My plane hovered over Fayetteville, Arkansas, preparing for landing. The elderly lady in the seat next to me was gripping the armrest. She had been using aggressive armrest etiquette throughout our flight.
Whenever our plane hit patches of turbulence, she would say sharply, “Son of a…!” And hog the armrest.
“Sorry,” she apologized, in a pronounced Arkansas accent. “I don’t cuss in real life, honey.”
“Isn’t this real life?” I asked.
“No, sugar. This is hell.”
Our plane touched down. It was one of those rough touchdowns when passengers almost applauded. Not necessarily because our plane landed safely, but because none of us passengers underwent a severe gastrointestinal event.
“What brings you to Arkansas?” the woman asked.
“I’m making a speech in Rogers,” I said.
“Well, are you going to visit our Walmart while you’re there?”
She said this in much the same tone you might have asked someone if they were going to visit the Vatican City.
I hadn’t planned on visiting Walmart. But she informed me that this was a mistake. You could not come to Rogers, she explained, without visiting Walmart.
On July 2, 1962, the first Walmart opened in Rogers. Sam Walton, a 44-year-old opened this store with two goals in mind: Selling American-made products, and offering customer satisfaction.
“No matter what you think of Walmart,” she said, “Sam Walton was a good man. I should know. My husband used to work for him.”
The lady went on to tell a story.
Her husband was a young father, and cashier at a local Walmart. One day, Sam Walton was expected to visit the Walmart. At the time, Walton was the richest person in the United States.
The day was an anxious one for the Walmart’s young staff. Her husband was on the sales floor that day, along with a gaggle of nervous employees, mostly young, who were all trying to make the store look perfect.
The moment finally arrived. Walton came striding through the doors accompanied by an entourage of executives in business suits.
The young man was busy stacking a large sales display at the end of one of the aisles. She remembers products he was stacking were bottles of fruit juice.
Something went wrong. The juice pyramid collapsed. Bottles shattered. Glass splinters went flying. There was a river of juice on the floor.
Sam Walton was right there to see it happen. In fact, some of the juice splattered onto Walton’s clothes.
Her young husband was mortified. He almost started crying. The young man needed this job. He had two kids, and one more on the way.
Sam Walton walked up to the young man. The kid was trembling. Walton told him to get a mop.
The young man hurried away. When he returned, apologizing profusely, Walton was just smiling at him.
“Let me see the mop,” said Walton with another warm grin.
Then Walton said words her husband never forgot: “I ain’t afraid of getting dirty, son.”
At which point, Walton himself removed his sport coat and rolled up his sleeves and got busy. He mopped all afternoon. At times, Walton was on his knees, scrubbing the linoleum by hand.
And it wasn’t just Walton who cleaned. His entire team of executives was kneeling on the puddled floor alongside him. The knees of their suits were ruined, their shirts stained grapey purple. The young Walmart staff just watched in rapt wonder.
“I know a lot of people hate Walmart,” she said. “And maybe they’re right. But I know one thing: This country would be a better place if more people weren’t afraid of getting dirty.”