A Master Farmer Plows Ahead Dan Schantz Is Selling His Farm Market Empire, And Plans To Use His Green Thumb To Cultivate A Growing Greenhouse Business
It's just one week before Dan Schantz is scheduled for quadruple heart bypass surgery and the produce king of the Lehigh Valley is hustling in and out of his office like a man who has more important things to worry about. He instructs a secretary about the prices of crops and checks on some orders. This Pennsylvania Dutch farmer does not like to waste time. And when an interviewer and photographer are a good 20 minutes late, he gets right to the point.
his workers at the Dan Schantz Farm complex in Lower Milford Township.
Sitting forward in his huge padded black leather desk chair, Schantz looks uneasy, but pleased with the attention all the same. He shuffles papers scattered on his large dark brown desk to straighten them up, revealing a film of dirt. To his rear is another desk piled haphazardly with computer printouts.
"I can't do that much," he says. "I'm going in for open heart surgery next Wednesday."
It's decided to take photos first and follow with the interview, but there's a small dilemma. Schantz, looking comfortable in his short-sleeved shirt and slacks, isn't sure whether or not he should put on a tie. He decides on the tie.
"That's more of how I am anymore," he explains as he disappears to groom himself for the shoot.
Over the years, Schantz, 53, has changed smoothly and happily from the proverbial blue jeans and boots to dress shirt and tie. He no longer rides his tractors or works his fields. Instead, this admitted workaholic spends long days arguing tough deals on the telephone, bargaining for produce up and down the East Coast and taping homespun television commercials to entice folks to his three markets. He has developed a reputation as a master retailer and marketer, a shrewd businessman who learned early in his career that it pays to buy what other people are growing, grow selected items that other people want to buy and make his products easily accessible to his customers.
The signs outside his sprawling farm markets say, "We Grow Most Everything We Sell," but that hasn't been the case for some time. Such details are not top priority with Schantz. And they really don't matter much anymore.
"This is really where our interests lie," explained Mildred last week as she relaxed in a bright blue reclining chair in the large, cool family room of their copiously decorated 19th-century farmhouse. "We felt the time was right. We've been in the produce business for over 30 years and we just felt we needed a change."
The Schantzes won't talk much about the sale; they're not the type to provide business details without a very good reason. In fact, Schantz, obviously tired of being dogged by reporters, many who've been the targets of his hot temper, actually left the official announcement to his wife.
With little information on the sale coming from the Schantzes, others provide the only details.
Erwin "Erv" Schummer, the no-nonsense owner of Valley Farm Markets on Union Boulevard, who bought the Bethlehem and Allentown stores, said Schantz was looking for a buyer for close to a year and that Schantz asked Schummer earlier this year to buy his markets. "Dan wanted me to have it," said Schummer, who competed with Schantz for years. Schummer plans to continue operating both stores.
Schummer said Schantz tried to sell him his store on State Road in Emmaus, but Schummer wasn't interested and Schantz eventually sold it to a southern New Jersey car dealer named Chris Koch. The announcement that Koch plans to turn the store into a Hyundai dealership prompted some angry concessionaires, given a 30-day notice to vacate their meat, catering and sandwich concessions, to charge that Schantz has no concern for the small businessman.
"What can you do about it?" said Mildred, when asked about the remarks. The Schantzes are, after all, aggressive businessmen, and selling a prime piece of real estate is good business.
It may seem ironic that the sale comes just six months after Schantz's peers voted him a Master Farmer, a prestigious award given annually by Pennsylvania Farmer Magazine and the Cooperative Extension Services of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, New Jersey and West Virginia. Selection is based on the farmer's financial progress, farming skills, involvement in the agricultural community and civic accomplishments.
But Schantz's recognition as a Master Farmer had much to do with an awareness in the farming community that a farmer's marketing strategy is as important as the farming itself, that a farmer not only needs to grow a good product, but to grow what the consumer wants and be able to move it to him. He has tried to spread that message for 20 years as a director of the Pennsylvania Vegetable Growers Association.
"The one thing that set Dan off from the other Master Farmers is certainly his marketing ability," explained RobertLeiby, Lehigh County Farm agent, who introduced Schantz at January's award luncheon as a "master marketer/master farmer." "He really thinks about marketing, and more farmers need to do that."
Dan Schantz Farms opened its first store in 1963 in Emmaus. In 1975, a Dan Schantz Farm Market opened on Union Boulevard in Allentown, which was managed by his son for the last year. And, in 1977, in response to a growing demand, he replaced his Emmaus store with a new, larger building on the other side of State Road. Last year he opened a store on Bethlehem's Easton Avenue.
