Can Marketers Learn A Thing Or Two From Grief?

I live two blocks from a cemetery. It’s a beautiful landscape with several hundred headstones, some dating back as far as the 1800s. Whenever I leave my house, I drive by this exquisite final resting place, with its ubiquitous green trees, freshly-mown lawns and eclectic collection of ancient and modern markers draped in resplendent floral bouquets.

Over the years, I have been privileged to bear witness to all manner of funerals. I’ve learned so much about this intimate end-of-life ritual from observing people at my neighborhood cemetery. The funerals always take place under a huge white canopy. And rain or shine, people gather to share their grief and pay their last respects.?

Here in the Midwest, funerals are treated as sacred and honorable occasions. Cars immediately pull over to let a funeral procession go by, no matter how long or inconvenient. That’s true most places, I suspect. But here, many of the occupants of those sidelined cars step out to show their respect, holding a hand over their heart, or quietly removing a baseball cap.?

Before I transplanted here from the West coast, I’d never seen anyone actually step out of their car and wait quietly by the side of the road until the last of the procession had passed. On the West coast, people don’t pull over and step out of their cars for much of anything. On the West coast, if you step out of your car by the side of the road, you run the risk of becoming roadkill.

I once asked a native why folks here made such a show of respect for someone they didn’t know. “Those people are grieving,” he said. It was all he said. Like that was all that needed saying.

A Note Opens a New Door

A few summers ago, I spent a week babysitting a friend’s Great Dane. It had rained off and on most of the week. When I got home, I found my lawn almost six inches high and a terse communiqué from the city in which I live to cut the lawn or they would do it for me—and charge $150. The city administrators here are a humorless bunch.

But I also have to own up. My lawnmower had broken and I was, frankly, living in denial about my lawn. After standing in my driveway and reading the note a second time, I spotted a nearby neighbor on his riding lawnmower. (Riding lawnmowers are a religion around here.) We struck a deal for him to mow my lawn. Of course, after he mowed it, he wouldn’t take any money. Folks are like that here.

Without my asking, once or twice a week, my neighbor would suddenly arrive in my backyard atop his mechanical steed and beat back a lawn that I swear grows an inch every hour. He never accepted money, no matter how much I begged.

Andy was in his 90s. His wife had died years before and I could tell that he missed her. It seemed to me that mowing my lawn gave him a little bit of purpose in his life. Since he wouldn’t take any money, I offered to make him dinner once a week. He at least let me do that.?

We became friends. He told me about his family; I told him about mine. He would inquire about the length and condition of my grass. I would help him straighten up his house. He was sports crazy, filling me in on all the drama and intrigue of the local college football team. I pretended to care.

Andy went out of his way to be kind and generous and a little cantankerous, exactly what you want in a neighbor. That he had a riding lawnmower was simply a bonus. We had an abiding respect for one another that turned to affection. And I loved him for his gentle nature and his generosity of spirit.

Keeping Our Eye On What Matters

We marketers tend to rely heavily on data analytics and marketing automation. It’s part of our job, and we accept that. But I sometimes wonder if, when we are swimming around in all that data, that we don’t sometimes lose sight of our customers’ real needs and the problems they are trying to solve.?

Do we truly respect our customers as individuals, or do they just become numbers on a spreadsheet? I worry that in focusing on crafting the perfect marketing campaign or striving to hit our revenue goals, that we might lose sight of what’s really important to the people we are marketing to.

Do we respect our customers the way Andy respected me on that day when I needed help? Do we show the same regard to our customers as those people who take a pause out of their busy day to stand by the side of the road acknowledging a total stranger’s passing??

The Goodbye That Changed My Perspective

A couple of years ago, I received word one afternoon that Andy had died. I was as heartbroken as when my own father had passed. Andy’s family asked me to sit with them at the service and then ride with them in the lead car to the cemetery. I will always be grateful for that.

As we rode through traffic from the church to his final interment, I witnessed cars pulling off to make way for us. I remained astonished as some stepped out in respect, removing their hats and standing quietly by the side of the road. And I took comfort in the knowledge that they all understood just how much we were all grieving.

Andy is buried in the cemetery that is two blocks from my home. I go and visit him. God help me, but I update him on what’s happening with his college ball team. I have tried my best to accord my customers and clients the same level of caring and respect that he showed me that summer day so many years ago.

Last week, I was driving by the cemetery and saw another funeral taking place. It was a beautiful day. A crowd gathered quietly under the gleaming white canopy. It made me wonder about their grief and the deep and abiding love this community shows for their dead, and for the families of the departed.?

It also made me think that we should all aspire to treat our customers with the same humanity, dignity and appreciation, even if we don’t know them, even if they buy from our competitors. Perhaps we would be all better served by doing the marketing equivalent of removing our cap and expressing our gratitude.?

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I work with healthcare organizations who want to craft better marketing strategies to solve their revenue challenges. Contact me at [email protected].

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