Walking the Shop Floor - The Ampersand May 2026

The Ampersand Unplugged brings you an audio version of our May 2026 edition of The Ampersand, read aloud by the author. In this milestone 200th edition, Adam reflects on what you find when you stop looking at the mannequin in the window and walk the shop floor instead.

From touring client sites across Alberta to a fumbled answer under hot lights at an awards luncheon, he makes the case that the real story of any business—including his own—is never found out front. It's a little further back, with the people who show up every day and do the work.

You can find the full written blog on our website here.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Okay. With apologies for what it will probably be an occasional kind of uh you'll pick it up ever so imperceptibly um as I pause and then record over the part where I'm hacking up a lung. Uh I'm now on about day 10 of something. Um that sounds like uh my my old aunt Edie. May she rest in peace. Uh that that was a very niche reference, uh, probably only understood by one or two people, and that assumes that my uh brother or mother listened to this. Uh so yeah. Anyway, look, um this one's a bit of a milestone uh for me. This is the 200th edition of the ampersand. Um and I'll be honest, I I I went into this with a bunch of different uh drafts, you know. I was playing around with uh you know two 200 editions and an average of uh 1,500 words per, and then I was like googling and trying to find out you know what other pieces of work had 300,000 words and it got silly. Um and so there are a bunch of drafts that are sitting uh in the in the wastebasket. But I and then and then I thought maybe I'll I'll I'll write something a bit more reflective, but but it always feels a bit self-indulgent. Um so what what actually shaped this piece had nothing to do with the number 200. Um it had everything to do with two totally unrelated things. The first was something that happened last fall that has been eating uh away at me and bothering me ever since it happened. Um and then the second was totally randomly four separate visits to client sites that I've made these last several weeks. And then I just did what I did, and my fingers started moving, and I started typing, and and the way I write ain't pretty, uh, but it's 95% of the words I write ultimately don't make it into the final draft, so it's highly, highly inefficient, but it it's what I do. And so as I started thinking, um here's what kind of crystallized in my mind that um no matter how polished a business looks from the outside, the real story is almost never told in the boardroom, it's told somewhere else. And that's what this piece is really about. It's about that gap between the version of a business that gets presented and the version that actually exists, uh the lived one, the messy, human, imperfect, uh, but ultimately much more honest version. There's a line, I didn't uh quite say it this way in the piece, but it was definitely sitting underneath it that you can learn a lot about a company by who presents in the boardroom, but you learn everything by who shows up on the floor. And as I was writing this, something else uh crept in, uh, and that was that moment last fall at an awards luncheon, one of those situations where you're supposed to have a good answer ready, and I didn't. And in hindsight, it connected perfectly to this idea of the shop floor, even though I didn't see it at the time. So this piece kind of weaves those two things together. And on the surface, it's about a touring, uh, manufacturing floors, and and what you see when you do that. But underneath, it's really about where the truth of any business lives and how easy it is to miss it, even when it's right in front of you. It's also, I suppose, a bit of a thank you because 200 editions sounds like a lot. And I guess it is, but the reality is these things don't get written in a vacuum. They are shaped by conversations, by clients, by our team, by the work itself, by the people on our version of the floor. So if you do take a few minutes to read this one, uh that's the lens that I would offer a going in. Um don't focus too much on the factories or the anecdotes. Pay attention to what they're pointing to. Because whether you're running a manufacturing business, a professional services firm, or or anything in between, there's always a shop floor. And chances are that that's where the real uh that that's where the real story is. So uh yeah, before I I get into actually um reading the the piece, just uh I'm recording this, it's almost May. Uh I've got an idea percolating for the June edition. Um and then we'll take uh a break. Uh we we tend not to write a July or August edition uh because these posts, as much as I love writing them and they're cathartic, uh, they are a labor of love and they do eat away at me. And um I I'd prefer to take the summer and just not have that weighing me down. Um but if if you do listen, I've had so many people reach out and say they prefer this medium, and I know it's really low tech, we don't have music, and we don't, you know, we I just talk on my voice memo app on my headset on my laptop. Uh and when Ciara comes back in the fall from her Mat Leave, uh uh like everything she touches, uh, this this whole thing will get a major lift. Um and and uh I I cannot wait for that to happen. But in the meantime, you know, if if you're a longtime reader, um, or if there's something that you want to share, you can always email me uh adamant amroprosen.com. Um if there's something that you want to share, something you maybe you want me to write about or you've thought about, uh I I would absolutely love to hear from you. Um I'm getting old