[Congressional Record Volume 140, Number 143 (Wednesday, October 5, 1994)]
[Senate]
[Page S]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Printing Office [www.gpo.gov]
[Congressional Record: October 5, 1994]
From the Congressional Record Online via GPO Access [wais.access.gpo.gov]
TRIBUTE TO CAL TURNER, SR.
Mr. McCONNELL. Mr. President, I rise today to comment a fellow
Kentuckian, Cal Turner, Sr., for his outstanding achievement in
discount merchandising. Mr. Turner has recently been inducted into the
Discounting Hall of Fame, placing him among such famous retailers as
Wal-Mart's Sam Walton.
Fifty-five years ago, during the Great Depression, Cal Turner, Sr.
and his father, J.L., a salesman with a third grade education, began a
business endeavor purchasing failed merchants' inventories and selling
them for a minimal profit. For many years, the Turners lived hand-to-
mouth, barely making ends meet. The buying at the bankruptcy auctions
eventually led to the opening of the original Dollar Store in
Springfield, KY in 1955. There, the Turners instituted the root of
their success by making ``dollar-day sales'' an everyday procedure.
Today, the Turner dynasty controls 1,940 stores in 24 States and is
growing at the rate of about 300 stores a year.
In 1977, Cal Sr. relinquished the presidency of the Dollar General
Corp. to his son, Cal. Jr., who moved the executive offices to
Nashville, TN in 1989. The administrative offices and distribution
center still remain in Scottsville, KY employing 500 to 600 people. At
79, Cal Sr. continues the duties of chairman emeritus while at the same
time, managing a farm of 1,200 head of cattle.
Although the Scottsville location continues to reap profits of nearly
$3 million a year, Cal Sr. has maintained his ``country ways and
values.'' He regularly gives to many charities and the church. After
losing his wife to cancer 6 years ago, he donated some of his land for
development of a new hospital. He also gave $1 million to the Lindsey
Wilson College in Columbia, KY 3 years ago, which was used to build a
new dining hall.
Cal Turner, Sr. began his business in rural Kentucky which flourished
into a successful, multistate corporation. From humble beginnings to
fame and fortune, Mr. Turner has remained loyal to Kentucky and his
county.
Mr. President, I ask that the article from the Courier-Journal appear
at this point in the Record.
The article follows:
[From the Louisville Courier & Journal, Oct. 2, 1994]
The Dollar General
(By C. Ray Hall)
Scottsville, KY.--Cal Turner, the man who invented Dollar
General stores, wheeled his Range Rover around the town
square. As the scent of new-car English leather filled the
compartment, Turner looked for a parking space near the
busiest Dollar store in the country.
To his immense satisfaction, he couldn't find one.
``I like to see us a little tight,'' said Turner, whose
mouth always seems to be crinkled into a smile. It's kind of
a cumulative smile. It's kind of a cumulative smile,
unerasable, fixed by 79 years of rare good fortune. (And,
more recently, by fame. Six weeks ago he was inducted into
the Discounting Hall of Fame, a distinction that's hard to
discount when you consider it includes Wal-Mart's Sam Walton,
possibly the most famous merchant of modern times.)
Turner wheeled the truck down the street that runs beside
the store. There's a couple of years back, someone took a
photo of him. Turner, a man who tips his hat to ladies and
says, ``Hi you?'' projected a vision of village squiredom in
the photo, except that nearing age 80, he was kneeling and
plucking grass from the sidewalk.
Turner's son Steve says: ``I've always maintained that his
store was his presenting of his soul to the public. Nothing
was to stand between him and that presentation, not even a
blade of grass.''
After a trip around the block, Turner nestled the Range
Rover in front of the store. Yielding to the urge to show off
a little, he pushed the button that raises and lowers the
frame, depending on the terrain. While touring his hilly
farm, he rides high. But this being pavement, a lowering was
in order. The British luxury truck curtsied toward the Dollar
store.
``For $50,000, you can get a lot on these things, whether
you need them or not,'' he said, sounding more chagrined than
proud. Inside the store, surrounded by $10 jeans, $5 shirts
and 25-cent mousetraps, he yielded to pride, though. The
subject was not a $50,000 truck but a 50-cent greeting card.