"We always went and took our markets to the people," said Schantz. "We always wanted the best spot and I feel we have the best spots that are available. My aim was to have the most heavily traveled. If it was good enough for McDonald's, it was good enough for me."
While Schantz's crops are now few and his focus now narrowed, he feels he still is a farmer and will remain just that. "I think it's natural for a farmer to be in the greenhouse business," he said. "It probably takes more knowledge in the greenhouse business. Timing is much more important. If our lilies come in a week after Easter, they won't do us much good."
The Dan Schantz farm is a 96-acre slice of modern technology cut out of the countryside between Limeport and Hosensack. Row after row of numbered greenhouses, close to 100 in all, dominate the site, their huge fans whirring and loudspeakers blaring.
At one time, the Schantzes grew bountiful fruits and vegetables and raised chickens here to sell at their small farm stands in Quakertown, Gilbertsville and Allentown. Now, their main products are hundreds of varieties of flowers and bedding plants grown under plastic.
It was 30 years ago in June that an ambitious 23-year-old Schantz and his 25-year-old wife bought the farm on the Lehigh/Berks County border. "My grandfather lent me the down money," Schantz said. "I always paid interest and always paid it back."
While it might seem a big endeavor for such a young couple, success already seemed to be in the cards. Schantz grew up in a farm family and worked at his parents' food markets in Allentown since he was a kid. He farmed rented land on his own since he was 16. That's also when he bought his first tractor. It's a story he loves to tell.
"I had some money saved up from projects that I did and I either had a choice to buy a car or a tractor. I bought a tractor, a brand new tractor, of course," he said with a proud grin. "I borrowed a lot of the money for it and that's how I got my start."
Schantz still has that tractor, although it hasn't been ridden for quite some time. "He'll never part with it," said his wife, the former Mildred Geisinger of the dairy farm family.
By Schantz's account, he was farming "well over 100 acres" by the time he was a senior in high school. The two acres of tomatoes he grew for Campbell's Soup Co. was "the start of the vegetable business," he says. When he married at age 19, Schantz was growing 75 acres of tomatoes under contracts with Campbell's and Conti.
Although inspired by his father, the late Erwin M. Schantz, Schantz makes it abundantly clear he is self-made. "I never had a partner and my father was never involved with my business. It was mine," he said.
Schantz began his greenhouse venture in 1960 as a means "to give us work year around.
The profits and the enjoyment were so great that he built two more greenhouses the next year. Soon, rows of white plastic-covered greenhouses were replacing rows of crops on the Dan Schantz farm. Schantz now has six to seven acres "under plastic."
"We still aren't producing enough to meet the demand. Right now, we're loading trucks from morning until night," Schantz said as he lumbered confidently through a colorful, crowded greenhouse, responding occasionally to a greeting from a worker. They call him "Mr. Schantz" here.
Schantz sells his plants and flowers at greenhouse markets adjacent to his markets, an operation he plans to continue. He also claims 605 wholesale accounts from South Carolina to Boston and as far west as Wisconsin.
Some of those customers are the primary buyers of the thousands of gourds and pumpkins Schantz now grows on close to 180 acres of rented land. "We don't know anybody else in the country that grows 50 acres of gourds. In fact, we're pretty sure there isn't," Schantz remarks boastfully. "Those we ship all over the East." The Schantz conglomerate includes a shellacking operation.
The mass production of gourds is indicative of the distinction Schantz has gained as a wise farmer who isn't controlled by the mass market, as a farmer who is not afraid to try new things and who seizes upon the good and abandons the bad.
He grew cantaloupes on plastic for 30 years, a "pioneer" method which he claims makes the fruit grow faster and retain more moisture. He stopped growing cantaloupes two years ago when he found a farmer that grew them the same way.
"At one point we grew 30 acres of strawberries. We don't now. We have local people who can grow those. That's the way it is with a number of items now. If I can buy it to my satisfaction, we don't grow it."
Several years ago, Schantz grew hydroponic lettuce, dirt-free lettuce grown in a nutrient solution instead of soil. But he quit after three years of work and a largeinvestment because it didn't sell.
However, Schantz scored a small-scale coup last year. Confronted with a heavy demand, but a shortage of decorative Indian corn for the fall, he bought himself a supply of field corn, bunched it like Indian corn and sold it for a huge profit. "The farmers were almost giving field corn away and I was getting such a high price," he said.
Last year, when local markets were selling Pennsylvania-grown Christmas trees for a hefty price, Schantz sent a truck to Oregon for a bargain. "People don't want to spend the money for expensive trees and the trees really have got to be expensive here in Pennsylvania," he rationalized. "I don't feel it was wrong; it is my philosophy to get the best thing at the best price for my customers. I'm Pennsylvania Dutch and we're conservative people. We hate to throw money away that isn't necessary."
