Daniel never became comfortable with the word entrepreneur.
He considered himself a mechanic who had accidentally acquired accountants.
Even after the company became large enough to build a formal headquarters, Daniel refused the enormous executive office included in the architect’s original plan.
“Give it to sales.”
The architect looked confused.
“Where will you be?”
Daniel pointed toward the warehouse side of the building.
“There.”
His office remained close enough to the loading floor that he could hear forklifts.
He liked the smell of cardboard and machine oil in the mornings.
He liked walking through production and knowing names.
Not every name eventually.
The company became too large for that.
But Daniel tried.
He knew who had children in college.
Who was caring for an elderly parent.
Who had just bought a first home.
Who coached youth baseball.
Who was saving for a wedding.
Margaret teased him for remembering everybody’s family while forgetting where he put his own reading glasses.
He always answered the same way.
“People are easier to find.”
When profits improved, Daniel created tuition assistance before anyone told him it would help recruiting.
When a technical school nearby nearly closed its machining program, Mercer Industrial helped fund new equipment.
Daniel’s explanation was simple.
“If nobody teaches the next person, eventually nobody knows how to make anything.”
He was not perfect.
He could be stubborn.
He delayed computerizing certain systems because he trusted paper longer than he should have.
He occasionally promoted loyal people beyond their managerial ability.
He held on to products that should have been discontinued because he remembered the customers who first bought them.
Margaret was often the person who corrected him.
“Loyalty doesn’t mean refusing to change.”
He would answer, “I know.”
“No. You say you know. That’s different.”
Then she would make him coffee and force him to reconsider.
Her death changed him.
It happened quickly.
A short illness.