``A lot of our customers are like me,'' he said. ``They
can't write very well and they can't spell. I got so tired of
going to a store and paying a dollar or more for, greeting
cards,''
So, two-for-a-dollar greeting cards.
``You wouldn't believe,'' he said, ``how many millions of
these things we sell.''
Certainly enough to keep the family in British luxury
trucks. Turner's is a hand-me-up from his son Cal Jr., the
company president and chairman who drives a Range Rover
through the rugged outback of Nashville, Tenn.
The elder Turner's truck isn't exactly a trophy.
``He's never been a materialistic man, by any stretch of
the imagination,'' said Steve. ``Which makes it extremely
difficult, of course, to try to buy him any sort of gift.
It's not just a matter of he doesn't need it, he doesn't want
it.''
The Range Rover wasn't a gift, either. ``Oh, he didn't give
it to me,'' Turner said of his son, laughing gently. ``He let
me buy it from him.'' Thereby hangs a double moral that has
usually served the Turners well: Keep it in the family, and
get your money's worth. (Cal Sr. is so notoriously thrifty
that he once told his family that he couldn't sleep well in
an expensive hotel, for worrying that he wouldn't get his
money's worth. ``It's hard,'' he said, ``to sleep that
hard.'')
That's been the way the Turners have run things since Cal
and his father, J.L., opened the forerunner of Dollar General
55 years ago this month: fretting about value and values.
They fretted even more in 1968, when Dollar General went
public, and Wall Street met Scottsville's Main Street. But
the Turners have often resisted Wall Street's advice, partly
because there's a Turner's name atop the company hierarchy.
``A hired gun might not be secure enough to manage for the
long run,'' said Cal Jr.
churning profits
For the Turners, it has already been a long and improbable
run. Cal. Sr. and his father, a salesman with a third-grade
education and an MBA in real life, regularly worked
bankruptcy auctions during the Depression, buying up store
inventories, then selling them for a small profit. Cal's
delight at learning the trade was tempered by the fact that
it meant scavenging among the ruined dreams of older men.
``What a sobering, sad situation,'' he said. ``You'd see a
gray-headed, fine-looking man standing there. Then you didn't
have any Chapter 11's. When a fellow went broke, he really
went broke. And that fellow . . . he more than likely had
children in college. They'd lived well all these years. And
there they are selling his store. He's broke.
``That really will make you awfully careful with your money
if you ever get some, so it won't happen to you.
``That has stayed with me all my life.''
It took a long time to feel secure; they were running from
the same demons as the broke, broken men of the Depression.
He and his father each put up $5,000 to start a wholesale
company in 1939. They broke into retailing, Turner said,
``because I had to have a place to sell my mistakes.'' As the
business grew, so did the worries. Cal and J.L. Turner
sweated through their own version of Saturday night fever.
``I used to call every Saturday night, maybe there'd be 15
stores, to see if I could cover the checks I had written,''
Cal Sr. said. ``If I didn't quite make it, I'd get my father
and we go down to the Nashville banker. I'd go in and tell
him I have to have another $25,000. I needed it that day too.
I didn't go until I needed it.''
After 16 years of staying a few steps ahead of the banker,
the Turners hit upon their enduring inspiration. Incited by
other merchants' dollar-day sales, the Turners decided to
make every day dollar day. They opened the first Dollar store
in 1955, in Springfield, Ky. They stocked the stores with
close-outs, irregulars and imports. Nothing sold for more
than a dollar, Ultimately, when inflation forced them to
break the dollar price barrier, they did it in an ingenious
way.
``We ended up with shoes for a dollar a shoe,'' Turner
said.
The inevitable happened at a Memphis, Tenn., store. ``I had
a one-legged fellow come in.'' So, he sold him a shoe for a
dollar.
``I imagine we still have that other shoe in the Memphis
store,'' cracked Steve.
This isn't to suggest that Turner held on to goods. The
idea was to churn the merchandise, even at a loss, to keep it
moving. Not that long ago, even the younger generation of
company leaders resisted computerizing the operation. The
theory was that computers just couldn't keep up, because the
Turners moved so fast. It's part of corporate lore that Cal
Sr. approved buying the first computer after being assured it
was an ``IBM accounting machine.''