Getting the right price has always been a top priority for Schantz. He has earned himself quite a reputation as a wheeler-dealer, a tough negotiator who usually gets what he wants at the price he wants, be it peaches from the huge food distribution center on Philadelphia's Dock Street or cantaloupes from a local farmer.
But while they can't debate Schantz has been successful at moving his stock, and lots of it, some people familiar with Schantz have said his unyielding focus on price left him with second-rate products to sell. At the Philadelphia food center, a major East Coast produce distribution point where Schantz bargained mercilessly to load his trucks with produce several times a week, some vendors call him "last chance Schantz."
Frank Wiechec, the owner of a wholesaler named Hunter Brothers, said Schantz often buys "off-grade packages," packages of fruits or vegetables with some "unusable" pieces. He also fancies very ripe produce that "has to be moved right away," Wiechec said. It's the kind of stuff most retailers say they won't touch. Wiechec says he doesn't deal much with Schantz. "He wants to buy below cost or at cost. To me he makes offers that are absolutely ridiculous," he said.
"At one point we grew 30 acres of strawberries. We don't now. We have local people who can grow those. That's the way it is with a number of items now. If I can buy it to my satisfaction, we don't grow it."
Several years ago, Schantz grew hydroponic lettuce, dirt-free lettuce grown in a nutrient solution instead of soil. But he quit after three years of work and a largeinvestment because it didn't sell.
However, Schantz scored a small-scale coup last year. Confronted with a heavy demand, but a shortage of decorative Indian corn for the fall, he bought himself a supply of field corn, bunched it like Indian corn and sold it for a huge profit. "The farmers were almost giving field corn away and I was getting such a high price," he said.
Last year, when local markets were selling Pennsylvania-grown Christmas trees for a hefty price, Schantz sent a truck to Oregon for a bargain. "People don't want to spend the money for expensive trees and the trees really have got to be expensive here in Pennsylvania," he rationalized. "I don't feel it was wrong; it is my philosophy to get the best thing at the best price for my customers. I'm Pennsylvania Dutch and we're conservative people. We hate to throw money away that isn't necessary."
Getting the right price has always been a top priority for Schantz. He has earned himself quite a reputation as a wheeler-dealer, a tough negotiator who usually gets what he wants at the price he wants, be it peaches from the huge food distribution center on Philadelphia's Dock Street or cantaloupes from a local farmer.
But while they can't debate Schantz has been successful at moving his stock, and lots of it, some people familiar with Schantz have said his unyielding focus on price left him with second-rate products to sell. At the Philadelphia food center, a major East Coast produce distribution point where Schantz bargained mercilessly to load his trucks with produce several times a week, some vendors call him "last chance Schantz."
Frank Wiechec, the owner of a wholesaler named Hunter Brothers, said Schantz often buys "off-grade packages," packages of fruits or vegetables with some "unusable" pieces. He also fancies very ripe produce that "has to be moved right away," Wiechec said. It's the kind of stuff most retailers say they won't touch. Wiechec says he doesn't deal much with Schantz. "He wants to buy below cost or at cost. To me he makes offers that are absolutely ridiculous," he said.
But Schantz says his goal has always been to get people the "best, freshest product for their money." He says he would never put a spoiled product on the shelf and says it pays to buy the "off-grade" packages. "It might be just as good eating, but there might be a few I can't use."
As for the produce "that has to be moved right away." He apparently moves it. Schantz reveals that in peak weeks he has retailed 200 tons of produce.
Whatever the case, price-conscious customers have never been in short supply. Schantz entices them with full-page newspaper ads designed by his daughter Connie, always loaded with advertised prices that usually are lower than his toughest competitor. Some of his best customers are senior citizens, who crowd his stores every Wednesday for their 10 percent discount.
Schantz and Mildred have always worked closely. Mildred refers to her husband as the "mastermind." Schantz puts his wife on a pedestal. "It's my name, but really the success is due as much to her as it is to me," he said.
The Schantzes met as young children when Schantz picked tomatoes in the summertime on her father's farm. They went to school together and attended the same church, the Swamp Mennonite Church in Longswamp Township, Berks County. Born-again Christians, they say the church plays a major role in their lives.
A trustee for years, Schantz says it's the church that pushes him to do better each year than he did the year before. "I've always wanted to be a contributor in the church. I think if I have a motive, that would be what's behind it. So I can give more. The more money I make, the more money I can give."
