I’ve had all sorts of bosses in my life. Some were chummy and others aloof. Some were competent, others confused. I’ve had bosses who were nice people and bosses who were tyrants. But of all those bosses it was my first — a man named Dick Bohr — who did more than any other to shape the person I’ve become.
In 1967 I was a high school junior in Cleveland. I’d been bitten by the ski bug and Dick agreed to hire me at his shop, The Ski Haus. Cleveland was not exactly a skiing mecca, but I was eager to surround myself with others who shared my passion. Dick, a transplant from Vail, Colorado, was loaded with it.
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The ski industry in those days was changing quickly. Dick was always a teacher, eager to train me to be comfortable with the new buckle boots and skis with metal in them. We debated safety features and learned some of the physics of what made a ski turn. Many Sundays were spent on the slopes of Western New York ski areas testing the equipment. From him I learned not just about these innovations, but how to frame an argument, make my ideas clear, and close a sale.
Dick and Ski Haus also gave me a second family. It is never easy navigating the adolescent years, but I found my voice standing in front of the ski rack — I was a 17-year-old kid making recommendations to doctors and lawyers who actually listened to me. In the crazy shopping days before the winter holidays he showed us how to work together as colleagues. Then, after he shut the doors for the night, he showed us how to relax together as friends. Someone would go out for beer, and we’d share stories as we prepared the store for the next hectic morning.
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Later, I worked full time as manager, though there was little managing to be done because of the work ethic Dick instilled in us. He preached the importance of being willing to change our opinions as the industry changed. He taught us to listen to our customers, be attentive to their needs, and recommend products that made them happy. He’d say it wasn’t about how much someone spent, but how much they got out of what they spent. His advice made for a good business model and wasn’t a bad prescription for life, either.
Years later I left the ski industry and became a teacher in Reading, Massachusetts, a career I’d continue through my retirement in 2015. Even though my audience for two decades was fifth-graders, not ski bums, I still called on skills Dick had taught me. I needed to know my customers, respect their differences, and use my selling skills to persuade them that learning math was important. In other words, I still needed to close the sale.
I have stayed in touch with Dick, and not long ago made a trip back to Cleveland for his 95th birthday. At least 30 other Ski Haus alums were there — he’d affected so many people. We shared stories about what Dick had done for us and joked about the small budgets he’d allow us during buying season and his obsession with eating healthy breakfasts before they were in vogue (obviously, that habit was still serving him well into his tenth decade).
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When I spoke with him that night, he talked about how lucky he was to have had employees who were also friends. And I told him how lucky I was to have him. I said that through both of my careers, and all those other bosses, I will always remember those things I learned standing in front of his ski rack.
Bill Lewis lives in Reading. Send comments to connections@globe.com.
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