Thoughts on judging the Silver Inkwell Awards

So this summer, I had the honor and privilege of organizing the judging for the Silver Inkwell Awards of the DC chapter of the International Association of Business Communicators. I'd judged them once previously and enjoyed the experience immensely. I volunteered again this year and found myself as lead judge.

I've had an inauspicious start in the role -- I have no doubt I'll do the job again next year -- as this is the first time, at least in recent memory, that the chapter has not given out a top prize. In the end, I and the Blue Ribbon panel, my colleague who was heading up the Silver Inkwell program itself and the president of the chapter, all made a tough but important decision. The award is intended to hold local IABC-member communicators, and by role model, the local communications industry, up to a high, albeit subjective, standard. To hand out what in effect would have been "The Best of What We Got" instead of the "Best of the Best" would have devalued all past and future winners of the honor. In the end we handed out a good number of awards of merit and awards of excellence for each of the categories, but no "Best of the Best."

But my feeling is that by way of compromise, it is incumbent upon me to pass along the common critiques and common praises of the judges to help those who might be working on next year's projects and potential submissions. And so, gleaned from the judging sheets, here is a quick run-down:

The key to winning is a great, thorough and detailed -- but concise -- workplan, with the work samples showing the successful execution of that workplan. Take the submission requirements and use it at the start of your project planning to help as a guide to the project itself. Nice benefit is that when the project is done, your submission's already basically done! Even if you never submit, that submission form will have helped you keep focus on some fundamentals of communications success.

Pay particular attention to the audiences (because there's always more than one, isn't there?). Tell the judges who the audiences are, giving demographics, but more to the point, tell the judges something about the needs and interests of those audiences that led you to the approach you ultimately used. Tell the pertinent points here. You can attach supporting documentation (survey/research results).

In objectives, make sure they are time-bound and measurable (there is always something to measure, quantifiable or anecdotal), and at least one should map back to the overall goals of your organization -- if your company sells widgets, one objective should have something to do with having a measurable impact on widget sales.

In approach, make sure to explain why you chose the approach you chose and it should have reference to some supporting research (remember your audiences' needs and interests?). Mention budget and deadlines, but don't forget to mention then where you came in against that budget and those deadlines! If it's a tight budget, explain why you think it's a tight budget. Telling the judges your budget was $30,000 doesn't mean much without some context.

And in results and evaluation, make sure you reference results against your stated objectives. If you didn't have the time or budget to measure results adequately, tell the judges what you will do next time or would have done with a bigger budget and/or more time. Show them you have the right mindset, even if you don't have the appropriate resources. I know I would give you a lot of credit for that. If you don't have quantifiable results -- and even if you do -- make sure you have anecdotal feedback from both audience and your supervisors/boss/president.

Some complain that they can't do all the above in the two pages you're limited to. I tell you that you can. Some of the best audience descriptions I read in the nearly 100 submissions I've judged were done in a few sentences and bullets. And they still had room for an additional paragraph or two of background (yep, you can do that too, even though it's not required!).

Make it easy for the judges to score you high. Don't make them work to find the answers.

Now good luck with the projects and get them submitted for next year's competition!

Someone So Alive

Someone So Alive

Jolie Barrows found herself staring. In the middle of delivering a eulogy in honor of her grandmother, she found herself staring at the subject of the eulogy, dressed in black, behind a black veil, at the back of the congregation at Faith United Methodist Church, and very much alive.

The heavy silence that had hung in the air awaiting the remainder of her memories instead began to host murmurs of the perplexed mourners. She could not bring herself to tell them her words were of a sudden premature, but she did not dare to open her mouth either for fear of blurting out the revelation of her grandmother’s apparent resurrection.

Jolie blinked and looked hard at the familiar figure. The shape was Grandma Josephine, the white coiffed hair under the veiled hat was her color and style. The palsy of the hand as it brought a handkerchief up to dab at tearful eyes was as familiar to Jolie as her own habit, borrowed from Grandma Josephine, of folding anything in hand that lent itself to folding. This woman was either mocking her or was her dead grandmother compulsively folding and unfolding the handkerchief between dabs.

