A Different Kind of Family Tradition

Traditions are as diverse as families that create them, but many can agree they’re born out of a sense of pride. Years in the making, carefully crafted, and uniquely curated, family traditions transcend generations. Whether it’s passing down favorite recipes, celebrating holidays a certain way, or even instilling a strong work ethic, traditions have the power to shape who we become.

In my family, the tradition of entrepreneurship emerged from a love for animals and a desire to formulate the best pet shampoo on the market. In a 10’x20’ canning room adjacent to the patio at my father’s 1950s boyhood home, my Uncle Gene Kennedy, a chemist, and my father, Fred Nicolosi, a creative entrepreneur, formulated Kenic Pet Products’ first product: Pink Pup Shampoo. The labeling of 1960s-era, retro-styled bottle featured a perfectly coiffed prissy-looking poodle. My father thought “pet shampoo shouldn’t only smell good, but it should work good, too.” That statement was printed on the label, a slogan of sorts. I would’ve substituted the former “good” with “well,” but grammarians they weren’t.

Dad and Uncle Gene were creative. Dad saw a way to serve people who love their pets, a move that was affirmed during the recession in the 1970s when Dad declared that when money is scarce, people will take care of the pets before they care for themselves. He was right. The pet products industry is a recession-proof business, as evidenced by the abundance of products available for pets, from strollers, clothes, raw food, beds, personalized leashes and collars and more.

Uncle Gene continued his career in the chemical industry while my dad expanded Kenic from that tiny room to a 2,000 square-foot office on Emerson Avenue South. Back then, the rent was cheap enough for a new business owner to have a chance at making it.

By the early 1980’s, Kenic was offering a variety of shampoos for different pet needs, as well as flea sprays and pet colognes. The headquarters had moved a few blocks north to a moderately sized, but larger building in what is now the St. Petersburg’s Warehouse Arts District, a popular neighborhood of craft breweries, antique shops, and restaurants.

By the time my brother Steve and I were tapped to be Kenic’s newest summer employees, headquarters had moved yet again to the last space it would occupy in St. Pete: a 5000-square-foot building just a couple of blocks from its previous site. For Steve and me, working summers at Kenic was our family’s tradition. I don’t remember being given the choice to work summers in the family business, but I do remember the smells, sights and sweat. The distinctive smell of screen-printing ink reminds me of stacking towers of freshly printed shampoo bottles as high as someone who’s 5’5” can. I detest black licorice, but obviously not everyone does, as Kenic’s flea-rid shampoo has always been a bestseller. As I packed boxes for shipping, I’d daydream about how the second floor of the warehouse, used for storing all sizes of carboard boxes that we all took turns building, could also be used as a living space.

Today, there are artists who call the Warehouse District home. They create and live in the same space. Was I prolific, or merely passing time while doing rote work?

Dad forbade us from being close enough to the flea dip, which had powerful chemicals that could harm our skin. But we learned every other aspect of the pet product manufacturing process. Whomever got the task of filling shampoo bottles also got an additional break from standing on the concrete floors. Our fingers bore calluses from capping thousands of bottles, as we wiped sweat from our brows. The box fans only worked so well. This was summer in Florida in an unairconditioned warehouse.

For five summers, I worked at Kenic, earning the same pay as the “real staffers” while my friends hung out at the beach, played video games, or waited for the premiere of the newest MTV video. There was no interview process, yet we were employees, just like the guys who’d showed up at my dad’s warehouse, willing to trade Michigan winters for Florida heat, for the promise of a job. I took direction from the 20-something male warehouse managers that my dad felt comfortable having work alongside his teenage daughter.

My teenage intellect didn’t permit me to understand the life lessons gained from having a summer job, much less working in a family business. My dad instructed my brother and me to work for what you wanted, know the value of earning your own money, and appreciate the feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day.

Today’s parents might scoff at the idea of their children spending summers on their feet, punching a timeclock, and sweating in a warehouse with people they hardly know. These experiences didn’t improve our SAT scores, but Steve and I learned incomparable life lessons. Humility and hard work are rarely learned inside a classroom. This doesn’t underscore the importance of education, but reinforces the value of diverse life experiences, hard work, and the true meaning of sweat equity.

Although I worked 40-hour weeks, I was able to spend time with friends in the evenings and on the weekends. I missed beach days and left sleepovers early to be at work, but my bank account looked a lot different than theirs. Money isn’t the only measure of achievement, but I’ll never forget how I felt at 17 when I bought my own round-trip plane ticket to visit my cousins in New Jersey. That summer of 1985 before my senior year of high school was my last as a Kenic employee. I may have felt like the odd teen out, working full-time during summer, but those days sweating in the warehouse, learning to have a good relationship with people from diverse backgrounds, and respecting the value of all types of jobs, taught me that there is dignity in work. We accomplish. We connect. We create. We contribute.

Not all families are meant to work together. And frankly, not all should. I’m blessed that my first boss was my dad, who had the foresight to provide my brother and me with an opportunity to share his life’s work. Steve and I learned that being the bosses’ kid doesn’t mean you start at a desk in an air-conditioned office. Dad was an admitted workaholic, and I think having us near him in the warehouse while he cultivated new business from his air-conditioned office was a way to keep us close. Work was his love language, yet he trusted us to execute tasks that contributed to his success.

Kenic Pet Products is now Glo-Marr Products. In the early 1990s, Dad traded sunshine for bourbon when he moved the headquarters to its present 65,000-sqaure-foot plant in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky. The same family-centered principles endure as Team Glo-Marr creates, produces and ships pet products worldwide.

The family tradition of arduous work and entrepreneurship continues. Steve and my stepsister Dawn now run the business. Just a few summers ago, my son Samuel spent the summer after 9th grade working for Glomarr. Much has changed since I worked for Dad in the 1980s. Production is automated. Big-Ass fans have replaced the K-Mart box fans, creating a more comfortable environment. But when Samuel showed up for his first day of work, he was promptly given the same task I started with: making boxes.