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Welcome to my column about the world of a 51-year-old company in Warrington, Pa., outside Philadelphia. We manufacture analytical equipment for the semiconductor, chemical, and industrial and natural gas industries. Through a new subsidiary, Tiger Optics, we're launching a line of laser-based devices for the medical, environmental, and public-safety markets, among others.

It's an exciting time to be running MEECO. The quintessential Old Economy company is making the transition to the New Economy -- and thriving. Still, what's interesting to me about business is the personal side -- people's moods, motivations, behavior. That's what you'll find in this column. I'll start with the family story that led me to my present role as president and CEO of MEECO Inc.

"Don't you want to work with Daddy?" came my aging father's plea. Right. Work at his teetering old company with its '50s-style name: "Manufacturers Engineering & Equipment Co."? At 33, I had a hard-won career as a business journalist in New York City. I loved my city life. Plus, my father was crazy -- a brilliant inventor, but clinically paranoid. He drove away every manager he ever had and refused to even take calls from customers. He consistently thwarted what could have been a vibrant business. I wouldn't have lasted a day.

Then I got a call from a stranger. It turned out to be my father's latest secretary, Connie. (He sometimes went through as many as 100 secretaries a year.) "It's bad. You've got to get down here," said Connie. I knew about the cancer. He was stubborn and self-destructive about that, too. With no idea of what lay ahead, I caught the next train to Philadelphia's 30th Street Station and took a taxi to the hospital emergency ward.

Before I stopped speaking to him, my father used to meet me at the dilapidated, old North Philadelphia Station when I made my monthly pilgrimage home for the weekend. "Hello, babydoll," he'd say, waving regally as I approached the dusty, maroon Chrysler. Even on weekends, my father always donned one of his very worn Hickey Freeman suits, with a white shirt, stained Countess Mara tie, and a battered gray Stetson hat. Thick glasses made his wide brown eyes bulge. A big Cuban cigar jutted from his mouth like a pacifier.

His refusal to get the surgery he needed -- despite tearful pleas and multiple doctor visits -- led to our rift. Now they did what they could at the hospital, but it was too late. The cancer had metastasized. The doctor said he was "punched out."

I knew better. I was sure that my father would soon be back at his cluttered desk with the plaque proclaiming the disarray a "sign of genius." It was just a matter of keeping it going until he got well. So, while my father rested at home with a nurse, I "managed" the plant.

That's "managed" in quotation marks because, in truth, I was merely plant-sitting. I'd drive his big, old Chrysler down the New Jersey Turnpike every few days. I had long since learned not to meddle in my father's business. He'd kill me if I touched anything. Although he was barely lucid, my father still insisted that Fred, the shipper, deliver all MEECO's mail to the apartment everyday, an hour roundtrip. Bills, checks, orders, correspondence, catalogs cascaded in a growing mound atop his bed. My father -- heavily medicated, bedridden -- was determined to stay in control.

Anyway, I had article deadlines and a business class to teach. My plan was simply to maintain my professional regimen until my father could resume his. I camped out in a corner of the office, far removed from the employees. I ignored the beer cans, the cigarette butts, and the kids napping on mattresses under their workbenches. Once in a while, I'd stare at the dingy, cigar-stained walls and think how they'd look with fresh paint.

Then one day I called from New York just to check in. Connie's voice was vacant: "We're not to talk to you." Although I hated to upset my father, I had to call. "Your father asks you not to bother him," said his nurse. In desperation, I sent a lengthy telegram. Nothing. The cruel and unexpected reversal was classic Dr. Gustav Bergson.

I didn't know that my father, believing I had no interest in the business, was ready to hand it over to a relative. In fact, I've since learned that it's not uncommon for women to relinquish their rights to the family business to uncles, male cousins, any male relative for that matter. Why take on relatives in a nasty battle? Why disrupt your life? Why get involved with a company you know nothing about?

I had no choice. Up until recently, I'd assumed my father was rich, a millionaire. (In anticipation of a sizable inheritance, I belonged to North Star, a group of highly philanthropic heirs.) I attributed all evidence to the contrary as mere eccentricity -- his shabby appearance a mere testament to his reluctance to shop or do anything other than work. I mean, just getting him to eat was a problem. "I'll eat on the weekends," he'd retort when I fretted about his steady diet of danish, coffee, and Coke.

That my father was actually broke was among the interesting discoveries of this time. With no insurance and no savings, he was entirely dependent on the business to pay for his medical and home health care. My journalist's salary wasn't gonna cut it. Reluctantly, I contacted my father's lawyer, Irv, and my best friend's father, Richard Loeb, a businessman I trusted. We devised a hasty plan.

After the nurse's hours, I drove to my father's suburban high-rise and slipped into his room. He slept face up with the light on. I couldn't stop to look. I went to the closet and pulled the key ring from a pocket of the gray, frayed suit he would never wear again.

Next stop: the plant, where I unlocked a file cabinet, removed the big leather binder and took a blank check. After a sleepless night at the Loebs' house, I walked to my father's bank. It was no trouble to convince his officer, who had tried for years to get him to use a money market account, to transfer the company's funds into a new account I controlled.

A day later, I sat at my father's desk for the first time. I sat and waited. The call came. "It's your father," Connie said, looking even more ashen than usual.

"Daddy --"

"Get out!" he barked. "GET THE HELL OUT!"

The drive to Manhattan took forever. My father's rage overwhelmed me. I was in tears. It wasn't worth it to fight. The only thing that really mattered was regaining his love. Not the business. Together, we'd come up with something. I pulled into a rest area and found a pay phone.

A different voice answered.

"Daddy -- "

"Honey, you fought for it. It's yours."

I never asked what changed his mind. A few days later, I pulled into the familiar gravel parking lot, sat there and quaked. I walked into the plant and gently shook the shoulder of a startled young man dozing on a mattress near the door. "Wake up," I said. "It's time to work."

That was 1983. I've run MEECO ever since, turning it from a maker of analog equipment primarily for the natural-gas industry into a $5 million manufacturer of high-technology equipment sold worldwide. Revenues have gone from $800,000 to $5 million. I did this with a lot of help from my friends. I hope you'll join them and read my column when I return in two weeks.

In the meantime, feel free to e-mail me at: lbergson@meeco.com.