No, you’re seeing things, Jolie admonished herself. You’re mourning her death and you want to see that she’s still alive, so you’re mistaking someone similar for her. That’s just one of her
friends. Now get on with the eulogy.

Jolie met the inquisitive minister’s look from the side of the pulpit with a nod as if to say everything was okay, that she’d pulled herself together. He calmly nodded back and stepped away again.

As she turned to face the congregation again, Jolie strained to concentrate on the words and to forget about the woman at the back of the congregation. “Grandma Josephine and I had a special kind of understanding between us that was born the day I was, she used to tell me. She’d
say that I would have lots of friends, best friends even, that would come and go through life, but that she would always be there.”

Jolie stopped again at these unexpectedly prophetic words. And the black hat at the back of the congregation was nodding in sure agreement, as if it were just the two of them in conversation without pews of people between them. And Jolie recognized this, too, as one of her own traits that went with her into college, where she would distract professors and speakers with her own emphatic approvals and disagreements with various presentations. She'd learned this unabashed expression of connection from Grandma Josephine. The gestures would come unabated from her grandmother at church, or in front of the television, or any public gathering being addressed, at any moment the message reflected her own thoughts or deviated acutely
from her beliefs. Grandma Josephine was a woman with opinions she was proud to broadcast.

"Grandma Josephine was right, she was always there, and as I grew out of adolescence and youth, and into adulthood I realized who the real best friend had always been and just what I owed her. She taught me what loyalty in friendship meant. She taught me pride and forgiveness. She taught me to believe in myself and to do for myself.” And the black hat nodded again with emphasis, as her hand went up under the veil, dabbed the folded handkerchief, and
dropped again.

Jolie snapped her eyes back to her own hands and the little cue cards she’d prepared with the eulogy, but they were no help in taking her mind off the ghost in the church. Grandma Josephine had taken time when Jolie’s parents were too busy to help her with her show-and-tell. “Organization,” she continued,” was her creed in dealing with life, and it is how I thought I could deal with her death. But I’m finding that a little difficult right now.” She’d written those words last night. They barked at her now from the palm of her shaking hand like someone else’s prophecy proved true. She felt reality shifting, now here in the church, now back in time at the mall Christmas shopping with Grandma Josephine.

“Nothing prepares you for the loss of someone you loved so much that your life is identified by your relationship with that person. A spouse, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister – for me, my grandmother. That is not a detraction to those other important people in my life. It is a testament to the woman she was.” Jolie cut the word short realizing as she spoke, that she was using the wrong tense. Or no, wait, the right tense. Just keep going, she urged herself. The
next card.

“What can help you to go forward from such a loss is to be mindful of what you have gained from your association with her, what you take of her with you. The good memories and experiences, the lessons learned from her, the comfort you received from her, and the privilege you had to have known her.”

The black hat at the back bobbed, the handkerchief slipped behind the veil once more. Jolie’s vision was wrenched from her cards to watch the apparition cajole her onward. But it was not an apparition. She was here brushing elbows with the man next to her, who seemed to excuse
himself to her and move lightly to give her more room to proclaim the righteousness of the speech. But the man, who looked to be the husband of one of Jolie’s mother’s friends, did not show any recognition of the lady.

Of course not, why would he? Jolie tried to reason. He probably had never met her and even if he did, that woman is not your grandmother. Grandma Josephine died. Next card, Jolie. Get a grip.

“Grandma Josephine lives.” Jolie’s world went to miniature and the sound of a thousand bees entered and overwhelmed her mind. But the figure of Grandma Josephine would not leave her sight. “Grandma Josephine is here, in this church,” she felt she was crying this, but it came out a whisper, “-- to the extent -- that we -- hold her spirit -- close to our hearts. She will go home -- with each of us -- to the extent that -- we remember what she gave uuusssssss….”

Jolie swayed at the podium, and the minister stepped up to take her elbow and lead her to the first pew. Her legs gave way as she reached the seat. Have to keep my wits, she chanted to herself, have to keep my wits. That was not Josephine, that was not Josephine.

At the end of the service, when Jolie felt she could stand again, she searched for the woman at the back of the congregation but could not see her. Later, at the cemetery, the woman in black did not appear. And a shaken, speechless Jolie was taken home in the limousine.

