My dear old dad, Major Byron A. Black, child of the Great <snicker> Depression, career Air Force officer, was a worrier, supported by a worry chorus from my dear mother, also grown up in the mean 1930s. They fretted and they worried, and when it became amply clear that I was a carefree, happy sort who did not bother to worry, that made them worry so much the more.
“Son, you don’t want to end up old and broke. Nobody wants to know you when you’re down like that.”
“Sure dad”, thumbing through CYCLE WORLD and dreaming of road racing my Matchless G-50 on the Isle of Man. Which I did. And survived. Sold that motor cheap. Today it’s worth $80,000.
Voila, the Millennium. As if by magic, I’m old and poor and really short of worry. It has in fact occurred to me that I may indeed be fame-and-wealth-averse, as the truly successful people I’ve brushed against over the aeons have by and large been jittery, worried, suspicious sorts, enslaved by their great bounty and haunted by beautiful, hungry ghouls. Rich in everything except being ignored and left alone.
Which is, in its own way, a priceless gift.