direct mail, Marketing

Your First Impression Won’t Be Your Last

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St. Joseph’s Indian School delivers the piece de resistance.

You know it’s Fall when the big fundraising kits stuff your mailbox. This year we have a surfeit of gifts from direct mail fundraisers.

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Father Flanagan’s Boystown stickers for identifying anything that moves.

Years ago the pioneers in the business presented us with address stickers.

These we have dutifully paid for and have now labeled every moveable item in our home: CDs, iPads, iPods, iPhones, chargers, golf clubs, cassettes, Walkmen, books, staplers, rulers, vinyl… luckily we don’t own a pet.

The ante was raised by the March Of Dimes who gratuitously presented us with a small monthly stipend of ten cents: a shiny new dime pasted to a donor form.

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Food For The Poor’s coins… how can you just pocket them?

That munificence has been outpaced by Food For The Poor who made change for the dime, and sends us a penny and a shiny new Jefferson nickel. That’s a 40% cutback, but insertion is more costly, so it’s a wash.

Not to be outdone, Disabled American Vets provides a 9×12 calendar, which we can place beside the 10×20 calendar from Boys Town.

Of course, wall calendars are bulky, so we are grateful to St. Joseph’s Indian School which gave us a 4×6 calendar booklet for the purse. I am waiting for the 3×5 that fits in my shirt pocket.

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There’s no excuse for not writing….here’s a VFW pen.

The mailing industry is of a generous culture though. With all these other possessions, we have also received dozens of greeting cards: whole writing kits, with pens, to reach out and greet someone– anyone.

Oblate Missions has sent us so many Christmas cards it may be easier if we send them our Christmas mailing list instead.

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Catholic Relief Services’ prayer medallions.

You can’t blame an organization which does its part in reinforcing the goodwill that blossoms from receiving a greeting card in the mail.  I am all for it.

As a sidenote, the USPS post office in Libertyville has a well designed rack of greeting cards for sale.

This one cartoon I loved for its text:

Outer Cover: “Wow! You got a real, honest-to-goodness card! Not a text.  Not an email!”
Inside Caption: “Wow! It has an inside too! It just gets better and better!”

In one of their early bold moves, Disabled American Veterans pasted 45 cents in stamps onto their reply envelopes. Overflowing in confidence that once we saw the postage in place, we would feel obligated to fill the envelope.

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Marines Toys For Tots and Wounded Warriors provide your stamps.

Even gutsier, Wounded Warrior Project and Marine Toys For Tots are paper clipping custom 47-cent stamps to their letters.   This is very expensive, as Stamps.com provides these stamps at a hefty premium.

The strategy works though.  Can one really use the stamp for anything other than a gift without a stab of guilt?

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To avoid being pressed into service, British sailors eyed their brew from the bottom up.

The gifting brings to mind the old conscription practices of the 1700’s when British sailors were pressed into service when they drank from a tankard of ale, only to find the King’s shilling in the bottom.   By unwittingly enjoying the beverage, the sailor had been hired.

I think of that clever ploy as I pile up the loot, especially the coins and stamps.

The mailers know what they are doing. Despite all common sense, they have proven that the unsolicited gift still wrests outlandish response rates and donations. And once you are hooked, they will be back until they end up in your Will.

That’s right. Planned Giving is a part of every established fundraising strategy, and if you asked, many organizations can tell you which of their huge bequests started with a direct mail gift, years before.

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Fleece gloves… probably a postal nightmare, but still handy.

This season’s most impressive packages included one from Kids Wish Network, which sent along a pair of fleece gloves.  They arrived in a lumpy wrinkled paper envelope I am sure that the post office would rate as “baggage class”.

But how do you throw those out?   What tight fisted non-donor could wear them, especially when the writer suggests: “When you use the deluxe fleece gloves I sent you, I hope you you’ll remember Wish Kids like Tabitha…” .

The penultimate delivery however, the cream of the crop, the ne plus ultra, is the bulging envelope from St. Joseph’s Indian School.  No doubt USPS rated this one as “duffel bag class”.  Inside we found the usual and generous complement of address labels, gift stickers, 4×5 note pad, 5×7 note pad, pocket calendar, wall calendar, personalized calendar card, and 3 shrink wrapped greeting cards.

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St. Joe’s mystical Dream Catcher, not to be ignored.

In addition however there was a most unique and unusual item, a genuine facsimile of a Lakota Indian Dream Catcher.

The Dream Catcher is a little hand-made assembly of string net, naugahide, beads and feathers.  Mounted on die-cut foam core, it is shrink wrapped with colorful operating instructions ending with: “to be hung on the tipi or lodge and on a baby’s cradle board”.

I have to admit, I had to dig through pounds of newspapers and old phone bills to retrieve this package from our recycling bin.  There is something especially foreboding about disposing of the St. Joseph’s piece so casually.

