In no time flat, we entered the vast floor dedicated to gourmet food exhibits. As we made our way through the industrial superstructure, which had been divided into row after row of selling stalls, I couldn’t help but think how different walking the aisles felt today, compared to when we’d visited nine months ago. It wasn’t the fact that we were vendors now that made it different—it was me. I felt different. My follow-up appointments were growing farther apart. Now, when I woke up in the morning, nothing ached. I had no pain, no sickness, no nausea. Each day, I felt a bit more like my old self.
We arrived at our assigned sales space and took in its cold concrete floor, sad gauzy drapes, and trash can. A flimsy, dangling sign displayed our booth number; I felt like it was screaming at us, All this for the bargain price of $3,200! As Mom thanked the forklift operator for his help, I stared at our pitiful booth. Allowing myself only a split second of buyer’s remorse, I asked, “Where should we start?”
“Let’s get the backdrop up first,” Mom said. “These beige walls are depressing.” She pulled out our black-and-white polka-dot fabric and eyed our eight-foot PVC frame. “Grab a handful of safety pins.”
Before I could attempt to find a ladder, Mom was already balancing one foot on an unstable stool, calling out, “Hand me one.” When she had the backdrop halfway up, she asked, “How does it look?”
With one hand holding pins and the other steadying Mom’s foot on the stool, trying to prevent her from falling off, I answered, “I don’t know. I can’t tell from here.”
“I’m fine here. Step back and look.”
Moving back and glancing up, I exclaimed, “Ooh, I like it!” As Mom finished hanging the backdrop, I was beginning to feel a sense of accomplishment.
Working together, Mom and I popped up folding tables and built risers with cinder blocks, bricks, and wooden planks. Next, we assembled our signs by suspending oversize posters from PVC pipes that we’d fastened to the tables with C-clamps and wooden holders. Finally, unpacking the multitude of bakery bags, gift boxes, and tins we’d designed, we began organizing and setting up our displays of gingersnaps. We stepped around and over each other, paying close attention to every detail and diligently completing the look we’d spent all spring and summer planning. Somehow, our carefully crafted setup was starting to look pretty impressive.
Finally, Mom and I allowed ourselves to step back together and admire our efforts. After six hours and one run to Home Depot for black carpeting, I liked what I saw. The booth looked good—whimsical yet professional. Seeing Mom’s handsewn tablecloths and backdrop in coordinating black-and-white fabrics, my logo designs blown up on giant signs, glistening glass jars filled with freshly baked gingersnaps, and more than twenty different packaging options lined up in perfect rows, I was astonished by what we had accomplished. We had certainly put our creativity to the test in stretching our tiny budget. We high-fived, and Mom said, “I think we can call it a day.”
We arrived early the next morning, before the show got too chaotic. I flipped on the spotlights and filled cookie jars with samples while Mom organized the “office,” which consisted of two clipboards, our business cards, calculators, a cash box, and some odd-looking paper. Quizzically, I inquired, “Mom, what is that?”
Holding up a sheet of what looked like midnight-blue tissue paper, she said, “This? It’s carbon paper.”
“What are you going to use that for?”
“How else would you propose we make a copy of an order?”
I laughed. “Mom, where’d you buy that?”
“Your dad and I, everyone, used this in college.”
“So you saved this from the seventies?” We both cracked up.
“No, I bought it. Thank you very much.”
As nutty as this was, it wouldn’t be a laughing matter if I didn’t know how to use it; I didn’t want to be caught fumbling with it in front of a customer. Wanting a trial run, I reached over to take the paper. Mom pulled it away. “Be careful,” she warned. “You can only touch the outside corners or permanent ink will get all over you.”
The closer it got to nine o’clock, when the floor would officially open for business, the more my uncertainty grew. I tried to stay calm, but it was nearly impossible as activity on the floor picked up and the noise level rose. I focused on what I would say to potential customers to get them interested in our product, hoping we wouldn’t have too many lookie-loos and just sample takers.
Standing in our polka-dot booth, I looked out and assessed the companies around us. They boasted elaborate, custom displays that looked like they must have cost thousands of dollars. Some vendors occupied not just one, but two or three selling spaces. A seafood company near us displayed mixes for dips, stews, Bloody Marys, and more. A confectionary store stocked its enormous booth with every old-timey candy imaginable. I had no idea how we were going to entice buyers to come into our booth when there were so many options all around us—many of which looked much more impressive than our little one-product setup.
It was probably too late to be worried about how to sell, but I wasn’t sure if Mom and I were prepared. Are there keywords that get people to buy? If so, what are they? All kinds of buyers would be here, representing everything from local pharmacies to independent gift shops to major chains like Crate and Barrel. We could find ourselves talking to mom-and-pop store owners from small southern towns or executives from New York—or just about anyone in between. How are we going to know who’s who and what they’re looking for? We needed to keep in mind that these people were not buying for their own consumption. They were buying for their customers. They were asking, “Can I make money selling this product? Is this product worthy of my brand and my customers?” When they sampled our cookie, they’d be judging much more than taste; they’d be evaluating our booth, our packaging, and us too. It was our job to decipher what they were thinking, to anticipate their questions, and to be ready to explain what made Susansnaps unique and special. And we had only been doing this whole baking, packaging, and shipping gingersnaps thing for a hot minute. It was nice to have Nordstrom’s coffee bars as our claim to fame, but other than that, we were about as green as they come.
