Long before graduation day arrived, one question consumed nearly every senior: "Where am I going to work?" Mine turned into a journey that almost took me to Texas...or California...before an unexpected conversation changed everything.
The final months of my senior year at Iowa State still glow in my memory like a sunset that lingers long after the sun has dipped below the horizon. I was standing with one foot in the familiar comfort of campus life, and the other stretched awkwardly toward the unknown future that waited beyond graduation. The engineering labs, the student union, the late nights preparing for exams—those were constants. But late in the fall of 1980 and into early 1981, everything started to shift. Suddenly, instead of worrying about thermodynamics tests or lab reports, I found myself worrying about something far more consequential: where in the world I would begin my career.
Job interviews began to fill up my calendar. Some were local, but many required hopping on planes or catching long rides to new places—south to the oil fields of Texas, west to the sprawling innovation centers of California. Each opportunity carried its own allure and a salary number that could make a young engineering student’s head spin. Schlumberger Oil Exploration came calling, with the kind of starting salary that sounded almost unreal. The defense contractor, General Dynamics, followed soon after, offering what seemed like a dream job in San Diego, complete with sunshine, beaches, and the promise of a booming aerospace career.
But no matter how impressive the offers were on paper, my heart kept drifting north—back home toward Minnesota. I had grown up in northern Minnesota, where winters were cold, people were straightforward, and the world made sense in a solid, dependable way. There was a familiarity there that tugged at me. And not only that, but my older brother Dave—eight years my senior—was already working at 3M and spoke highly of the company whenever he visited or called. To me, 3M wasn’t just a corporation. It felt like a place where real people worked on real things that mattered. At that time, 3M was THE place to work for in Minnesota. Over time, this perception would change. That is not a part of this memory.
My first visit to 3M in the fall of 1980 had gone well, but the positions available at that time needed someone to start in the winter of 1981. I wasn’t graduating until May. Back then, companies didn’t always hold a position open for someone still in school, and the message I received was polite but clear: “Come back when you’re closer to graduation.”
That didn’t stop me. As soon as the new year rolled around—January and February of 1981—I jumped at the chance to interview again.
I was hoping, still, to land a position as a project engineer. I had completed a design engineering internship for Weyerhaeuser between my junior and senior years and discovered very quickly that design work wasn’t where my passion lay. I admired those who thrived in it, but it wasn’t for me. I knew I wanted to be hands-on and out in the field solving problems.
So when the second interview letter came, and I saw that they were lining me up for design engineering roles, my heart sank a little. I traveled up to St. Paul anyway—winter roads, butterflies in my stomach, anxiety—but when I sat down in the interview rooms and realized each conversation was about design engineering positions, disappointment hit hard. I remember thinking, Well, this might be the end of the road with 3M.
During the visit, I crossed paths with a Project Engineering Manager, who would eventually become my future boss, Mr. Ralph Johnson. Mr. Johnson and I clicked instantly. He was seeking a project engineer—not a design engineer—and from the first few minutes of our conversation, I could feel things lining up. His questions made sense. His expectations matched exactly what I was looking for. I could picture myself working for him. He could picture it too.
Ralph grew increasingly animated during our discussion. He told me he needed to talk to his own boss, the Division Engineering Manager in the Film and Allied Products group, Mr. Smith. I’ll never forget the role he played in changing my life. Ralph asked me to wait while he checked to see if his manager was available.
To my great fortune, he was.
I walked into the office of Mr. Smith feeling a renewed sense of hope. He had the presence of someone who was both knowledgeable and approachable. His office wasn’t intimidating, nor was he. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested in who I was—not just as a student, but as a person. We first talked about grades and then the types of roles I was hoping to pursue, my experience, and how I saw my career unfolding.
In 1981, interviews could be a bit more… informal. And so, in the middle of talking about school and life and engineering, he paused, leaned back in his chair, and asked, “Are you single?”
Technically, I was. I wasn't married. But “single” hardly described my life. Sue Ann and I had been together for nearly eight years, since high school, and although college had kept us hundreds of miles apart much of the time, she was very much a part of my life. I heard myself explaining that to him. What came out was:
"Yes."
Mr. Smith smiled, leaned forward slightly, and lowered his voice as though he were about to share some confidential piece of career advice.
“Do you chase wild women?”
I was a 23-year-old college kid sitting across from a man I hoped might hire me, and something in his grin told me there was an answer he was hoping to hear. I did what any young man would do when he's trying to connect with another guy: I played along.
“You bet.”
Mr. Smith burst out laughing, slapped his hand on the desk, and said, “I think we have a place for you here.”
I walked out, amused by the whole exchange—and probably a little relieved. Looking back, my answer makes me laugh for a different reason. I wasn't chasing wild women. But apparently, for about five seconds in a 3M interview, I decided I needed to sound like I was. Neither of us could have known it then, but that little exchange helped open a door that would shape much of the rest of my professional life.
To this day, I'm not sure whether it was my qualifications or that ridiculous, impulsive answer that sealed the deal. But either way, a few weeks later, a letter arrived in my mailbox. It wasn’t the highest-paying offer I had on the table—far from it. Schlumberger and General Dynamics would have paid significantly more. But money wasn’t the only deciding factor. This was a chance to work at 3M—a company I respected, in a place that felt like home, and with a boss I genuinely liked.
And it was a chance to reconnect with my brother Dave.
I had never really had the opportunity to know him well growing up. Being eight years older, he was out of the house by the time I was around ten. Our lives had only brushed past each other during those childhood years. But now, for the first time in my life, we would be living in the same city, both working at the same company. The idea of rediscovering that relationship felt like an extra blessing layered on top of this new job.
So I accepted the offer. I would begin on Monday, June 1st, 1981, and what would become a 35-year career at 3M would start.
People often talk about pivotal decisions—moments when a single choice sends you down a completely different path. This was one of mine. If I had taken a job in Texas, I might have spent my days drilling in oil fields or designing equipment under the hot southern sun. If I had chosen California, maybe I would have ended up on a beach in San Diego after long shifts working on aerospace systems. Both would have been valid paths. Both could have led to fulfilling careers.
But neither would have led me to 3M. Neither would have led me to those early mentors, the projects that challenged me, the relationships that shaped me, or the decades of professional growth that followed. And neither would have reconnected me with my brother Dave during a key chapter of my life.
That first job at 3M became the foundation of my entire professional life. I traveled the world (five times to Germany in one 12-month period, England, Italy, Sweden, Austria, most of the 50 states) and was the lead engineering on many multi-million dollar projects. It gave me stability, purpose, challenge, and a community of people I came to deeply respect. It taught me lessons that lasted long beyond those early years. And it began, at least in part, with an unexpected question, an impulsive answer, and a shared laugh that somehow broke through the formality of a job interview.
Sometimes opportunities arrive wrapped in formality. Sometimes they show up wearing a suit and tie. And sometimes—just sometimes—they walk into the room with a grin, lean back in their chair, and ask, “Do you chase wild women?”
I certainly didn't give Mr. Smith the most accurate answer that day. But somehow, I gave him the answer that made us both laugh. And sometimes a shared laugh is all it takes to open a door you never imagined walking through.
Looking back now, it's remarkable how many doors opened during those four short years between 1978 and 1981. I found lifelong friends, discovered my profession, traveled across the country, earned my degree, accepted my first job, and took my first real step into adulthood. College had prepared me to make a living. Life had begun teaching me how to make a life.