Schantz doesn't like to talk about money. All he will say is that he has enough to "live comfortably."
But while they clearly are not fancy people, the Schantzes know how to live well. They head to a resort or tropical island to golf at least once a year. Their house is impeccably maintained and beautifully furnished in a contemporary/country style. A pool and tennis court adorn their backyard. The Schantzes don't do much swimming or tennis playing, but say the facilities are there for the enjoyment of family, friends and their "church family."
The mere mention of Schantz's name conjures up strong opinions from many folks, but none stronger than the folks who remember the wrath that befell them when they rubbed Schantz the wrong way in the days when he manned his farm stands.
Schantz earned himself quite a reputation over the years for yelling, screaming and arguing with
anyone, young or old, who dared touch his produce at his stores, particularly at the stand he maintained until about five years ago at the farmer's market in the Allentown Fairgrounds.
Schantz chuckles when the subject arises and responds in uncharacteristicall y candid fashion. "I wondered when you were going to get to that," he said, fidgeting with a paper clip.
"I wasn't too popular with the customers," he admits. "I wouldn't let people touch the produce and I'd tell them and I was very outspoken and some resented it."
"They wreck so much produce by handling it, and I just couldn't stand that. I guess because I grew it and I got it to the market in good shape and I just didn't want it ruined before they got it. . . .
"They felt that I was giving them something inferior. But just the opposite. We tried hard to give them what they saw. I wasn't misrepresenting .
"I probably overreacted many times, but the customer just wouldn't take no for an answer," Schantz said in his own defense. "And that's the only way you could get their attention."
He said he eventually stopped working at the market because he "just couldn't stand people touching the stuff and I can't now yet." But he wonders aloud if his behavior may actually have helped promote his business.
"If anything, because it was so controversial, it must have helped it. Because we had a tremendous business for years at the fairgrounds."
Schantz's customers haven't been the only ones to feel his wrath. Schantz acknowledges that he can be a hothead with anyone who gives him a hard time, be it any of his 200 employees who work his markets or his greenhouses or business acquaintances. He nods when asked if he would agree with some adjectives often used to describe him - demanding, intimidating, unrelenting.
"He gets his feathers ruffled a little more quickly than some people," Mildred explains. But underneath that tough exterior, she claims Schantz is a pussycat with a gentle heart.
"If you don't know him, you'd think he was pretty tough, but he's really gentle. He's firm, but he's soft."
He's also kind of shy, far from a social sophisticate. Schantz fidgets when he explains that he's not really comfortable with the limelight. He says he sometimes regrets having used his full name on his markets, but it was something he had to do.
"The reason why I went to Dan Schantz was not because of my father, but because of the Schantzes in Orefield. I wish I hadn't sometimes, because you become too much a part of the business then.
"Now it's sort of a problem. I can't walk into a restaurant without hearing, 'That's Dan Schantz, that's Dan Schantz.' And that doesn't do anything for me. I'd just as soon not be noticed."
Ironically, Harold Schantz, an unrelated third-generation Schantz who sells his orchard's bounty at a roadside stand on Route 309, says the confusion is still there.
"It's an everyday occurrence," Schantz said, that customers come to his place and expect it to be Dan Schantz's. "Sometimes they get mad because we didn't have the specials. They felt we should have them."
Schantz's open heart surgery was just six weeks ago, but he hasn't relaxed much during the recuperation.Home from the hospital in just seven days and on the phone making business deals seven days after that, Schantz has continued working like nothing really has changed. Last week, he made a trip to the Philadelphia food distribution center. If his doctor's orders were to relax, then Schantz would think he was following instructions.
"I love it; to me it's relaxing," he says of the cutthroat, competitive atmosphere. "The office, here, is a problem. They're keeping me out of the office. Down there, I think it's therapy."
Blogger's Note:
Since this article first published in 1987, I can say that Dan has mellowed considerably. Still gets his "feathers ruffled" but over all, Dan makes you want to do better. He demands only the best out of people, mostly because he demands it of himself. I've learned more about myself and how much I am capable of in the past 20 years. And I'm a far better person for having met and work for, Dan and Mildred. I think most of my coworkers would agree.
As for the produce "that has to be moved right away." He apparently moves it. Schantz reveals that in peak weeks he has retailed 200 tons of produce.
Whatever the case, price-conscious customers have never been in short supply. Schantz entices them with full-page newspaper ads designed by his daughter Connie, always loaded with advertised prices that usually are lower than his toughest competitor. Some of his best customers are senior citizens, who crowd his stores every Wednesday for their 10 percent discount.
Schantz and Mildred have always worked closely. Mildred refers to her husband as the "mastermind." Schantz puts his wife on a pedestal. "It's my name, but really the success is due as much to her as it is to me," he said.
