Did you see the news that Columbia House will be closing its doors for good this month? If this sounds like old news to you, you are not alone. I didn’t know it still had doors to close. Appropriately, the CNN headline read:
Columbia House — yes, it still exists — is going out of business.
Since it was founded in 1955 as the Columbia Record Club, I’d say it had a good run.
In the 80s and 90s, when I told people that my mom worked at Columbia House, everyone knew what it was. Most had been members at one time or another. And judging from the comments on social media, most probably still owe them money:
“I signed up with multiple fake names.”
“If I paid them all I owed them, maybe they would be back in business.”
“I wrote the lawyers back that I was only 12 and never heard from them again.”
“On the advice of counsel, I respectfully decline to answer.”
Sure, have your fun, people, but I’m here to tell you that Columbia House put food on our table and Christmas presents under our tree. My mom worked for Columbia Records, then Columbia House, for 35 years!
She started working at Columbia Records in 1966 after we moved to Summit Grove and Steve, her fifth child, was born. This was a factory job at the plant where they made vinyl records.
She worked on the line where black vinyl blobs were pressed into the grooved discs that miraculously played tunes on record players. The noise level in the plant likely contributed to her later hearing loss. A few months into the job, she brought home a black vinyl blob from the line to show us. She seemed excited to show us her work. I think she liked her job because she was providing for all of us, and she also got a break from all of us.
My brother Jeff remembers Mom bringing home a box of damaged records. They were 45s, the 7-inch vinyl singles. Jeff said he and our brother Steve had a blast flinging those discs over the gravel pit behind our house and shooting them like clay pigeons. Environmentalists, we were not.
Another time, Mom brought home a stack of leftover album insert stickers featuring the four members of KISS. Seeing an opportunity, Jeff took them to school. He came home with a pocket full of quarters from his little back-of-the-classroom hustle selling those stickers to his classmates. “I was a very popular kid that day,” he remembers fondly. “Probably the most popular I ever was.”
The stickers Jeff sold to his classmates for 25 cents looked like this. Today they sell online for $5-10.
To get to work, Mom carpooled with a group of women from Clinton, whom Mom always called the “girls.” It was just a 25-minute drive, but gas prices were high. I know what you're thinking, but in the 1970s, gas prices averaged between 36 cents and 88 cents per gallon, which is roughly $2.50 to $3.50 per gallon adjusted for inflation.
Each of the “girls” would take a turn driving for a week, and the others would pay the driver for gas. They all paid the same amount every week, so essentially the same money just floated back and forth between their purses. That may seem kind of silly, but Mom always felt rich the week she drove and got all that money from the girls.
The early-morning rendezvous point for the carpoolers was the parking lot at Paradise Lanes bowling alley, about four miles from our house. One afternoon after work, the driver pulled into the lot to drop off the riders, and Mom could not find her keys anywhere. After searching her purse and coat pockets, one of the girls noticed exhaust coming out of Mom’s car’s tailpipe.
Oops!
It was very cold that morning, so Mom kept her car running to stay warm while she waited. The driver had pulled in, and Mom hurriedly opened the door and jumped in the other car. So, her car sat there running her entire eight-hour shift. She didn’t feel rich that week since she had wasted all that gas... and she never told Dad the story until many years later.
One of the coolest perks Columbia offered employees was an annual family picnic held at the Vigo County Fairgrounds. There were rides, entertainment, and vendors... and it was all FREE for employees and their families. One year, we were treated to a circus featuring a high-wire act. We kids couldn’t believe we could just walk up, get on a ride, or order a corndog and a pop without money!
My siblings and I all have great memories of going to these picnics. The number of entry tickets provided matched the number of dependents on the employee’s W-4s. In Mom's case, that was seven, so she made out like a bandit! One year, my red-haired sister Lynn couldn’t attend, so I got to invite my friend Lori, who also had red hair because who would know the difference? Maybe that made Mom a real bandit, but Lori had fun.
One year, we stayed until near closing time, and Dad found out the ice cream booth was giving away all their leftovers. Say no more! He instructed us to make trips back and forth to the car with as much as our little arms could carry. Our freezer was loaded with popsicles for the rest of the summer!
