one knew more about my father on a personal and social level and in a
one-on-one working relationship than Johnnie Babcock and me. Both of
us being sons of self-made men, we think it represents thousands of others
living or working in the shadows of powerful fathers.
For Babcock, it was stressful to be second-in-command to a Forbes 400
workaholic for almost two decades and to meet the high expectations
demanded. As he points out, his own father enjoyed significant fame—but
Johnnie never worked for him. He worked for my father—and lived a
personal version of “the strenuous life.”
For me, as the son of a self-made entrepreneur, I learned you can
survive reasonably well if you maintain your independence. It’s another
scenario when you become an SOB. I had a normal childhood, a good
education, and a strong and respectable independent career going when I
decided to accept my father’s invitation to work for him. That’s when the
going really got tough.
In 1942, Johnnie’s father, H.E. Babcock, an entrepreneur who founded
the largest farm cooperative in the nation, hired my father. My father, in
turn, hired Johnnie to work for him for a few years in the late ’40s, and
later to rejoin him in 1964. When I came to work for my father in 1971, I
reported to Johnnie. Neither of us could have fully anticipated what “life
with father” would be like. As his longest-lasting employee, Johnnie
resigned in 1981 after nineteen years. I lasted seventeen, and after
negotiating the purchase of the outdoor divisions from my father in 1988,
(which I had been hired by him to run), I brought Johnnie back as a
director of Park Outdoor.
The experience of being the offspring of self-made entrepreneurs may
be familiar to sons and daughters of driven fathers across the nation,
whether they work for them or not. What I saw of my father as I grew up
and the insights I acquired while working for him, combined with
Johnnie’s view from the top, make a story we think is worth telling. It may
even provide comfort for other SOBs.
INTRODUCTION
IN THE BEGINNING
They’re tearing down the street where I grew up, Like pouring brandy
in a Dixie cup. They’re paving concrete on a part of me, No trial for
killing off a memory. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust Can you find the Milky
Way? Long Tall Sally and Tin Pan Alley Have seen their dying day.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust It’ll never be the same. But we’re all
forgiving, We’re only living, To leave the way we came.