Jolie spent the night and the next day trying desperately to bring some logical conclusion to the apparition. She asked her mother and her aunts who the veiled woman in black in the back of the church had been. She tried to describe her without sounding craxy, leaving out until nothing else rang a bell her resemblance to the deceased Josephine. No one had seen her and they could not ease her mind, repeating her own rationalization that she was “seeing” Josepine in a
nother person because she missed her or because she subconsciously expected to see her at ll family gatherings.

In the following days, Jolie could not let the picture of her grandmother attending her own funeral fade. She had not imagined it, and she was not crazy. It was determined that Josephine had died in her sleep at her apartment of an apparent heart attack. This was not surprising for
Josephine was known to have had a long history of smoke and drink. Neither a chain smoker nor an alcoholic, she was however one to enjoy life, to hell with the consequences. Jolie decided for no discernible reason that she wanted to pay a visit to the last person to see Grandma Josephine alive.

She was found by a friend and neighbor of hers, a widow named Mary Martin. Mary also lived alone in the apartment next to Josephine’s. She and her late husband had never had children, so Josephine became the closest thing she had to family. She, like Jolie, eagerly awaited Josephine’s return from travel, and envied Josephine’s capacity for life. She seemed extremely distraught over the loss of her friend and had retreated to her apartment and did not attend the
funeral or wake and did not communicate with Josephine’s family.

On her way to Grandma Josephine’s apartment, Jolie remembered her grandmother’s stubborn resistance to settling down. Josephine had been an outrageous personality, and one who children and grandchildren alike found increasingly difficult to control. As she aged, while her peers were becoming more and more housebound, Josephine was determined to become more and more the independent traveler. She had told Jolie once that when Jolie’s grandfather, God rest his soul, had died twenty years before of his own heart attack, brought on doubtless by his often agitating and bullheaded wife, she felt that the time had come for her to live her life. Not the life her late husband had expected of her. Not the life her children expected of her. But her life. She was going to travel and try new things and new foods, as much as her body would
allow.

Josephine’s four daughters and their husbands fought with Josephine on her annual itineraries which involved safaris to Africa, climbing in the Low Alps, sailing in the Caribbean, and reveling at Carnival in Rio. They said she was doing too much, that she was putting herself in
danger,especially by traveling alone. The idea of a woman in her sixties, and then her seventies, tackling outdoor adventures like a twenty-year-old was preposterous.

They told her she was being selfish, not thinking of the family and the grandchildren who wanted to see their grandmother. Josephine always countered with the same argument. She’d given all her years up to then to the family; she had only what was left for herself and she was going to make the most of it. The money from her late husband’s estate was more than enough to afford this lifestyle and a leave an inheritance for the family when she passed on.

Jolie never argued with her. She admired her grandmother’s spunk and tenacity. She wished her well and made her promise to send postcards from faraway places. Josephine often invited Jolie to come along, but Jolie’s own life, her education, her career, always prevented her from tagging along on all but the smallest trips. She’d taken a long weekend to go shopping in New York with Josephine in December, skating in Rockefeller Square and watching the Rockettes.
She’d seen the fall foliage in Vermont and New Hampshire on another road trip. She would miss those slices of life.

Jolie always knew to send her letters to Josephine’s small apartment if she was expected home soon, to the postmaster general in international locations to which Josephine indicated she’s be traveling. And Josephine always knew to look for them and always responded promptly.

Jolie had learned her appreciation for the world around her and the myriad of cultures that Josephine described to her. Josephine chided those her age who vacationed on cruise ships and never left the ship, and who lived in assisted living complexes. “You’ve got to get off the boat and see life first-hand in order to stay alive. That other route leads steadily, boringly, to the grave.”

When Josephine was at home, never for more than a month or so at a time, she made the
rounds of the nursing homes and extended care facilities that housed “her people,” as she called them. It was funny to Jolie that Josephine seemed to have such disdain for what she saw as their acceptance of their fate and yet referred to them as “her people.”

On her way now to Josephine’s apartment complex, Jolie stopped by her mother’s house to retrieve the key to the apartment to let herself in. She figured she’s stop in after meeting Mrs. Martin to look around for some small token to keep of Josephine’s, perhaps a souvenir
trinket form her many travels. She hoped she might find a few photographs of her in Africa or Thailand. Or perhaps the one Josephine had kept on her mirror of Jolie and her when Jolie was
eight years old. Jolie had dressed up in some of the clothes Josephine was packing for one of the first of many trips, this one to Hawaii. Jolie wore an oversized silk flower dress, a garish matching hat with a big pink flower stuck in the hatband. The two faced the camera standing side by side, decked out in leis, next to a bulging suitcase, as if the odd-looking couple were about to board a steamer to the South Seas.

Jolie found herself crying remembering the image and the time it was captured. She wanted so to go with her Grandma, to live the rest of her life seeing the world and all its wonders in the company of someone so alive. The picture couldn’t capture the color Jolie remembered about her grandmother. Life was vibrant and gay, like a cartoon, with Josephine around, and the days when she was away as grey and dismal as a city in winter rain.

She locked her car, entered the building and found “M. Martin #336” on the board. She buzzed on the lobby phone and waited. There was no answer. She remembered Grandma Josephine telling her that her friend Mary was a quiet woman, who despite her admiration for Josephine’s
travels, kept to her room and did not venture out. She deemed herself too frail and even paid the local grocer to deliver her needs. Jolie thought it odd that she would not answer her phone, but perhaps she was napping, or was still so distraught that she was refusing visitors. Jolie thought that she might just knock on Mrs. Martin's door anyway, if only to check in on her and to thank her for her friendship to Josephine.

Jolie boarded the elevator and pushed the button to bring her to the third floor, Josephine's floor. She knew the way to Josephine's door without looking having spent so many hours visting there, and when the elevator door pened she walked still lost in reverie. She did not pay attention to the sound coming from around the corner ahead on one door closing and another being opened. As she rounded the turn she saw what would be Mrs. Martin's door closing shut. Jolie resisted the urge to call out to her.

Simultaneously, a scent so familiar to her filled her conciousness. Sweet roses wafted in the drafty hall as she stood facing her granmother's apartment. She felt again the eager anticipation of small gifts and exotic tales. It was not Josephines's only perfume but certainly her favorite and the one Jolie always remembered her wearing. She wore it more and more heavily each year, but Jolie never minded. It was always a welcome and pleasant fragranc e in Joli's experience. One that now brought her memories of Joeshine casacading around her. She steeled herself, pushed the key in the lock and turned the handle, prepared to be overwhlemed by the nostalgia.

But as the door swung wide and the room was revealed, a sudden shock took Jolie. She had opened the wrong door somehow, for this room was flooded with light from undressed windows, the floor lay bare of the Oriental carpets that had adorned Josephine's flat. Much of the antique wooden furniture was missing though not all. Recognition of a few of the remaining pieces brought her to the conculsion that this was Josephine's apartment, but that it had been pilfered of it's most prized ornaments.

Jolie stepped inside and let the door bang shut behind her, producing a hollow echo from the nearly empty room. Her mouth hung agape as she ticked off all the missing items, the camelback sofa with the shallow uncomfortable seat, the wingback chair opposite, the small rolltop desk that sat next to the door, the old mahogany coffee table. All that was left was a small table on which sat a telephone, two folding chairs by the sliding glass balcony door, and an empty cardboard box.

Jolie steeped to the kitchen and there found things midway to being packed, as if someone had stopped in the middle of the job and gone out for lunch. She realized then her mistake. Her aunts had been here and were removing all of Josephine's things. The apartment would have to be cleared for new tenants, of course. She stepped quickly around to the bedroom and found it similarly half packed. She had been lucky to get there when she did, before it was all carted up.

Jolie turned and faced where the mirror had hung, where it now sat on the floor leaning against the wall. The picture she had come to claim was no longer tucked into the frame where it had been for so many years. Instead she found it among many other photographs in a shoe box beside the bed. Jolie decided to take the entire shoe box with her and she replaced the lid and scooped it up.

As she looked at the bare walls, she couldn't help feeling as if she were robbing tomb. At the same time there was a pervading feeling of growing emptiness which justified her grabbing what she could. Even the air lacked the ambiance it had held when she previously visited. Only a hint of the rose aroma remained, what little the walls had left to release, she guessed. Something about this disturbed her and she suddenly had a desire to leave, before the mmeory of Josephine was tapped from her by this void.

