Playing the hand you're dealt: in his memoir, former Lowe's CEO Leonard Herring recalls how the fledgling chain survived the death of its founder.

• Position: BOOK EXCERPT

Now the world's second-largest home-improvement chain and the nation's ninth-largest retailer, Lowe's Cos. grew out of North Wilkesboro Hardware Co., which Carl Buchan's father-in-law opened in 1921. Buchan and his brother-in-law opened a second store in 1949. Buchan, eager to expand, became sole owner of both in 1952. When Snow Hill native Leonard Herring, then 28, came to work as the company's financial manager in December 1955, the chain had six stores, from Asheville to Durham. By the time he retired as CEO in 1996, there were 375 in 23 states. Lowe's now operates more than 1,650, with sales of $48.2 billion last year, a commerical empire not even the ambitious Buchan would have envisioned in the autumn of 1960.

It was a typical Friday afternoon, which meant that I was making my float calculations and preparing to get checks mailed. Most of the general-office staff had trickled out, headed for the pleasures of an October evening: a last cookout, maybe a game of touch football with the kids or a drive to enjoy the autumn color on the mountainsides.

Sometime after 5, Carl Buchan came into my office. He had been out all day, and whatever he was doing had made him as nervous as a cat. He was smoking, although he had more or less given up the habit years before, and he seemed distracted as he asked about various pieces of ongoing business. I knew there were personal issues that could account for his edginess. He and his wife, Ruth, were not getting along: That was why he had been staying out at the farm in Sparta, leaving the big brick house on Finley Avenue to Ruth and their daughter, Mary Elizabeth. He had told our team to contact him at the farm if we needed to reach him after business hours, so the arrangement wasn't exactly a secret. Still, I wouldn't bring up the subject, even to sympathize. If he wanted to tell me what was on his mind, he would. Otherwise, it was the kind of sleeping dog that I generally let lie.

He stuck to business, and it wasn't long before he said goodnight and left the office.

Every Saturday morning at 9, Carl Buchan's team met with him at the general office to review the week's sales figures and touch base on other business. That particular Saturday, the team consisted of Pete Kulynych, Joe Reinhardt, John Walker and me. Bob Strickland was on his way back from a trip to Bermuda sponsored by one of our vendors. Nine o'clock came and went, and we were waiting for Carl. It was odd, because he was never late. Early, yes: Things just couldn't happen fast enough for Carl Buchan. But he never kept people waiting.

I don't remember precisely when the feeling of foreboding hit me. I suppose it's always easy, after the fact, to say, "I knew something was wrong." Nevertheless, in my gut I did feel that something was wrong, maybe because Carl had seemed so wound-up the previous evening. After waiting more than half an hour, we phoned Carl's farm; but there was no answer. Then we thought of calling Max Freeman, Lowe's pilot.

In those days, the runway was literally a grass strip cut in a pasture. Two years before, Carl had decided that Lowe's needed an airplane. A pilot named Max Freeman came to demonstrate a single-engine Cessna 182 to Pete and ended up signing on with Lowe's full time. Max had logged a lot of hours since then, flying Carl and any of the executive staff who needed to make a quick trip into or out of North Wilkesboro. Sometimes he was the only Lowe's employee who knew where Carl was.

But he didn't know today. Speaking for the group, I said, "Max, take the plane and fly up to the farm. See if his car is there." I thought something might have come up to delay him.

Within an hour, Max phoned back. He had flown over the farm and had seen Carl's wood-grained Buick station wagon parked in front of the house. He buzzed the house, flying low for maximum noise, but nobody came out. "Max," I said, "You'd better drive up there and see what's going on." Sparta was just a short flight from North Wilkesboro but a longer drive, more than 30 miles away over a mountain. There was no point in our hanging around. We all dispersed to our own offices or wherever else we needed to be.

It was an hour or so later when I answered the phone at home. Max said simply: "Carl's dead."

When he had arrived at the farm, Max stopped to pick up the caretaker, Bob Farmer, and they went to the house together. They rang the bell and pounded on the door, but nobody answered, so they walked around the outside of the house, looking in windows. When they got to the master bedroom, the curtains were closed except for one small gap. Max peered in and saw Carl lying awkwardly on top of his bed, which had not been turned down.

They jimmied the backdoor lock and went through to the bedroom. Carl had apparently died while getting ready for bed the previous evening. By now, rigor mortis had set in. Max called Carl's local doctor anyway, and the doc came right over. There wasn't anything he could do for Carl, but he began to fill out forms and make arrangements. He sent Max to tell Northwestern Bank President Ed Duncan, whose farm was nearby. Max found Ed on the road and gave him the news.

Carl Buchan was dead. I was shocked but not surprised. He had been a high-pressure achiever, intense and driven. He was a sometime smoker who never exercised, and he liked to have a steak for breakfast every morning. His youngest brother, Billy, had died of a heart attack at the tender age of 27. In view of all that, we were lucky to have had Carl as long as we did.

But now he was gone, and everything was up in the air. 1 would think about it later. Right now, someone had to break the news to Carl's wife.

I picked up Pete, and we went to get the Presbyterian minister, Rev. Watt Cooper. We explained the situation and took him with us to see Ruth Buchan. Even if you're not getting along...