Mom joins the club
Mom worked for Columbia Records through the plant’s transition to compact discs, and eventually she moved to Columbia House, that record club everyone joined back in the day.
The record club’s marketing was nothing short of genius (I can say this with some level of authority because I worked in advertising for over 30 years). They lured people into joining by promising free albums, eight-track tapes, cassettes, and eventually CDs and DVDs, all for a single penny.
One ad said, “Would you believe...?” and then described this seemingly unbelievable offer. Apparently, most people did believe because, at its peak, Columbia House had 16 million members. No wonder there’s a penny shortage!
Over the years, the offers evolved, but the gist was: send them a penny (later a dollar) for 7, 8, 11, or up to 13 cassettes or albums, and commit to buying a set number (which also changed) within the next three years. After fulfilling that commitment, you could cancel your membership. The way they got you hooked was they figured you would forget to cancel - just like gym memberships today!
Sure, you got your “free” albums, but you were also (according to the fine print) now in a contractual agreement committing you to buy a minimum number of additional albums at retail price, plus substantial shipping and handling fees, over the next few years. They sent members a postcard every month to select the albums you wanted. No time to send the card? No worries. The good folks at Columbia House had preselected items they sent you... along with a bill.
Of course, you had the option to pay the postage and send those items back, but the next month you would be right back in the game (Remember the fine print?).
When those millions of members sent back those records or tapes, that’s where my mom got involved because she worked in the returns mailroom. And there was only one in the entire country.
Everyone’s returns came back to that mailroom in Terre Haute, Indiana. There, my mom and her co-workers, who at some point included at least two of my aunts, would open the packages and put the albums or tapes back into inventory to be sent out again.
For a short period before he joined the Air Force, Mom got Jeff a job on the fulfillment line. He was tasked with finding the albums, tapes, or CDs that new customers had sent their penny in for. When he filled the boxes and found anything damaged, he was to set it aside, and it would be sold at the employee store. Jeff confessed to me that some tapes were damaged on purpose if someone thought the employee store should have more, oh, let’s say, Billy Joel music.
My siblings and I had access to that employee store, and we bought a lot of inexpensive music and other merchandise like shirts, posters, and books. Some of us may have profited by reselling these items, but like so many things in our upbringing, the statute of limitations has expired.
Ironically, there was no stereo in our house, just a couple of cheap record players. Oh, and I had an 8-track player in my car in high school. But all I really needed were Jackson Browne and Steve Miller Band, which I played on repeat. Back then I was either Running on Empty or Flying Like an Eagle.
Fast forward to 1987, when I was working at an advertising agency in Charleston, WV, and I told my friend and coworker Ann about my mom’s job at Columbia House. Like everyone in those days, Ann was a member. The next time she mailed in a return, she stuck a note in the box saying, “Hi, Wanda Carty. I work with your daughter Dyann in West Virginia.”
Somehow that package ended up in my mom’s bin. When she opened it and found that note, she thought she was on Candid Camera. She jerked her head around, looking for the pranksters. She showed it to her coworkers, saved the note, and called me that night. “You’re not going to believe this...”
But I did.
Seventy-one years after the music club was founded, it’s closing for good, like the ad said: “Would you believe...”
And I do. Even though I didn’t know you hadn’t closed already, I believe in you, Columbia House! Thanks for the groceries... and Merry Christmas!
Add comment
Comments
This is such a cool story. Of course I was part of the club too as a kid, as was everyone else I knew! Though I don’t recall how far I went in the legal process to get myself out.
Another great one! Dad worked at Columbia Records too. As did Aunt Shirley and Uncle Jim. But Aunt Wanda probably worked there longer than any of them. She must’ve felt so good to have some independence and the finances to provide for her family. I’m so impressed by her for a lot of reasons, but this is definitely one of them.
Diane, To this very day, that building on North Fruitridge Avenue still has it's very own zip code!!! Great Story!!! Keep'm coming!
Wow! This brought back memories. My first husband subscribed to Columbia House several times. (Different names and addresses as he/we moved several times from college to apartments. We had a bookshelf full of records. He also joined Book of the Month Club several times to get the extra books for joining. We had to have specially sized bookshelves made for records and books, and I still have the bookcases in my condo. The records and books are long gone.
I love that this brought back those memories, Joyce! Thanks for sharing that.