enough uh and thick skinned enough that uh it's not that I don't care when people send me a note of disagreement about something I wrote. I actually love it. It it shows they're engaged enough to take time out of their day and write me something. And time is a precious commodity. So um I I love it and and I would welcome that kind of uh dialogue and exchange. So anyway, that's my um that's my public service announcement, and now um I I really do hope that you will enjoy uh this month's edition of the ampersand. So with that preamble, here is the May edition of the Ampersand entitled Walking the Shop Floor. Dear friends and colleagues, I had planned to use this 200th ampersand to reflect on the milestone, to look back, maybe even indulge in a bit of nostalgia about what started in 2009 as a harmless monthly note to a handful of friends and clients. Okay, friends, I didn't have any clients back then. And I will get there. But 200 editions in, I've come to appreciate that the point of the story is rarely found where you expect it. My my version of the weave. In that spirit, stick with me as I relay a few recent visits, ones that have stuck with me. I'll bring us back, I promise. Recently, in the course of our work, I've toured four separate client sites, real factory floors, each with its own rhythm and purpose. No chocolate river to be found, but plenty of inspiration for Edition 200. For a guy who has spent his career in corporate offices, glass walls, nice art, important people doing important things, I take a particular interest in donning the safety glasses and walking the shop floor, not as some kind of performative exercise, but from a genuine place of respect and curiosity for how the widget gets made. And every time I tour one, I'm mildly in awe of how the thing, whatever it may be, comes to life. It is here where the work truly reveals itself. Each of the client sites I visited these past many months told a completely different story. There was Solvet, a quietly impressive Canadian success story in animal health, focused on developing and manufacturing veterinary pharmaceuticals. Kienna coffee, where the aroma hits you before you even reach the front door. Roasting, blending, packaging, each step unfolding across a sprawling floor, equal parts precision and craft. LJ welding automation in Southeast Edmonton, where they design and build welding automation and material handling systems that help clients fabricate pipes, tanks, and industrial components more efficiently and precisely. And then there were four eye innovations. Precision engineering in service of elite cycling performance, products measured in grams and watts, but backed by a culture that obsesses over both. We weren't there for the widget, but to understand it. And in understanding it, we understand the culture and the soul of the place. In each case, we were hired to find a corporate executive, a director of finance, a president, a chief operating officer, and a director of global operations. But the environments were different. Different industries, different products, different end markets. Still, the same thing kept jumping out at me. In each case, the executive offices told one story, but the shop floor told the real one. You see it in the way people interact, the pride they take in their work and in each other, the small process improvements that never make it into a board deck but make all the difference. The informal leaders who may not have the title but clearly have the respect. It's where culture lives and evolves, not in the mission statement framed at reception, but behind the wall, where things actually get done. For all the time we spend in boardrooms with CEOs, there is no substitute for simply walking the floor, seeing it, feeling it, talking to the people doing the work. Which brings me back to this, ampersand number two hundred. If there's a through line across all of them, it's this business is personal. That belief has shown up in stories about my kids, outdoor rinks, and the occasional existential wobble. And walking those shop floors made something else clear. Every business has one, including ours. Not in a literal sense, of course, but a place where the real work gets done. That idea showed up early in a borrowed office, a blank distribution list, and a monthly note that felt less like my original thought leadership and more like forwarding someone else's. Writing not because I had something profound to say, but because I had a few clients and needed a reason to stay on their radar. Over time the notes got longer, the ideas sharper, and the audience mercifully larger. But even then the thread was the same, trying to make sense of the work, the world, and the space in between. It showed up in the moments that didn't make the highlight rail, the false starts, the misfires, and the bad hires, the economic cycles that seemed to arrive just as things were getting good, the late nights flogging myself for a lost pitch and wondering what we missed. Gradually I came to see the work itself, search, leadership, building a firm as a proxy for something else, understanding people in all their complexity and contradiction. And it showed up perhaps most consistently in the tension between the polished version of a business, the mannequin in the window, and the messy lived experience of one, in the stories behind the stories, the ones about resilience, missteps, small wins, and the occasional lucky break. Because if there's anything 200 editions have reinforced, it's that culture isn't declared, it's revealed slowly, unevenly, and almost always somewhere closer to the shop floor. And maybe that's where I missed it, when it mattered most. Last fall, under the bright lights at the AFP