She went quickly through the sitting room by the folding chairs and the empty cardboard vox, and as she opened the door to leave, she turned for one las look and shuddered. It was as if the room itself had died, and that was so contrary to tthe life she had experienced here in the past. She stepped into the hall and let the door close ehind her.

As Jolie took a step back towards the elevator, she became aware of the scent of roses again, stronger than a moment ago in her grandmother's apartment. This didn't make sense. It couldn't be stronger outside the apartment than inside. Then she remembered Mrs. Martin, and her intention to check on her. She had just gone inside her own apartment when Jolie had rounded the turn. If she had been in the hall newar Josephine's apartment, perhaps she was wearing the same scent and it had trailed off f her.

Jolie stepped up to her door, pondering whether to knowck or not. They had never actually met but she remembered Josephine pointing her out one day, an unremarkable old lady with straight white hair and simple clothes. She didnt' strike Jolie as someone who would choose such a garish scent. If she were not revieing visitors, she would have no needto apply perfume anyway, so Jolie decided to knock and simply explain she she was.

Jolie tucked the shor box under her arm and wnet to Mrs. Martin's door. She hesitated, then knocked, lightly at first, then with some authority to make sure Mrs. Martin could hear it. She could hear soem movement, footsteps across a flooor, a murmr, then a tentative voice "Yes, who is it?"

Jolie spoke loudly through the door, "Mrs. Martin, it's Jolie Barrows, Josephine Winstead's granddaughter." There was silence from behind the door.

"Mrs. Martin?" Jolie repeated.

"Yes, yes. Um, what can I do for you? I'm afraid I don't ahave a key to her apartment."

Jolie frowned. It was more than Mrs. Martin's failre to even open the door a crack. She supposed courtesy suffered when you were an old lady alone with a stranger outside your door. But there was soemthing contrived about ht ewavering and distracted voice. "No, I've just come from there. I borrowed my mother's key. I just wanted to pay you a visit. Thank you for all you've done for my grandmother."

Silence again. Then "Oh, well, you're welcome."

"Mrs. Martin, are you okay?" Jolie tried. She felt sure now that Mrs. Martin was determined not to let her in, nor even to show her face. But she felt likewise that there was something guilty about her behavior, and that revelation brought another image to her mind. That of Mrs. Martin's hasty retreat into the now locked. Papartment. Certianly she had heard Jolie's stride down the hall. The sound of the door closing had to have been her granmother's door as it was the only other apartmnt on thsi short stretch of hallway. Had Mrs. Martin just been in Josephine's apartment? Was that why Jolie smelled Josephine's perfume in the hall? Was Mrs. Martin helping herslf to Josephine's toiletries...or more? "Mrs. Martin, you were just there, weren't you?"

"No, no, dear. Uh, I'm afraid now isn't a good time, dear." Jolie could hear Mrs. Martin begin to sniffle and hear her voice falter even more, taking on a deeper quality. This convinced Jolie her suspicions were valid, that Mrs. Martin was ginding something with a false, timid voice.

"Mrs. Martin, what is going on? Why were you just in my grandmother's apartment. Please open up so we can discuss this."

Openly crying now, Mrs. Martin replied, "No. Please go away. I'm -- too upset."

"Mrs. Martin, you were just in my grandmother's apartment, things are missing and I smell her perfume on you. If you don't open up, I'll bring the building manager into this, and the police if I have to." Jolie was steaming now, ready to begin pounding on the door if she didn't relent. She knew in her bones something was wrong with this. At the same time, she felt it wasn't quite what she suspected either; she couldn't put her finger on it, she only knew Mrs. Martin had been in the apartment and was evading her now. She felt desperate to resolve this. She knocked hard again. "Mrs. Martin."

"Jolie, please go away."

She stood stunned, fist posed in the air ready to begin an assault on the door. That was another voice altoghert. Muffled still through the door, this voice was tstill one she had not really heard before, and yet it reached to her soul and spoke to the child in her. It was wracked with sorrow, and yet somehow touched a part of Jolie's memory of sweetness and innnocence. It affected her like the strongest of pleasant dreams being broken by morning and wakefulness into reality. It wrapped her in the warm scent of roses.