Noticing I had become very quiet, Mom asked, “Sweetie, what’s the matter?”
“I’m nervous we won’t get to try out your carbon paper if we can’t get anyone to stop. What if no one buys from us? Mom, what if this doesn’t work?”
“The booth looks fantastic,” she said. “We have plenty of samples. Everyone loves cookies.”
“I know,” I said, brushing off her enthusiasm. “But what are we going to say to people?”
Without hesitating, Mom responded, “We’ll greet people, invite them to enjoy a sample, make them feel welcome to browse, and answer their questions. I’m sure whatever you say will be good.” She paused. “It’s not like we’re selling vacuum cleaners or artificial topiaries. That would be a lot harder.” Mom was right. It was easy to work on something we believed in. And as crazy as our gingersnap cookie company was, Mom and I did believe in it.
In trying to convince me that I could make this work, I think Mom was also trying to boost her own confidence. I chose to believe in her conviction, because we were stuck in that booth for the next three days, and it was either going to be one of the best or one of the worst experiences of my life.
Just then, a loud voice came over the intercom and said, “Welcome, exhibitors, to the September Atlanta International Gift and Home Furnishing Market. Buyers are lined up and waiting. It is now nine o’clock, and the doors are officially open. Have a great market!”
After the doors opened, we immediately heard pandemonium. I peeked out from our booth and looked down the aisle, spotting hordes of buyers coming our way. For a split second, I might have considered running away—but then I glanced at Mom. She looked lovely in her heels, black pants, and blazer. I was not about to let her down.
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nbsp; Before I knew it, people were streaming into our booth, and I was talking to them. “Hi, would you like to try a sample? Gourmet gingersnaps.” I heard Mom greet another potential customer warmly. “Good morning! Please help yourself to a gingersnap.” We must have been doing something right, because people were stopping at our booth, enjoying samples, and complimenting our decorative display.
When I eventually heard someone say, “I would like to place an order,” I was stunned. A what? An order? With us? Now? A pleasant woman who owned a salon and spa in Athens, Georgia, wanted two cases of gingersnaps.
Mom, who was standing right next to me, was looking at me with wide eyes, nodding her head. “Susan, she’d like to place an order.” As if I hadn’t heard her myself. I was silently celebrating. Okay, great. An order—this is good. We should have been doing something, but Mom and I were both just standing there. Wait, this is my big moment. I reached under the table, grabbed one of the clipboards, and handed it to Mom. We turned our backs to the buyer, which I’m sure is no-no in Selling 101, and Mom whispered, “Have you looked at this thing? How do I fill it out?”
Staring at a foreign spreadsheet crowded with boxes, numbers, and wholesale jargon, I told her, “It’s no big deal.” I had no idea what I was talking about. I had laid out the spreadsheet, but Dad had helped with the content, and our over-the-top order form was more intricate than necessary.
“Watch over my shoulder to make sure I don’t mess up,” Mom said.
It took all three of us (not just Mom and me, but the customer too) to finalize that first business deal, but after that, we were rolling right along. Mom was a natural saleswoman, and I couldn’t help but think about how proud Aunt Sue would have been to see her little sister, Laura, selling and talking with customers. As for me, all I could seem to muster up was, “Would you like to try the ultimate gingersnap?” I lined up the carbon paper in between orders and answered any straightforward questions that people had. Over and over again, I parroted the same information—“Two case minimum…four-month shelf life…the bakery bag is the best value…tastes like the holidays”—while Mom took the more personal questions head on.
We soon learned that word spread quickly among the vendors when an executive from a large company or major chain of stores entered the building. That first day, a “suit” from T.J. Maxx came by and asked, “What do you have here? Your packaging is gorgeous.”
Mom said, “We’re Susansnaps—the ultimate gourmet gingersnap cookie. Please try one.”
“You bake one cookie?” he asked. “Just this one?”
The smile on my face froze. I knew that only having one product would be a problem at some point. The man looked around our booth and nodded decisively. “Smart move. Don’t overcomplicate. Do one thing and do it well. I like that. It shows confidence.”
The compliment meant the world to us. Unfortunately, we weren’t in a position to sell to him. We weren’t a big enough operation. In fact, we hadn’t really thought through how we would fill huge orders. The orders we filled for Nordstrom, less than two hundred cookies per store with just two or three stores ordering at a time, were small potatoes compared to what some customers at the Mart were buying. I guess we hadn’t wanted to jinx ourselves by planning for high-quantity orders before we’d even gotten to the Mart.
It’s funny how certain things have stayed with me. One person can make a difference without even knowing it. The conversation with the “suit” from T.J. Maxx reminded me of the technician at my first PET scan following treatment. I was terribly anxious (not about the test but rather the results), but my technician, Rodney, was so calm. By distracting me from the nuclear medicine he was injecting into me as well as the door covered with a “Do Not Enter: Hazard Zone” sign, he took me on a three-minute virtual escape to a Madonna concert in Miami he’d recently been to. His story was detailed, and I appreciated it.