Awards luncheon, where we were honored with the Small Business Philanthropy Award, I was asked a simple question, and if I'm honest, sort of botched the answer. A room of 700 in a downtown hotel, no advanced questions, even though I'd asked. The lights a little hotter than expected, a microphone suddenly very close to my face. Dallas Flexhog, evening anchor from Global News, at ease live, impatiently appearing to be patiently waiting for an answer, the room just quiet enough to notice. I was asked what I would say to my grandfather Henry Singer, the family's OG entrepreneur, who founded his namesake menswear store over eighty years ago, if he were still with us. There was plenty to say, but in that moment the best I could muster was a wobbly nope. The better answer, the one I wish I'd offered, was sitting right there at my table, table seventeen, seventeen years. My wife and team assembled the shop floor right in front of me, and yet I still missed it. Surrounded by the people who have built this place alongside me, just as so many longtime employees did for my grandpa, store veterans with 30, 40, even 50 years of service, still working for one of his other grandsons, my cousin, I somehow missed the simplest observation. The story is never the award. It's the people around the table, the people who walk the floor. The irony, of course, is that I've known all along. You can build a business, write 200 editions, even win the odd award. But none of it really belongs to you. As Harry S. Truman once put it, it's amazing what you can accomplish when you don't care who gets the credit. Sitting there at table 17, it was obvious. The credit was never mine to take. Our floor doesn't involve steel or coffee beans or power meters. There are no forklifts, no roasting drums. But make no mistake, we have one. It's the conversations happening before a client meeting, the judgment calls made on a short list, the discrete and nuanced reference checks, the debates about fit versus pedigree, the moments where someone on our team decides to push a little harder because they know what matters. And like any good operation, the quality of what comes out is entirely dependent on the people doing the work. There's a Richard Branson line that says clients don't come first, employees do. Take care of your people, and they'll take care of everything else. I'm not sure I would have said it that clearly in 2009, and I certainly didn't say it at the luncheon last fall. But looking back, it's probably the most consistent through line in everything we've built. So as a fitting tribute, I thought I'd introduce you to the current crew, though many before them have moved on to become clients and alumni, and always friends who played their part to make this place just a little better. Every shop floor has its characters, the ones who keep the place running, whether or not their title says so. And ours is no different. There's Ranju, 17 years in, employee zero zero two, the operational conscience, equal parts foreman and work mom. Cam, relationship builder and morale officer, and always the one making sure everyone feels welcome. Susie, 10 years in, CPA, single mama for making this operation look like the easier job. Rachel, two words, the closer. Kiera, nine years of steady orchestration, marketing, brand profile. If you've seen it, chances are she did it. Brianne, our MacGyver, unflappable, clever and calm. Neil, curious, resourceful, and whip smart, and Kate, physically in Toronto, but Calgary to the core, understated, thoughtful, and quietly excellent. And most recently, exactly one year ago, our Toronto and Vancouver colleagues, Jeff, Kelly, Michael, Lena, Paul, Marlene, Marcy, Jessica, and Remy. Not merely an extension, but fully integrated into how we operate and show up. Different roles, different personalities, but all working the same line. Like any good operation, it only works because everyone shows up and does their part. When I think about what's filled 200 editions of this newsletter, it isn't strategy decks or market cycles, though there's been plenty of each. It's people, the ones who care about the work, who take pride in getting it right, who show up day after day and do their part, whatever their version of the floor happens to be. If you've been reading since 2009, thank you. If you join somewhere along the way, thank you. If you bought the book, truly, thank you. And Camp Chief Hector, thank you too. If you've ever forwarded one of these, replied or critically panned it along the way, thank you. Two hundred editions isn't a finish line, it's a marker, a chance to pause, look around, and appreciate the people who are still here. But like any good shop floor, the work continues tomorrow, searches to close, pitches to win, and our June edition already in production. And maybe that's the point of my regret from the awards reception. Like any well-run factory, I've developed a process for writing these now 200 editions. It's not glamorous, but it's reliable. Ideas form in my brain, they get sketched, shaped, sentences get sanded down, month after month the conveyor belt moves, and somehow the piece gets built. Give me that rhythm, that space, that floor, and I know how to do the work. I'm usually good on my feet, but in that moment the weight of it all caught up with me. The gratitude, the people. I lost the rhythm. If the shop floor has taught me anything, it's this the real story is never out front. Not on the stage, not in the spotlight, not in the moment when the microphone is passed. It's a little further back on the floor with the people who show up day after day and do the work. 200 editions in, and still it comes back to the same place. Table 17, as it happened. Regards. Adam.