"Josephine," she whispered.

Then softly from the other side of the door, as if spoken while lying her face flush to it, Jolie hear her grandmother's declaration, "You will have lots of friends, best friends even, who will come and go through life, but i will always be there."

Jolie stared at the door, through the door to the source of her grandmother's voice. "But we buried --"

"Mary," the voice cut in. "Mary always told me she wished she could share mylife. She said it was too late for her though, and perhaps that was true. She was not hardy sould to begin with and you can't learn that at her age." There was a long, mournful sigh, almost a whimper. "I can't unlearn it. So I promised to share it as well as I could. She is the reason I kept returning. And you."

After another pause, Mrs. Martin's door spoke again. "I find it amazing how closely she resembled me. me in death anyway. Fix the hair up, dress her up in my thick flannel night clothes. Change her makeup and give her my rings. They were so ready to hear I'd died. They never noticed I hadn't."

"Josephine --" Jolie started, but she didn't know what to say. She couldn't believe she was there, that this was happening.

"Mary gets to go traveling now," the voice continued, weeping. "I left some money in Paris and in Stockholm. I couldn't leave here without some small piece of before. But first your aunts, and the I heard you coming." There was another long pause. "Jolie, I need you to leave. Perhaps you could write what you have to say -- to Mary -- and she could find it with the postmaster general in Paris. If you did -- I'm certain she would write back."

Jolie looked at the box. She opened the lid and took out the photograph of the odd traveling pair headed for the South Pacific. She kissed the image of her gandmother, and slid the photo under the door. "Goodbye, Josephine. I will always love you," she whispered. There was no response. She closed the box again and left.

Jolie Barrows realized that her grandmother had already said her goodby the day of the funeral. Jolie had told her that day that she had learned just what she owed her granmother. Josephine had suffered the loss of a good friend in May and had made a promise to Mary. Jolie would let her keep it.

Starting again...twice

Has it really been since July. Well, suffice to say a lot's gone on and there's a lot to catch up on, not the least of which has been leading the judging for this year's Silver Inkwell Awards for the DC Chapter of the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC).

I've realized that perhaps I need to split posts though. So I'll alternate, one personal and one communications. Perhaps at some point I'll split them into two separate blogs. For tonight, though let me start with a blog post on the personal side.

Customer service, done well and done badly, is a bit of a issue of interest for me. Never ceases to amaze me how a company will kill its own sales with lousy customer service, and sadly amazes me when you find one that does it right. Here is my experience this past week, recounted in a letter to Sears corporate, as their customer service drove a loyal customer away and how their store employees got me back. Bear with me...

To:
W. Bruce Johnson, Interim Chief Executive Officer and President
Kevin R. Holt, Executive Vice President, Store Operations
Stuart C. Reed, Senior Vice President and President, Home Services
Corwin M. Yulinsky, Executive Vice President, Strategy and Customer Insight

Sears Holdings Corporation
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, IL 60179

Cc to:
Roger Smith, Store General Manager
Rob Held, District Manager
12000 Fair Oaks Mall
Fairfax, VA 22033

Dear Sirs:

I’m an odd creature, I realize, but I actually believe it’s important to communicate with a company when it does poorly and when it does well. I think now, given the state of our economy, it’s more important than ever. And so I write you to tell you why Sears customer relations lost you a loyal customer, and how your store manager and store employees won me back despite that. I’m going to explain in detail, so bear with me. I hope you’ll pay more attention to how you lost me than how you won me back, but reward the store employees nonetheless.

We scheduled through 1-800-4MY-HOME for a technician come to the house November 4 to repair a leak at the back of our Kenmore refrigerator. The man who came was not very communicative. I did learn that he is from Poland. Beyond that his English was not good enough, I suppose, for him to feel comfortable with conversation.

I showed him where the leak was. He went to work, though in a different place on the back of the fridge. Eventually he informed me he fixed it, saying he’d cleared some clog. He pointed to a place far from where I’d shown him. Knowing that water travels, I gave him the benefit of the doubt as a professional. I did have the chance to ask him about the icemaker that had not worked for some time (it would have to be replaced and that would be expensive) and a broken door bracket that also could not be repaired (just glue or tape it back on). He did inform me that the unit (which came with the house when we bought it) was 20 years old. I paid him $197 by check and he left.