For the rest of the show, Mom roped people in, and I filled out order forms and took payments. Mom was good at talking, and especially good at drawing people into the booth in the first place. My strengths lay more in writing and taking money. We made the perfect duo! We just slid into those roles naturally, and they’ve stuck ever since.
Fifty-six hours later, with a stack of papers beside me, I calculated that we had initial orders for 31,500 cookies, all of which would be made by hand. As Mom began dismantling our tables, I announced, “Looks like we’re going to be busy.” We received steady orders from then through the holidays.
Although I was having a lot of fun working with Mom, the bakery still didn’t feel like a real job to me. But I never found the right moment to leave and pursue other opportunities. Something was always happening—a big order, an interview, a new show to attend, or an invitation to sell our cookies somewhere—and I didn’t feel like I could leave Mom with all the work. So I would think to myself, I’ll just stick around until this is over. And all the while, that black interview suit of mine was collecting dust.
Dear Sue,
I’m sure you never could have imagined it—Laura the salesperson! Believe me, neither could I. I don’t know if this explanation makes sense, but I think this is what it came down to: whether I was at the wholesale market, a tiny craft show, or a speaking engagement (no kidding, I’ve done those too!), I found I cared so much about Susansnaps that I didn’t care at all about messing up. I’d work as hard as I could and be as ridiculous as I had to be to keep Susan in this “thing” we had going. We were working hard and having fun, and it felt good. And it seemed like we just might be onto something. I wasn’t going to let her down either. So just like I didn’t care that I had to wake up in the middle of the night to help Susan when she was sick, I didn’t care about calling out, “Please enjoy a gourmet gingersnap!” to compete with some guy passing out popcorn in the middle of a trade-show aisle right in front of us. He tried enticing buyers away from our booth, and I thought, Wait a minute. Two can play this game! With a bit more gusto, I called out, “Susansnaps samples right here!” I would do whatever it took.
14
Two Hands on Deck
Exhibiting at the Mart was sort of a reentry into the world for me. At home, I felt comfortable. My brothers and sister accepted me no matter what, and, of course, Mom and Dad did too. Although working for the first time since finishing treatment was a little scary, it was also invigorating and enlightening. And a lot more happened than just cookie sales over the course of those three days at the Mart. Since we couldn’t leave our booth, even when there weren’t any shoppers, I had time to think, observe, and reflect. I started noticing how I had changed, and I think Mom did too. Even though I kept thinking, We don’t know what we’re doing here, that wasn’t quite true. If I could march into treatment and face my cancer day after day, then I could surely stand in a booth filled with cookies and sell them to customers.
It turned out that I didn’t need to be so nervous about how our product would be received at the Mart or whether we’d sell any cookies. Unconsciously, I began applying the same approach and outlook that I’d relied on during chemo and radiation. Just like with treatment, I soon learned that even though I didn’t know how the show would turn out, there were a few things that I could control: I could choose to smile and be positive, to give it my all, and to appreciate each small success. Susansnaps never would have existed without my cancer, and as Mom and I stood in our booth, I realized, in some odd, backward way, going through treatment had prepared both of us to make this business successful. It had given us more inner confidence, greater drive. It was with this new strength that Mom would call out to buyers, “Help yourself to the ultimate gourmet gingersnaps! Anyone can have a gingersnap, but a Susansnap is unique.” And, even though it was outside my comfort zone, I would sometimes speak up and try to sell to people too.
Mom and I were friendly and genuine and giving it our all, and somehow it was working. I think there was something about the two of us tog
ether that appealed to people. Even when we didn’t know exactly what to say or how to close a sale, there was a certain effervescence coming from our booth. We believed in our product and believed in each other, and we figured if we were polite and had fun together, the rest would take care of itself. We were both aware that doing this right meant trying our best—the same way I had done my best during treatment.
Throughout the show, people commented on our positive attitudes. One evening, a vendor who we’d become friendly with came over and said, “Do you two always smile? I’ve been watching you. There have been no shoppers this afternoon, the place is practically dead, but you look like you’re having the best time.” The man, who sold frozen drink mixes, had been in the industry for years, and I’d assumed he was coming over to give us a pointer.
Caught off guard by his comment, Mom said, “What?”
“I just wanted you to know that if I were in the market, I’d buy whatever you’re selling,” he said. “You’re doing a good job.”
That was either the nicest compliment we’d had all day or a polite heads-up that we stood out like a sore thumb! Mom called back, “Thanks! We’re happy to be here.” And that was the truth. We had no reason to complain. Standing in a booth with no customers was better than lying in bed sick, wondering if the chemo was working. Sore feet or tired legs were better than excruciating bone pain or a burned throat. Since coming out of treatment, I’d become sensitive to people complaining. It bothered me. I’d hear vendors griping, “I don’t like my booth location,” or “The parking lot is too crowded,” or “That buyer took too many samples and didn’t order anything.” Sometimes their trivial comments left me speechless. Other times I’d just say, “Hope your day gets better!”
The Cookie Cure Page 13
