Trade Show? Trade Places.

I met an amazing woman named Kristin at a mixer event at the Outdoor Retailer Trade Show in Reno, in the summer of ‘94. She’d spotted my name tag from across the room, and made a run at me to chat about our work. We instantly clicked, and at the end of one glass of wine, she asked if I’d consider joining the company she’d recently joined in Seattle, working on “online stuff.” I loved my job and life in Pennsylvania, but I was sufficiently intrigued to say “yes.” I’d long been a sucker for serendipitous trade show connections.

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My first trade shows were regional camping shows in the early ‘70s. We set up a small booth to peddle our KOA. We handed out brochures, regaled people with tales of outdoor adventure, getaway weekends, blissful summer vacations in the eastern Pennsylvania mountains. We sold the dream. Not sure if it was our dream or theirs; it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they’d plan to visit our KOA. Taking an actual reservation was the holy grail, and that usually happened enough to cover the costs of exhibiting. Dad called those shows “break-even or better,” and we returned to them, with our little booth, year after year.

When I was in 8th grade, at what I will generously call my peak awkward adolescence, the KOA mother-ship had arranged for Woodsy Owl to be an official partner. We were asked to promote Woodsy and his message of “Give A Hoot. Don’t Pollute.” We got a bundle of bumper stickers to hand out (irony: we ended up picking up the stickers’ disposable peel-off backs all over the campsites…good intentions gone awry), plus some brochures and a few tee-shirts. However, the best thing happened in the winter of ‘76, when they shipped us a giant Woodsy Owl costume to use at a trade show.

My brother is Woodsy in this photo. He sees out of a small mesh section in the front of Woodsy’s cap. He moves the eyes from side to side with a little handle at chest-height. The suit probably weighed 25 pounds, with floppy oversized yellow felt-covered feet that you could barely see over the little round belly. He and I padded around the show, handing out buttons while greeting people, many of whom took photos as he wiggled a wing and I said, “Give A Hoot. Don’t Pollute.”

(Apparently Dad thought it would be a good idea to take one of us. Thanks for nothing, Dad. This may be why I never considered attending his alma mater, Brown University. I’d never look good in a Brown sweatshirt, or with any version of a ‘70s mullet.)

Later that day, Eddie and I traded places, and I became Woodsy for a few hours. I will never forget how it felt to inhabit this character, to trade places with another being, to roam around and meet people who lit up at the sight of this wobbly woodsy champion of the environment. And to this day, I still live by those words: Give A Hoot. Don’t Pollute. I get really pissed when I see litter. I always stoop to pick it up. I shed the costume, but I bought the motto.

Those camping show weekends were important, and hectic, especially for Mom and Dad, who drove us back and forth to Philly, Allentown, and Harrisburg, arranged for housing and meals, and manned the booth from sunrise to sunset. We all hustled. Our livelihoods depended quite a bit on how many brochures we gave out and how many reservations came in after each show. We were selling, and hopefully, they were buying.

I loved the shows and energetically roamed the aisles in between my assigned booth times. I learned about all kinds of camping and recreational gear, near and far travel locations, mundane and epic outdoor activities. It was all interesting, and I’d always come home with a sack full of other peoples’ samples, catalogs, brochures. They were selling, I was buying.

Even beyond the epic Woodsy Owl show, what I remember most about these camping shows, especially during those difficult adolescent years, is that I met all sorts of people. I learned a lot. I became more confident. I grew comfortable talking to strangers. I learned how to handle criticisms and complaints. I made some friends. I learned that I didn’t need any costume. I grew comfortable in my own skin. I fell in love with selling and buying, especially ideas and dreams.

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In November ‘94, soon after that OR Show meeting, Kristin and I began working together at Starwave in Seattle. Thank god I did not say the words “Give A Hoot. Don’t Pollute.” I merely bought what she was selling. I traded my old self for my new self, as I had done many times before, and which I would do many times again.

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**One of Webster’s many definitions of the word “trade” is this: to give one thing in exchange for another.