He's something of an accounting machine himself, getting
the good news from secretary Earline Frost that ``our stock
is up to 26 today,'' or poring over computer screens and
printouts for reports of a company so leanly staffed that it
averages fewer than five employees per store. (The company is
similarly staffed at the top. ``Every executive in our
company has about 125 percent of a job,'' said Cal Jr.)
Computer screens can tell you only so much. Cal Sr. was at
the Glasgow, Ky., Wal-Mart recently, doing a little
comparison shopping. He paused in the jeans section to study
a sign.
``They said, `Dollar Store price, $8. Our price $7.96.' I
thought, `I'll give 'em more than 4 cents to mention our name
to their customer.'''
Which begs a question. How does Dollar General keep from
getting cannibalized by giants like Wal-Mart, Kmart and
Target?
``They're the elephant,'' says Cal Jr. ``They've got enough
of their own agenda and mischief to put up with that they
don't need to pay attention to this little gnat.''
It's a swarm of gnats: a billion-dollar company with 1,940
stores in 24 states. And the swarm is growing by about 300
stores a year. Even so, the hometown Dollar Store in
Scottsville still does the most business: almost $3 million a
year.
The growth spurt came during the reign of Cal Jr., who took
over as president in 1977, with about 700 stores in the fold.
His father, a man not given to prideful utterances, said he
is more proud of what his son has done with the company than
of his own accomplishments.
``He does a better job of running the company than I ever
could,'' he said. ``I couldn't run it this size.''
When the younger Turner was a teenager casting about for
careers, he thought little of the store trade. He resented it
because it ``invaded our home'' and consumed so much of this
father's time.
``I thought about medicine,'' he said, ``but my dad
conspired with the local doctor for me to get out of school
and witness an unsightly operation, and that changed my
mind.''
small-town life
The sight of blood in the operating room is nothing
compared with the sight of blood in the corporate boardroom.
The Turners avoided such a bloodbath when Cal Jr. and his
younger brother Steve both vied for the top spot. ``They
couldn't both run the company,'' their father said. ``Cal Jr.
was older and plenty good.'' He didn't take sides, though,
expecting his children could work it out. They did, in a
peaceful, but not painless resolution: Steve moved on to
banking and developing.
Blood and bitterness might have flowed in 1989, when Cal
Jr. moved the executive office to Nashville against his
father's wishes.
``Sam Walton didn't have to leave Bentonville,'' the father
groused, playing a new variation on a familiar theme: the joy
and wonder of small-town life.
``I maintain that when you're raising a family, they'll be
better people and you'll be a better person in a small town
because everybody knows where you went last night and what
you did,'' he said. ``I don't think any of us have as many
secrets as we'd like to think we do at times; but I'm telling
you, in a small town, you don't have any.''
If Cal Sr. were worried that moving to the city would
change his son, or the company, for the worse, those fears
seem to have been allayed.
``I think I'm more of a defender of the country ways and
values now that I'm in the city than I ever was when I was in
the country,'' said Cal Jr. ``I don't like to see anybody put
the little person down, and I think you see it more in the
city than you do in the country. And I'm inclined to crusade
for the little guy.''
Cal Sr. also fretted that the city might make them soft.
``I don't want to have a social club,'' he said. ``If he
hires somebody who turns out to be a socialite, he gets rid
of him.''
In this way, Turner indicated, his son is stronger than he.
``I never could fire anybody,'' he said.
That's the knock on Cal Sr. He's too nice.
``I was fascinated that he was able to be successful
because he's so kind, gentle and forgiving,'' Steve said.
``He kept people working in the company that others would
have fired in a minute. Of course, what that did was build
some highly unusual loyalty. There were people that had been
given a second, third and fourth chance that now would kill
for him, because they knew out there is the rest of the world
you don't get treated that way.
``It always fascinated me that somebody didn't get all of
his money before he could make it.''
When the executives headed 60 miles south, it still left
behind a robust contingent of 500-600 employees in
Scottsville, home of the administrative offices and
distribution center. There, above a sprawling complex on the
edge of town, the rim of a hill is solid with Dollar General
truck trailers; the horizon, truly is full of Dollar signs.
