Two years after we were married, our first child, Tara Amy, was born. Tara, meaning “star” in Hindi, was a name first given to Treva by my mother, and Amy was to honor the woman in whose attic I lived upon reaching Wichita.
The gift business had morphed into promoting tailor-made suits as sales incentives for insurance companies. In the beginning, the suits were tailored in Hong Kong. Then we opened a manufacturing plant in Independence, a small town in Kansas, to produce our own suits. I got my airplane pilot’s license and was working long hours, flying myself back and forth between Wichita and Independence.
At the end of the 1960s, the clothing industry went into a tailspin. Almost overnight, people started to wear casual clothing instead of suits. Our business was in the red and the future trends looked bleak. I called upon a friend in Chicago for guidance. He was a prominent psychologist whose business was to interview candidates for key positions for large corporations. He was old and wise. Over dinner, I told him I was no longer having fun in my business. It had become work. I felt like taking a vacation.
My friend knew me well. He did not have to ask any questions. He nodded his head in affirmation. That was to be expected, he said, because my talents and capabilities were being restricted by my work. He compared me to a tree whose roots were being contained in a pot too small. I needed a large, open space to grow further. He gave another example. If I were an artist, I was painting on a small canvas.
“You need a very large canvas to paint on,” he said, stretching his arms wide.
My wise friend’s statement hit its mark. I needed no further prompting. In 1971, after our second child, a son, Keir , was born, we took a $400,000 loss, laying off 80 workers and declaring corporate bankruptcy.
In my parting talk to the employees, I told them I was going to bounce back and remake myself. I encouraged them to do the same. I declared that I would earn $80,000 in the coming year, at that time a large sum. It sounded like bragging. I had no idea how that might take shape. I only had a target.
The next day, Treva bought a new coat. She showed off her purchase like a model might.
“After all, my husband is going to make $80,000 this year,” she said, blushing.
There was an innocent sincerity in her statement. She was not teasing. Treva was pretty, but at that moment, she was even prettier. I loved that coat and I loved it even more with Treva in it. At least one person did not think that my declaration was an empty boast. She had faith in me.
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