It Doesn’t Always Pay to Advertise
Great moments in building history: A trial and error pursuit for more business
I’ve been a home-improvement contractor in Petaluma, California, for 15 years. Like any self-employed person, I’ve learned there is a lull in business activity starting on New Year’s Day and lasting sometimes until April 15. Then things pick up again.
So usually about February, when all my leads are leading nowhere and a house payment is pending, my wife will perk up with a suggestion: “Why don’t you run an ad, honey?” Rather than point out that I think it’s a complete waste of time (have you ever hitchhiked at midnight?), I’ve learned to agree with her.
I advertise in the Petaluma Argus-Courier’s classified section almost every winter. It’s inexpensive; there aren’t a hundred other contractors on the same page; and I don’t have to drive far to do estimates. Also, the ad type is bigger than the usual classified-ad type, so it’s easier for potential customers to read. My acquaintance with half the other contractors on the page gives it a hometown kind of feel. Finally, I can walk down the hill with my dog, pay when I place the ad and save a dollar.
The problem is what to say in my ad. Scanning the ones already there reveals a pretty generic three-line format: carpentry, plumbing, electrical … everybody knows how to do everything. How do readers make up their minds? And how could I get them to call me instead of all those other veterans?
Last winter, I decided to break out of the mold. My theory was that if my ad was unusual enough, maybe someone would call just to compliment my creativity. I know it sounds kind of California, but if I didn’t like my ad, how could I expect anyone else to? Furthermore, I decided I needed a specialty, something no one else did.
It so happened that for the week preceding the placement of my ad, I had a job sealing off the underside of a stately old ranch house in an area west of town. Skunks had moved in and been in the crawlspace for weeks. The family had fled to a hotel. It was me and the skunks. I dug trenches, built little one-way doors, hauled in gravel and jumped every time I heard a scuffling sound under the house. Each night I disrobed completely on my back porch (to gain admittance to the house) and headed straight for the shower. I could even taste skunk.
With some fine-tuning on the little doors I installed, and with the liberal use of a .410 shotgun by my customer, the family moved back in shortly after the skunks left. And I realized I may have developed a new specialty. Just mention skunks at a lumberyard counter, and you’re immediately surrounded by experts. Skunk stories abound, but who really knew how to get rid of them? I did, I decided. It was work. It was winter. This experience could be my big break. My classified ad hit the streets the next week with the grabber first line:
SKUNK RETROFITS
My wife gave me a look when she saw the ad in print. She didn’t think skunks read the local paper. After a week with no calls, I agreed to change the first line. I still wanted to have a little fun, though, so I opened the ad by saying:
NEW IN TOWN
I did get one call. It paid for the ad. But I felt like a comic playing to an empty house. Where were you folks when I needed you? My wife suggested that I put my full name in the ad, “the way Larry Volat does,” so maybe I could establish some name recognition with my readers. Larry Volat is a longtime local contractor with a cool, vintage pickup truck. He advertises in the Argus year-round. He has been underbidding me for years and does really good work. My wife probably saw him at the bank one day, lugging in a bag of money. Anyway, I did my wife one better. The following week, my classified ad stated in no uncertain terms:
CALL JOEL RADFORD
I’m sure readers spent the week trying to decide just what to call Joel Radford. Maybe if I’d said, “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, CALL JOEL RADFORD,” but you aren’t allowed that many characters in the first line, and I needed the rest of the space. I was reminded of an ad I read once that began with the appeal “CHRISTIAN FAMILY MAN.” I decided I would call my mother for a loan before I would try that one. Meanwhile, my wife kept bringing up Larry Volat and talking about how she saw his truck all the time parked at jobs. She was getting on my nerves. He was getting on my nerves. I joked sarcastically that maybe I should change my company name to Larry Volat Construction. I had one week to run on my classified ad. Then I got a better idea.
“Hello, Argus-Courier classified, this is Larry Volat. I have an ad with you. Oh, it’s fine, I just need to change the phone number in it. Can I do that? Thanks. Here’s the new number …” And you know whose telephone number I gave them.
I saw Larry a couple of weeks later making a big order at the lumberyard. I couldn’t resist asking, in a friendly way, how business was going for him that winter. Larry shook his head, and he confided that he hadn’t gotten any calls out of his Argus-Courier ad for weeks.
“Maybe you should change the way your ad reads,” I suggested. “You know, get people’s attention with some kind of grabber in the first line. Or maybe you need a specialty, something no one else does.”
He considered my ideas for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah,” he replied, walking away, “not in this town. You’d starve.”
“You’re probably right,” I agreed, biting the end off a new lumber crayon I bought to brighten up the cardboard sign I was holding at traffic intersections downtown.
—Joel Radford, Petaluma, California
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