The Schantzes met as young children when Schantz picked tomatoes in the summertime on her father's farm. They went to school together and attended the same church, the Swamp Mennonite Church in Longswamp Township, Berks County. Born-again Christians, they say the church plays a major role in their lives.A trustee for years, Schantz says it's the church that pushes him to do better each year than he did the year before. "I've always wanted to be a contributor in the church. I think if I have a motive, that would be what's behind it. So I can give more. The more money I make, the more money I can give."
Schantz doesn't like to talk about money. All he will say is that he has enough to "live comfortably."
But while they clearly are not fancy people, the Schantzes know how to live well. They head to a resort or tropical island to golf at least once a year. Their house is impeccably maintained and beautifully furnished in a contemporary/country style. A pool and tennis court adorn their backyard. The Schantzes don't do much swimming or tennis playing, but say the facilities are there for the enjoyment of family, friends and their "church family."
The mere mention of Schantz's name conjures up strong opinions from many folks, but none stronger than the folks who remember the wrath that befell them when they rubbed Schantz the wrong way in the days when he manned his farm stands.
anyone, young or old, who dared touch his produce at his stores, particularly at the stand he maintained until about five years ago at the farmer's market in the Allentown Fairgrounds.
Schantz chuckles when the subject arises and responds in uncharacteristicall y candid fashion. "I wondered when you were going to get to that," he said, fidgeting with a paper clip.
"I wasn't too popular with the customers," he admits. "I wouldn't let people touch the produce and I'd tell them and I was very outspoken and some resented it."
"They wreck so much produce by handling it, and I just couldn't stand that. I guess because I grew it and I got it to the market in good shape and I just didn't want it ruined before they got it. . . .
"They felt that I was giving them something inferior. But just the opposite. We tried hard to give them what they saw. I wasn't misrepresenting .
"I probably overreacted many times, but the customer just wouldn't take no for an answer," Schantz said in his own defense. "And that's the only way you could get their attention."
He said he eventually stopped working at the market because he "just couldn't stand people touching the stuff and I can't now yet." But he wonders aloud if his behavior may actually have helped promote his business.
"If anything, because it was so controversial, it must have helped it. Because we had a tremendous business for years at the fairgrounds."
Schantz's customers haven't been the only ones to feel his wrath. Schantz acknowledges that he can be a hothead with anyone who gives him a hard time, be it any of his 200 employees who work his markets or his greenhouses or business acquaintances. He nods when asked if he would agree with some adjectives often used to describe him - demanding, intimidating, unrelenting.
"He gets his feathers ruffled a little more quickly than some people," Mildred explains. But underneath that tough exterior, she claims Schantz is a pussycat with a gentle heart.
"If you don't know him, you'd think he was pretty tough, but he's really gentle. He's firm, but he's soft."
He's also kind of shy, far from a social sophisticate. Schantz fidgets when he explains that he's not really comfortable with the limelight. He says he sometimes regrets having used his full name on his markets, but it was something he had to do.
"The reason why I went to Dan Schantz was not because of my father, but because of the Schantzes in Orefield. I wish I hadn't sometimes, because you become too much a part of the business then.
"Now it's sort of a problem. I can't walk into a restaurant without hearing, 'That's Dan Schantz, that's Dan Schantz.' And that doesn't do anything for me. I'd just as soon not be noticed."
Ironically, Harold Schantz, an unrelated third-generation Schantz who sells his orchard's bounty at a roadside stand on Route 309, says the confusion is still there.
"It's an everyday occurrence," Schantz said, that customers come to his place and expect it to be Dan Schantz's. "Sometimes they get mad because we didn't have the specials. They felt we should have them."
Schantz's open heart surgery was just six weeks ago, but he hasn't relaxed much during the recuperation.Home from the hospital in just seven days and on the phone making business deals seven days after that, Schantz has continued working like nothing really has changed. Last week, he made a trip to the Philadelphia food distribution center. If his doctor's orders were to relax, then Schantz would think he was following instructions.
"I love it; to me it's relaxing," he says of the cutthroat, competitive atmosphere. "The office, here, is a problem. They're keeping me out of the office. Down there, I think it's therapy."
Blogger's Note:
Since this article first published in 1987, I can say that Dan has mellowed considerably. Still gets his "feathers ruffled" but over all, Dan makes you want to do better. He demands only the best out of people, mostly because he demands it of himself. I've learned more about myself and how much I am capable of in the past 20 years. And I'm a far better person for having met and work for, Dan and Mildred. I think most of my coworkers would agree.
