours for the asking now (no need for the nuns to send kitchen extras home) and we will never raise a glass that will not carry in it your spirit.
Only weeks before you left — for a better party, Isaiah suggests — you toasted with us. The spirits that exhilarated you were ours; you wanted our company and we wanted yours. It was to be with us that you togged and trod your way back to college; it was to keep the spirit alive that you were never a partisan man — a man of one party — but a man of many, and our roots are the richer for it. For how does the Spirit of Jesus insinuate itself into a human life save by the spirits enfleshed all over again, and sure signs of parties yet to come?
And how is Jesus remembered to this day but by a meal of bread and wine? “You always loomed larger than life, Frank, and now, in truth, you are; your good works follow you leaving behind a ‘cloud of glory’ even if it’s going in a direction Wordsworth didn’t picture. The souls of too many are seared with the singular splendor of your voice, your vision, and the venture you led us on. “And, finally . . . ah, but excuse me, Frank appears to want the last word, and it shall be his, howsoever in the words of one Mark Twain: ‘I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, ’cause (you’re goin’ to) sivilize me soon, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.’ “See you, Frank! “At the party, of course.”[Ed. Note: Mark Morgan Ford was the creator of Early To Rise. In 2011, Mark retired from ETR and now writes the Palm Beach Letter. His advice, in our opinion, continues to get better and better with every essay, particularly in the controversial ones we have shared today. We encourage you to read everything you can that has been written by Mark.]