Thanks a million! Boss shares proceeds from sale of company

The Associated Press

BELLEVILLE, Mich. -- When Bob Thompson sold his company for $422 million, he could have chartered a jet, flown off to an island and, heck, bought the island.

But he had a secret plan.

Thompson had mulled it over for years and conferred with his wife, but he kept it hush-hush to all but a few of his workers.

It was only when the sale of Thompson-McCully Co., his road building firm, became final in July that he let all of his workers know, in a letter.

First, he had good news: They wouldn't lose their jobs.

Then, he had great news: They would share in the proceeds.

And did they ever.

The big-hearted boss divvied up $128 million among his 550 workers. And for more than 80 folks, he had a bonus beyond belief: They will become millionaires.

"I was flabbergasted," says Rusty Stafford, an area manager who opened his envelope at home with his wife, Tammy. She tearfully said, "'Russ, I think the commas are in the wrong place,' " he recalls. "I looked at it, and kept looking, and thought the next thing I knew Ed McMahon would be knocking at our door."

But the 67-year-old Thompson is downright casual about his generosity.

"It's sharing good times, that's really all it is," he says. "I don't think you can read more into it. I'm a proud person. I wanted to go out a winner, and I wanted to go out doing the right thing."

If that philosophy seems like a throwback to the era before greed was good, consider the source -- a businessman whose life reads like a Frank Capra script:Humble guy with a soft spot for Norman Rockwell art. Starts a business in his basement with $3,500, supported by his schoolteacher wife. Owns same modest house for 37 years. Expands asphalt company into road-building juggernaut. Sells it after 40 years, collects nine-figure check. Shares the money with the salesmen and the secretaries, the guys in the gravel pits, the gals who hold the road signs.

"People work exceedingly hard for us," he says. "It's a tough business, and this is a demanding company."

Translation: Fourteen-hour days, six-day weeks, 99-degree sun, 300-degree asphalt.

Some people make a lot of money in the stock market, Thompson says, "but we're dependent on people, so it would just not be fair not to do it. They've allowed me to live the way I want to live."

But frankly, that is pretty modestly.

Thompson and his wife, Ellen, have a three-bedroom frame house. She still mops floors and washes windows. His wood-paneled office has no Persian rugs or oil paintings. Instead, there are photos of their three children and five grandchildren, Rockwell prints, a copy of poet John Donne's "No Man is an Island" meditation, and a clock with its hands frozen shy of 3 o'clock.

Thompson doesn't play the stock market, belong to a country club or collect rich men's toys. The only boat he owns was inherited from his father -- and it is a rowboat. His indulgences are few. He drives a Lincoln, and he and Ellen travel and take in an occasional Broadway show.

His workers describe him as a no-nonsense boss who is down to earth, very demanding, driven, but fair and willing to listen.

He also is willing to take risks. A quarter he carries in his wallet proves that.

Years ago, Thompson was negotiating to buy a business, but he and the seller were $1 million apart. They agreed to flip a coin over the difference. He lost, forked over the extra million, got the company and kept the quarter.

Thompson plans to give away much of what is left of the $422 million and downplays what he already has doled out.

His generosity is changing lives, including that of his 54-year- old administrative manager, Marlene Van Patten, who has worked for the company for 15 years and will cash in a generous annuity certificate upon retirement. (Like other employees, she took Thompson's advice and has kept the amount private.)

"You're one of a kind!" she gushed after he made the gift.

"Do you think so?" he replied.

"I know so. In my opinion, there's nobody in this world who would have done what you did," she said.

Thompson had long planned to reward his workers, naming scores of them in his will.

But in July, he sold his firm to CRH PLC, a building and construction firm based in Dublin, Ireland. He says he chose it because of its record of not breaking up companies or firing workers. He will stay on to run the business.

As the sale became final, Thompson worked with senior staffers to develop a share-the-proceeds plan. Hourly workers, most of whom have pensions or 401K plans, received $2,000 for each year of service. Some checks exceeded annual salaries.

Salaried workers, who don't have pensions, were given checks or annuity certificates they can cash in at age 55 or 62. Those range from $1 million to $2 million apiece.

Thompson even included some retirees and widows in his plan.

And he paid the taxes, which amounted to $25 million.

When the checks were distributed one recent Sunday morning in seven Thompson offices across Michigan, it was as if dozens of co- workers had all bought winning lottery tickets. There were tears and hugs. Some folks were speechless, others chattered away.

Thompson stayed home that day, worried it might be too embarrassing and maybe too emotional. He also told supervisors he didn't want to be flooded with phone calls.

Some workers say they have been inspired to help others.

"Of course," Thompson says, "that's what I want to hear."

Other workers have been so choked up, they have tried to talk, only to begin crying. So Thompson suggested that anyone who wanted to say thanks should drop him a note.

Within weeks, his mailbox was filled -- with about 550 letters.

Cheryl Lynn Angel, a 48-year-old area manager, was among many grateful workers.

"Please know you have always been a success story to me," she wrote. "I have watched and admired you. You will never ever be forgotten. There will not ever be a day that I don't thank God for you."

Weeks later, she is still stunned.

"I don't think anyone's invented what I feel," she says, before concluding what it is -- "a sense of serenity for the future."

Jim McInnis, whose father also worked at Thompson, echoes the thoughts of many others who say the checks didn't change their work ethic. Many were back on the job at 5:30 a.m. the day after they were distributed.

"I've always held my head up high working for this company," he says. "Now it's a little bit higher. I'm standing 10 feet tall."

Copyright 1999
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