Two hours later, I had a puddle under my refrigerator again. I called 1-800-4MY-HOME again. They said they’d schedule another technician in about another week. I told them that after talking to my wife, we’d decided that we would prefer to have the $197 refunded and that we would take that to Sears to buy a new Kenmore refrigerator. Can’t argue with a refrigerator that lasts 20 years, right?

They told me that they could only refund me $127, that $70 was a non-refundable trip charge. I argued that I paid $197 for a repair that did not get done and was not inclined eat that AND buy a new refrigerator. The man was adamant that it couldn’t be done. I suggested that even a gift card toward a new fridge for $70 would bring me back into Sears. No, that couldn’t be done. Additionally, in order to get that $127 refund, I was told I had to call the billing department the next day at 10 a.m. I asked why the billing department couldn’t be told to call me. Why was I being made to jump through hoops to get resolution on a repair that didn’t get done? Why wasn’t I being sold a refrigerator? Sorry, that’s just how it has to happen.

So the next day, around 10 a.m. I called Sears billing department. I had to explain the entire situation though they asked for my home phone number to pull up my record. If they had a record then I shouldn’t have had to go through it all. And this person said that in order to get authorization for the refund, she’d have to talk with her manager. I asked this person to take my cell phone number because I was no longer at home but at work. I was put on hold for 15 minutes. Then the line was dropped. I waited for the call back. 10 minutes later it still hadn’t come. I called back and had to go through the whole thing again with someone else. And that person told me she’d have to get authorization from her manager. I asked how much this would be for. She said it would be for $127, that the $70 was non-refundable. I suggested that if that was the case, why not send me a gift card for $70. I said I would be happy to buy another Sears refrigerator, but I was not happy to have to go through all this for a partial refund. She said they had no way to do that. I asked to speak to her manager and I asked her as well to take my cell phone number, that I was at work. I was put on hold again. Another 15 minutes of that obnoxious, aggravating hold music. I’m getting angrier and losing any interest in doing business with Sears.

Her manager, "Cynthia", ID#54161 (please feel free to cc this to her as well), came on the line and asked me to go through it all for her. I’m now explaining the situation for the fourth time. She tells me the same thing nine ways -- "We're refunding $127 of the total $197 charge for the failed repair, we're not refunding $70 because we did send a technician (whether he did the repair or not). I kept telling her I understand the “trip charge” is non-refundable, but what are you going to do to make this right and help me go back to Sears. She said they were refunding the full amount of the repair, $127. I told her that no, the full amount of the repair for me was $197. So I’m getting a partial refund and no incentive to go back to Sears. She made no effort to go beyond "policy" and keep me in a Sears store.

She refused to allow me to speak with her manager (her “superiors have granted her the authority to make all decisions”). Cynthia explained to me that there is no way to communicate my frustration beyond her or with her by e-mail so I don't lose more time from my own job. I suggested that I could go on Sears.com and find an e-mail address for customer service; her response was that she wouldn’t know, that she’d never been on Sears.com! She tells me the only option I have is to write a letter and mail it (welcome to 2008) to this Hoffman Estates address. You and I both know that letter would never be addressed internally, I’d never get a response, and you all would hope that with the passage of time, I'd have forgotten about it.

So I tell Cynthia to process that $127 refund (it’ll get to me in about 2 weeks, supposedly). I told her I was going to Best Buy. I’m telling her that Sears is losing an opportunity to sell me a 20 cubic foot or more refrigerator/freezer plus service plan because it wants to stand on charging me $70 for sending a technician who didn't do the repair he was sent to do and for the resultant 3 hours of "customer service" I've endured mostly on hold. I don't know what profit Sears makes on that $70 trip charge versus the profit on a brand new large refrigerator and service plan, but it makes no sense to me that I should be made to jump through hoops to get a partial refund on a repair that wasn't done. It also makes no sense to me that your customer service has no ability to connect with the sales end of your operation to direct dissatisfied customers back into Sears products.

