Park&Co

I came into this world a marketer.

Raised as one of seven kids, survival was all about getting attention. You think I'm kidding? My depression-era Dad had but one rule at the dinner table: “Keep one foot on the floor.”

To thrive in the Howell household meant telling a better story than your siblings. It meant:

• Creating an appeal for new sneakers more compelling than the idea of crappy Ked hand-me-downs from my sweaty brother.
• Making my plea for breathable air heard from the back of the station wagon.
• Promoting the learning opportunities derived from launching the family jeep off a bridge and into the Sultan River.
• Managing the bad P.R. arising from a fire that accidentally consumed an abandoned and dilapidated old house following the best Halloween party ever.
• Deploying a word-of-mouth campaign that took a small gathering of high schoolers and created a haunted Woodstock of sorts.
• Understanding my audience so well, that at a poker game I could raise the pot a rabbit and not get shot. But that's another story.

You see, what I do for a living comes by me naturally. My yarn spinning abs were chiseled in the toughest ad market I've known: “The Happy H.” This was the brand name for the Howell family’s no-nonsense, you’ve-got-to-take-care-of-yourself, upbringing on our 12-acre home in the Pacific Northwest. It was epic.