Though he will turn 80 next spring, Cal Sr. still reports to
this happy valley of prosperity six days a week, brown-
bagging his lunch.
As ``chairman emeritus,'' Cal Sr. has a large title and
little responsibility. But when you've been working 60 years,
it's hard to stop.
``I don't want to get in the way,'' he said, ``but I don't
want to get out of the way either. . . .''
Maybe it has something to do with the sense of place, the
thing that causes Turner to say, ``I feel sorry for everybody
that doesn't live in Scottsville, Ky.''
With the exception of about 4,300 people, that's everybody
on the planet: It's also all his children. The eldest, Laura
Jo, lives in Florida. Another daughter, Betty, lives in
Louisiana. The two sons spend most of their time in
Nashville. Does Turner feel sorry for his children?
``In that case, I feel sorry for me that they don't live
here,'' he said.
The company he gave so much to is now giving back. ``I like
to think 20-25 years ago, it needed me,'' he said. ``Now I
need it.''
One reason he needs it is the mile-wide hole in his life
the past six years, since his wife of nearly 52 years, Laura
Katherine, died of cancer.
``There can't be anybody else. We were lifetime lovers and
friends and all that goes with, perfection, I guess, in
marriage.''
``Gosh, they were a dedicated couple,'' Steve said. ``She
died in `88. I just knew this would be the case where one of
the spouses dies and the other one lasts three or four
months. Of course he loves life, and he has tremendous love
for the company and what he does.''
If being chairman emeritus, talisman, touchstone and
institutional memory of a billion-dollar company can't fill
your life, there are other consolations. Turner owns a farm
with 1,200 head of cattle, inspiring observations such as
this: ``I can remember a time when we were ashamed to say we
were from the country. Now we're proud of it.''
the gift of living
Owning, it seems, is less important than giving. He gave
some of his farm land for a new hospital. One supplicant
seeking money for a church got a donation despite the fact
she addressed her request to ``Cow turner.'' Three years ago
he gave $1 million to Lindsey Wilson College in nearby
Columbia, explaining, ``The president over there is a
Methodist minister, and these little colleges need to make up
money.''
At first, Turner wanted the gift to be anonymous. But John
Begley, the president, asked him to go public, convincing
Turner it would inspire others to give similar gifts. It did.
``Since then we've had four other million-dollar gifts,''
Begley said. (Turner's million went toward a dining hall.)
Turner has a tender spot for Methodist preachers. In his
youth, Cal Jr, thought seriously of becoming one. ``I think
that scared him,'' Cal Jr, says of his father. (Not just
because it might deny Dollar General a future chief
executive, but because the elder Turner probably couldn't
devise a way to dissuade him. He could send an aspiring
doctor to see gory surgery, but what could he do to a
prospective preacher? Take him to church, from gory to
glory?)
Memories of another Methodist preacher, Gainy Bohanon,
inspire a long moment of reflection from the chairman
emeritus.
``I loved him dear,'' Turner said. ``I accused him of
ruining my golf game; we played golf together, and he
wouldn't cheat. He wouldn't move the ball toward the hole.
Gosh, that just really tore me up, because now I'm
embarrassed to move it.
Turner once told the young preacher: ``If I ever say
anything that sounds smart or sounds all right. I want you to
make a note of it, because I expect you to preach my
funeral.''
One of the melancholy revelations of long life is its
overdose of heavy ironies. On your 50th anniversary, your
wife can get into her wedding dress, only because a mortal
disease is taking her away, bit by bit: a litheness bought
with life itself. The minister you hope would say a few words
over your grave dies before you, despite his youth.
Is anybody taking up Gainy Bohanon's charge, recording
Turner's smart sayings nowadays?
``No,'' the chairman emeritus said, ``and I've gotten where
I can't say them anymore.''
It's enough to give a man . . . perspective. A way of
summing up that involves no mention of money from the man who
gave new meaning to the word dollar.
``There are so many ways to describe being rich. Good
health and friends, long life. . . . I know that God has been
good to me. I see other people with loads that I know I
couldn't bear. I've had a wonderful wife and four wonderful
children. . . .
``How lucky can you be?''
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