Interestingly, I get a automated phone call that night from Sears customer service asking me to participate in a customer satisfaction survey following my recent service visit. I went through the survey scoring Sears consistently 1s and 2s on a scale of 1-5 (poor to excellent). It allows me to leave a recorded message. I do so explaining the situation in detail and including my phone number and e-mail address. To date, I’ve received no response.

That night, I also go online and find the customer service e-mail channel. I leave a detailed message including my contact information. Following is the automated response I got:

We appreciate you sharing your experience on Sears.com, look for a responce [sic] within 24 hours. Your feedback will help us make our site easier and more rewarding to use.

Thanks again!

That was Wednesday of last week. To date, I’ve had no response (check your spelling above).

Finally, Saturday arrives and my wife and I have the opportunity to go shopping for a refrigerator. We can’t wait much longer; we’ve been mopping up water on our wood floor 4 times a day, moving the fridge back and forth to do so. But before we go I decide to try one more time. This time I try calling customer service at 1-800-549-4505 from Sears.com. I go through the whole story again. This gentleman tells me all the same things over again. Corporate policy is that the trip charge is non-refundable and they have no way to give me anything good toward the purchase of a new unit in the store. Actually, he tells me “We are trying to give you something to get you back into Sears. We’re giving you $127.” I said no, that is a partial refund on a repair that did not get done. That is not an enticement to go shop at Sears. It’s an invitation to take my business elsewhere. That was my fifth and final attempt to let Sears sell me a refrigerator.

We go to Lowes. We go to Best Buy. We settle on the Whirlpool model at Lowes and are going to head back there to purchase but I suggest that I’d like to make sure that the manager of the local Sears store understands that he’s losing a sale because his own company screwed him out of it.

When we enter the store, there are ten sales associates standing around the appliance section waiting for business. Al Burrelle asks me how he can help. I tell him I want to speak to the manager. He asks me politely what it is I’m looking for, and I tell him politely I’m looking for the manager. He explains it would be helpful for him to be able to explain what the issue is, so I recount my story. He apologizes and immediately retrieves Roger Smith, general manager for the store.

Roger patiently listens to my explanation. I tell him that I’m not really there to buy, I have a model selected at a price I’m happy with at Lowe’s but I want him to understand that Sears customer service lost him the business. He is calm but understandably not happy, saying that “quite frankly, excuse my language, that’s bullsh*t.” He asks if I’ll let him try to make good on the situation. I tell him I’m not inclined. He says he understands but that he’d really like the opportunity to fix things. He says he’ll start by taking $70 off the top of any unit we purchase. I apologize but tell him that while I appreciate the gesture, I think I have more than decent enough price on a unit at Lowes. He asks to see the model and says he’ll match the price and give the $70 off on a comparable unit, then corrects himself and takes me to look at a Whirlpool unit that actually costs $200 more, but still offers me the same deal.

At that point, sales associate Paul Camden is helping out and helps us compare the Kenmore version. I won’t tell you the entire discussion, but suffice to say that Paul showed far more knowledge about the product than anyone at Lowes or Best Buy. We settled on the Kenmore. Using the Sears card, we got an additional 15% (I believe) off. We purchased the 5 year service plan. I promised Roger that as much as I had tried to communicate my dissatisfaction with Sears and bent over backward to let Sears sell me a refrigerator, that I would also communicate that only when I spoke to Al, Roger, and Paul did I find anyone interested in doing so and that they did so ably.

Sears made little, if anything, on the sale of that refrigerator, though you’ll make the full amount on the protection plan. Sears would have made the entire profit on the unit had the customer service department been able to service a customer. While I’m happy with the treatment Roger and his team gave me in the store, I’m sad to say, I’ll still hesitate to deal with Sears on anything that might require me to deal with customer service at any point. That is through no fault of the store or its knowledgeable employees. It is entirely because of the gap that exists between your customer service department and real customer service. They lack any connection with the sales that are the life blood of your company.

So there it is. Do with it as you will. If you won’t cherish your customer, cherish Al Burrelle, Paul Camden and Roger Smith who are working against your customer service department to keep you in business. I’ve done more than my part.

Sincerely,

Michael Clendenin