Everyone loves a —
Everyone loves a —
How Betty James saved Slinky from her husband's poor choices.
Hi! I’m on deadline for a bunch of stories and end-of-the-year client work this week. Today we’re revisiting one of my favorite newsletters from 2018!
In 1962, Betty James launched a new ad campaign—one she hoped would save her life. Her plan hinged on a catchy jingle. James, and all of her employees, hoped it would prove as memorable as the toy she was selling.
It wasn’t the jingle Betty wanted, not exactly, but she had no cash to spare. Her husband was somewhere in Bolivia with a religious cult, and the whole family business was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
Despite her misgivings, the jingle became—and remains, to this day—one of the best known television advertisements. And the toy's enduring sales back up its claim: Everyone really does want a Slinky.
Slinky was born during happier days in the James’ marriage. In 1943, Betty’s husband, Richard, was a mechanical engineer developing equipment for the U.S. Navy. One day, he knocked a tension spring off his work bench and watched in amazement as it bounced across the floor, sinuously walking over itself.
The spring was Hooke’s Law in action, embodying potential energy as it converted into kinetic energy. Richard didn’t bother to explain the mathematics to the kids in his neighborhood, though; instead, he watched their faces as he demonstrated the spring. They loved it.
While Richard tested different lengths and thicknesses of wire (80 feet of wire wound into a two-inch spring won), Betty leafed through the dictionary in search of the perfect name. Though Richard is often credited as the Slinky’s sole creator, it's Betty who picked "Slinky," a perfect onomatopoeia for the jangly noise the toy made as it crept down a flight of stairs.
As the winter holidays in 1945 drew near, the couple prepared to sell their creation to local shoppers. But shopkeepers were skeptical. After all, what kid wanted to play with a boring metal spring?
One store, Philadelphia’s Gimbels, finally relented, but the Slinkies were overlooked by kids and parents focused on the season’s hotter toys. Finally, frustrated, the couple went rogue and set up a demonstration, showing shoppers how their Slinky could spiral, end over end, down a ramp.
The entire stock of 400 Slinkies sold out in 90 minutes. Within two months, sales shot up to 20,000, all at $1 a piece. Within two years, 100 million Slinkies were roaming stairs and slopes around the world.
This is when things got kind of weird.
Suddenly wealthy, Richard and Betty left Philadelphia and moved their family into a mansion in the tony suburb of Bryn Mawr. Richard began affairs with other women, and when Betty discovered his infidelity, he was gripped by guilt and religious conviction.
Even worse than Richard’s affairs, however, was his habit of donating enormous sums of money to an evangelical group in Bolivia. Betty discovered that Richard had given nearly all of their Slinky fortune away, leaving her and their six kids with nothing but angry creditors. In February 1960, Richard was gone to Bolivia, too. He died there in 1974.
With no husband and a literal million dollars in debt, Betty was the sole owner of Slinky, a position she would hold for the next 38 years.
Betty’s genius in selecting Slinky’s name was only the beginning. First, she halted her husband’s payments to shady religious figures and persuaded creditors to give her time to get a handle on the company’s finances. Next, she moved the Slinky factory to a less expensive location in Philadelphia.
She also expanded Slinky’s brand. Crucially, she drew inspiration directly from the toy’s audience. In the 1970s, she released plastic Slinkies designed by a fan of the franchise, including a rainbow Slinky.
In 1952, a fan named Helen Malsed sent Betty the idea for my personal favorite, Slinky Dog. The toy was immortalized as Slink, a Toy Story character, after Betty struck a deal with Pixar. It was a smart business move: In 1996, the year after Toy Story premiered, Betty sold 12,000 Slinky Dogs. She sent Helen $65,000 in royalties (!) every year for the next 17 years.
There were other lucrative deals, ingenious sub-licensing. Slinkies used as makeshift radio antennae in Vietnam. Slinkies foiling squirrels that try to steal from bird feeders.
But my favorite thing Slinky fact is about Betty’s attitude toward the price. Even when her financial situation was dire, she didn't hike the toy’s cost. Over the course of Betty’s leadership, Slinkies only became 89 cents more expensive.
“So many children can't have expensive toys, and I feel a real obligation to them,” she told theNew York Times. “I'm appalled when I go Christmas shopping and [see] $60 to $80 toys."
Everyone wants a Slinky—but more importantly, anyone can have one.
Something else
This week, 730DC published a deeply reported story about DC’s disappearing house venues. DIY spaces are beloved for their intimacy and ability to foster local music. Without them, DC’s music scene will lurch toward an uncertain future. Read the whole story here!
One more thing
Next week will be my last Scavenger! I’ll miss connecting with you each week, but I’m also looking forward to refocusing my attention on new reported features and critical pieces in 2020.
I’m also figuring out a new newsletter format for those who want to keep in touch—maybe a monthly-ish update about my work and stories I’m reading? If you have any ideas or suggestions, drop me a line at michelle@michelledelgado.co!
Also—would you read a Scavenger book or zine anthology? Some readers have been asking. Curious to hear your thoughts!