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The Marines Toys For Tots medallion, struck with the USMC shield and Semper Fidelis on the other side.

Yes, in the past, I have taken all the coins, scribbled on  lots of notepads, hung countless calendars, and stuck hundreds of stickers without a moment’s guilt, or nearly so, but the Dream Catcher had me netted and nettled.  This one item–which I would never purchase on a dare–clinched the deal.  Just how unlucky could my life turn out if I didn’t give due respect?

So it’s hanging over my DAV Certificate of Merit.

 

Thanks for reading!   I hope you find your charity of choice this season.  These organizations are especially effective, and they mind their pennies too.

 

 

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Entertainment, Music

50 Years, Then and Now

Tom Rush Purple

Tom Rush– timeless and still touring.

We are not much into nostalgia.   And we aren’t groupies.   But it was more than idle curiosity that drew us to Minneapolis last week to see and listen to the folk blues singing hero of our youth, Tom Rush.

Rush was, and still is the consummate story teller.   We first saw him at The Riverboat in Toronto back in 1966.  Back then, about 75 of us could cram into this little subterranean shotgun of a room on Yorkville Avenue, right beside a smoke shop called the Grab Bag.   Admission, $3.00.  If it wasn’t a busy night, you could stay for two sets, maybe all night.  Drinks?  You bet.  Lemonade, cappuccino or mocha coffee.  Smoke?  Light ’em if you got ’em.

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Selfie, before there were selfies.

The Riverboat truly derailed my formal education.  All of the new folk and blues singers  started there: Joni Mitchell, Richie Havens, Jim Kweskin, Gord Lightfoot, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGee, Tim Hardin, Jack Elliott, Arlo Guthrie, Eric Anderson, Tom Rush…and I saw them all, prolonging my university stay.

But Tom Rush was the most memorable because of his ability to set up every song with a story.   And the tunes themselves were stories, made epics by his delivery.

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One of his first albums, a masterpiece.

So it was exciting to see this guy again, even if he wasn’t mainstream billboard marquee candy.

The 20-something concierge at the hotel asked,

“So where you going tonight?”

“To see Tom Rush.”

“Cool, Rush.  So, like, are they touring again?”

I took along his first album cover with the plan to get an autograph.   But I changed my mind when I realized that I had bought it in 1965, 50 years ago.

To ask him to sign it now would be a cruel favor indeed.

When we entered the Dakotah Jazz Club on Nicolett Mall we also had an awakening.   It’s comfortably small, hosting maybe 150 diners around a small stage.

But the diners were the warm bucket of water we did not see coming.   They were old.   With old gray pony tails, and walking sticks, and suspenders, and jean shirts, and earrings, and mustaches, and sandals.

Tom Rush Trainyards

Trains, stories, music, smokes… the quintessential folk singer.

That’s when it hit me.  Pow.  I’m old.

Just then Tom Rush came out on the stage.  And he’s even older.  Not the slim, young, booted guy strolling down the cobblestone lane we remembered.   But still, to his credit, a slim older guy, with a full head of real, white hair.  Rugged and ready.

He launched into one of his new songs, “It’s Gonna Get Hot Tonight” and never looked back.  The voice was there, intact.   His guitar work was perfect.   And the stories flowed, all over again as the audience sat back to enjoy the ride.

What a treat.   He knew us well, and played to our weakness: we’re all old.   Or advancing anyway.

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The idol of our hippie youth: an english major Harvard drop out.

He smiles as he sets up The Remember Song.   This is his talking blues about failing to recall names and faces, conquering wireless technology, and hooking up.   True to the theme, he forgets where he’s at in the middle of it.

And we lap it up.  Delicious.

When he finishes, he says, “That’s my hit song.   It’s just a few clicks short of 7,000,000 on Youtube.  My wife says, they’re all probably from the same guy.  He can’t remember watching it.”

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An unlikely pose, but the record company demanded it no doubt.

He covered a lot of his work that night, and it provoked me later to get out all our Tom Rush albums.  Which gave me pause to think.

The tragedy of streaming music online is that we no longer have album covers to read.   Used to be you’d put the needle on, and sit back and read the album backer, extracting every scintilla of detail about the artist.  No more.

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Something to read and read again while we listened.

Our migration to smaller media and its packaging is the driver. In the 25-year generational shift to today, we traded in big vinyl records for 8 track, then cassettes, overtaken by CDs, which were displaced by downloads and Internet radio.
Along the way, we gave up the opportunity to read about our music.

Now we can listen to more and more of it, while we know less and less about it.

A Michael Wiseman pic of the story teller, non pareil.

A Michael Wiseman pic of the story teller, nonpareil.

Fortunately, Tom Rush steers clear.  He doesn’t play to massive concert audiences.  He’s for small crowds, talks to them, and as a result, we come to know him and his music well.

Probably won’t forget it either.

Thanks for reading!  Please share this with your musical friends!

 

 

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