Taking a lifelong break from "success"

In my 69 years, I, like most ordinary people, have learned a few lessons so hard that they can't be taught in books.

One of those lessons, which has really stuck with me, and is at my core today, is that, no matter how bad things get – the death of a spouse, for example – there is always compensation of some kind.

All this past week, I have been listening to Republican stories on television about people who succeeded against all kinds of odds, and the opportunity and will to build that kind of success, in the correct political climate, is what makes America so great.

I am tired of hearing it. I wouldn't hold it against them, but successful people are only part of what makes America so great. I certainly can't count myself among them. I have had a nice career, always salaried, always represented by a union, and it has worked out well for me. I sit with my family in our home on a hill and know that I would not change a thing, mostly because I wouldn't want to, and in some instances because I know I can't.

In reality, I am completely content today because of things I did, but also because of things I failed to do. Failing must be bad or not so bad, depending on what it leads to. I know in my heart there are many such Americans as me, and I want to share with you a story I wrote about you and me, several years ago.

The story started with "potential."

My folks always told me I had potential. "You have the potential of 10 people,” they said. I flinched, because the more potential you have, the guiltier you are bound to feel.

I shouldered my potential and plowed off through fields of mediocrity toward their goals. I reached one or two of them, but fell short of many others, like all-state quarterback, valedictorian, mayor, president and Pope. I remained mostly a person of potential, and naturally I felt bad about it. “My,” the folks would sigh, “the things that boy could do if he’d put his mind to it.”

Instead, I became a newspaperman. One day I was assigned to interview the most successful man in the United States. He could do anything.

I gulped. “You sure I’m the guy to do this interview?” I said. “Boy, you ought to win the Pulitzer Prize with this one,” grunted the editor, and off I went.

This unusual man was named Smith. He lived in a huge mansion on sprawling, manicured grounds. There was no one else around, save for a couple of gardeners and the butler, who answered the door. Classics of art crowded the walls, in the style of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Renoir and Matisse.

We tried to chat, but his phone kept ringing. Each time his reply was swift and sure. To his broker: “Okay, buy a block of Amalgamated and sell the Consolidated.” To the governor: “Tighten spending by 3.1 percent.” To the prince: “Tell the queen to take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” To The Vatican: “Yes, Your Holiness, I can be there by Monday noon.”

“I think you should be president,” I said. “So does my mother,” Smith said. “But I just don’t have the time.” The huge house was oppressively quiet. “You’re not married?” I said. Smith smiled. “Who could stand to live with me?” I said, “Don’t you ever have company? Friends over?” “You can ask your guests to lose at bridge only for so long,” he said.

I wondered if he had hobbies. “I loved golf,” he said. “There’s a course right here on the property. But it’s no fun playing alone.”

I said: “No one will golf with you either?” He stood and motioned me to follow. He picked up a coat tree and carried it outside to the first tee. He teed up a ball and with the coat tree drove it 375 yards down the fairway to the green. It rolled dead three feet from the cup.

“Shoot,” he said. “Missed! I’m out of practice.” He ripped a second ball toward the green. It bounced onto the green and hit the first ball, knocking it into the hole.

“The course record is 18,” Smith sighed. "Is there anything you can't do?" I asked, a little desperately.

“Well, I can’t keep my hands still,” he said. True enough, his hands were always busy. While we talked he doodled with pencil and pad. “May I see?” I said. He turned the pad to me and showed me a dazzling miniature of Picasso’s “Guernica.”

I looked up, amazed, at the Rembrandts and Van Goghs. “All Smiths?” I said. “It beats watching TV,” he shrugged.

“Surely a man of your infinite success will have some advice for the rest of us,” I said. Smith studied his “Guernica” critically for a moment, then wadded it up, flicked it into a wastebasket 45 feet away, and said, “Be thankful you’ve got potential.”

And I am. It's my compensation, and maybe yours, too. And it's priceless.