The Caro Epiphany: A Lesson from LBJ’s Lineage

I was sitting beneath a giant oak tree at Mozart’s in Austin, reading Caro's first volume on LBJ with a cup of coffee. A brisk wind made its way through the collar of my shirt and down my spine. The skies were as blue as Sinatra’s eyes, and the lake looked like a Tiffany's lamp I’d seen in New York the week before—every shade of green you can imagine, twinkling beneath a Texas sun.

On a small stage overlooking the lake, singer-songwriters started at ten o'clock. I'd usually arrive around eight-thirty or nine to get an hour of reading in. But when the music started, I'd put my book down and listen. It didn't take long to figure out their cadence—they’d open with a well-known song: the men sang Willie, the gals did something by Van Morrison, followed by two more classics before singing one of their own. I guess that's how audible economics works.

Once I finished my cup, I'd get a refill—usually half decaf—the "Lake Austin Blend," if I recall. Then I'd sit back down and take in spring in Texas. Music is everywhere in Austin, and good music at that. If you have an ear for melody, living in Austin is like living in a songbook.

Anyway, I was reading about Lyndon Johnson’s ancestors. His mother’s family was pragmatic, no-nonsense—tough as the landscape they tried to tame, with a knack for commerce. His father’s family was optimistic and opportunistic—just as tough, but unrealistic and lacking discipline in business.

As I read about Sam Johnson, LBJ’s father, I took a hard stop and wrote, in all caps, AM I THIS MAN? in the middle of the page.

I sat at the picnic table, dumbfounded, staring at the lake with this thought spinning through my mind like a motorcycle in a ball cage. Little did I know, at that very moment, this realization would quell all lust for riches in my fevered imagination.

You see, I've been going through a metamorphosis for a decade now—not of my own volition.

I started as a run-of-the-mill corporate businessman out of college. I traveled all over the country, landed a few promotions, and begrudgingly took to it, like a politician telling the truth. But I didn’t enjoy it—something didn’t make sense—so I got into finance.

First with Smith Barney, then with SunTrust Robinson-Humphrey, an investment bank in Atlanta. I wasn’t fitting in, which was confusing as hell for a guy who’d fit in everywhere since the first day of kindergarten. My true personality was coming out, albeit slowly, awkwardly, and painfully.

So, I ventured into entrepreneurialism, and I immediately “got it.” I found “my people,” even though I failed spectacularly, many times. I learned something important about myself—between being a W2 and a 1099, I was the latter by a country mile. Every boss I ever had, going back to bagging groceries at 14, would’ve said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

But these last few years, I've been morphing into something new, yet again. And new isn't the right word because I've always been who I am: an artist—a writer.

That's why the realization about Sam Johnson was so massive—I am not from LBJ's maternal stock. I’m more from his father's family, which is to say, I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool businessman.

That said, I understand business. From an intellectual standpoint, I'm an A-student, Phi Beta Kappa. But from a practical standpoint, I'm a C-student—a solid 2.0 kind of guy.

Over the last two decades, I've been a stockbroker, an investment banker, and I've worked in private equity. And because I have a brain on my shoulders, I understand it thoroughly. But when you get down to brass tacks, I just don’t find it interesting, and I’m OK with that—I am finally OK with being me. Nothing about it lights a fire in my belly like Bob Dylan or Mark Twain.

It was quite the realization. I called my mother later that day to tell her, and her immediate response was, “Your dad and I have known this your entire life.” To which I replied, “What the shit?”

In the interest of saving 500 words, it's safe to assume the general consensus was this: I wouldn't have listened had they told me. And they’re right.

But at 45, with greying hair and an ever-increasing handicap on the golf course, I've matured enough (though barely) to hear this sort of thing and take it in stride. I guess I needed to hear it through Robert Caro’s pen—true to form, only an artist could speak to me.

So, I'm not much of a businessman. Big deal. It is what it is. I'm good at other things, like making a world class peanut butter and Dorito sandwich. I'll bet you didn't know those existed, let alone that I am the world's best. And I'm good for a crude joke or two on the golf course.

I have a talent for a lot of things that don't make money—which makes me a great fourth on the golf course.

Hell, now that I think about it, I need to figure out how to spend more time golfing. It seems like the good Lord gave me a personality for it.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA