Work Smarter, Not Harder

“Work smarter, not harder!” My grandfather was always full of nuggets of wisdom like this. The fact was, though, he was going to work both smarter and harder than everyone around him — and he expected those around him to do their best to keep up. My grandfather, Paul Voegtlin, Sr., wasn’t a titan of business — he certainly wasn’t a New York City CEO — he ran a small construction and swimming pool business that thrived but remained a small business. His company and career provided precisely what he wanted, enough money to live very well while setting aside enough time to spend with family. That was his definition of success, and he embodied it fully.

I was just a skinny 14-year-old when I was conscripted into one of the family businesses, my grandfather’s — not because he needed the extra hands, but because I needed the life lessons. That was how my grandfather operated; he instilled greatness in those around him — if those around him were willing to listen.

At 14, I was not willing to listen, but I heard every single life lesson, stored them in my memory, and unwittingly, I’ve enacted every single lesson of his in my own life in the subsequent years. While I’ve had a career that has been very different from my grandfather’s — I’ve built my success within the technology and information spaces — I’ve used those same life and work principles to drive my own success. They’re simple but impactful and only learned through story.

My grandfather got up early, and when he was done working, he set aside his work completely. He was a planner who prepared for every new job before he stepped onto a job site. He was a man of integrity who lived his life as an open book, and he was always willing to share his best practices and insights. He was ready to give everyone a chance, an opportunity, but just one opportunity per person (he would provide folks with a second opportunity, but only after seeing meaningful change in their lives).

He was a lifelong learner, and his views on subjects evolved over time. He always put his family first and his work; it was always second, but a close second. When he started a task, he brought it through to completion. He was influential in his niche — his suppliers, partners, and even his competitors respected him — and everyone knew it was practically impossible not to respect him. He was, most of all, a good man.

I knew all of this as I grew up, but it wasn’t until he passed away in 2018 that I realized the incredible impact he had on my life. In learning that, in living his values, I realized that to honor what I’d learned from him, I have to share his principles with all who will listen. So, I hope that you, unlike my 14-year-old self, will fully attend to his wisdom.

My grandfather got up early and drank a glass of Mauna Lua guava juice with breakfast — back then, the brand was owned by Ocean Spray. We supported Ocean Spray unflinchingly because its headquarters was in a neighboring town. I frequently slept over at my grandparents’ house as a kid, my mother and step-dad worked, and my grandmother was a homemaker. It was an excellent way to give my parents a rest, but I knew it was my grandparents’ way of getting some extra grandson time. I was the first grandchild, so I was pretty spoiled in some ways.

My grandfather was usually up just after my grandmother, who would start in on breakfast. If my grandfather got up first, though, you wanted to make sure that you got up shortly after him because if you were lucky enough to go along with him, you knew that meant a breakfast out at a local breakfast nook or a quick drive-through at Mister Donut for treats and coffee.

He always met his team every morning — a revolving cast of locals and, usually, my uncle, who would go on to take over this family business. Each morning, they’d get their directions for the day from my grandfather and then execute — there were usually 2 teams, my grandfather leading one and my uncle the other. My grandfather set the high-level strategy, and he expected the fine details to get worked out by his trusted employees. He used to say, “hire people that you trust to do the work right.”

When my grandfather was done working, he set aside his work completely. He was a construction and pool man by day only — and it was in the rest of this time that he unwound and relaxed. Now, relaxation for you and me is a pretty familiar concept; there’s usually a comfy couch involved — and for my grandfather, he liked that as well; he had his Lay-Z-Boy recliner. When the sky was clear and the wind was gentle, my grandfather longed to be in the sky.

My grandfather enlisted in the Navy when he was old enough to enlist. As an awkward young man of average intelligence, he probably wasn’t the top pick to become a flying ace. He wasn’t a pick at all. While he wanted to be an aircraft pilot, it would be enough for him to serve on an aircraft carrier, and that’s what he did. He worked on the newspaper for the USS. Forrestal, in production. He served honorably and was discharged — weeks later, the USS. Forrestal suffered a massive explosion, and the area where my grandfather worked was destroyed, taking many of those he served alongside. This was not a story he spoke of. I’m not even sure I’ve got all my facts right; I heard this story maybe once his entire life, but I knew it was significant to him. He didn’t dream of the ocean or the Navy; he dreamt of the skies.

After the Navy, my grandfather worked as a bread delivery man and a milk delivery man — and had three children. He worked for Hood, the major dairy in the area, and there would never be another brand of milk allowed in his home or our homes, for that matter. He saved his money, and he became a handyman, doing small construction and home improvement projects — all while watching This Old House on PBS television to figure out how its’ host, Bob Villa, and his team were doing the work.

By the mid-80s, he had built up his business and saved enough to buy a multifamily house and its neighboring land. He divided that multifamily home into 4 apartments, then he added to it an additional 4 apartments by expanding the home into the adjacent land. They were beautiful apartments — I spent several years living in one of them that my parents rented from my grandfather.

His business had grown beyond construction, and he narrowly missed the housing crash of the 1980s by switching his company’s primary focus to installing swimming pools. He saw a slowing in the housing market, and unlike most of his competition, he adjusted — it was a master move.

Through the late 80s, my grandfather thrived. He saved up enough money to purchase an airplane — a Pitts Special aerobatics biplane. He was going to put that plane through its’ rigors. When there was a clear day on the weekend, his wife, all his children, and his grandchildren would sit around the swimming pool that he installed for himself (and used as a sales prop for anyone considering purchasing a swimming pool) — and we would look up to the skies.

You’d hear a light buzz first, off in the distance — that was usually when one of us would hear him coming. That light buzz would slowly turn into a wild roar of engine noise — then, as low as to reach out of the cockpit and pick the leaves from the trees, my grandfather would appear — going so fast as to snap your neck to keep pace. Before he hit the center of the backyard, above the pool, he’d switched directions and now was heading up directly into the sun. Higher and higher, he would go as if he was challenging the sun to a game of ‘chicken’. But Icarus he was not. Eventually, gravity would be the victor; my grandfather would idle the engine, and silence engulfed us all. The momentum of the plane slowed to a standstill — and in a moment, my grandfather was there, sitting up next to the sun — motionless and silent.

Gravity eventually realizing it would once again have to pull on my grandfather’s plane, as he started to come back towards the ground. Hurtling tail-first until the weight of the engine snapped him back, white knuckles on the yoke, staring directly towards the ground — he then gassed it — towards his home, his family, and the pool that he installed with his own two hands — at full speed. The engine screamed as the plane would come rushing towards the ground and, at the very last minute, pulling back up to even and spinning clockwise, then counter-clockwise as he showed his flair and disappeared over the treeline.

He was absolutely fearless in the cockpit of his plane… and if he had fear in anything, anything whatsoever, it didn’t show.

When he was older, and his heart began to give him troubles, his pilots’ license expired — I never knew if he couldn’t renew or if he’d had his license revoked due to his health. I could tell that not being able to fly was a source of deep sadness for my grandfather in his later years. He owned that sadness, though, and turned it into motivation — it was this skill that I have so seldomly seen elsewhere that I embraced in my most profound challenges to not only escape from my depths but to thrive, just as he did. For my grandfather, if he couldn’t fly his plane, he could modify it and make it a better plane for the next daring adventurer who would own her. He took off the wings of his aircraft and carefully packed the plane up, piece by piece, onto the back of a flatbed trailer, and he brought his plane home and parked it in the garage. He would spend the next few years painstakingly extending the flaps on the biplane to make it an even more daring machine, and he caringly restored it to new glories.

Paul Voegtlin, Sr. was a planner who prepared for every new job before he stepped onto a job site. Before a single hole was dug, my grandfather had carefully choreographed every one of his employees, his subcontractors, and scheduled the delivery of water — his process was strict. If you fell behind, well, you caught back up.

My grandfather wasn’t a harsh man — I rarely recall him ever raising his voice, let alone any kind of violence — my grandfather held a different type of power — respect. You did not want to disappoint my grandfather because he would wear that disappointment on his face for weeks — and man, you did not want that. I only disappointed him a few times, and I did not want to repeat those mistakes.

He always put his family first and his work; it was always second, but a close second. When my grandfather was building his apartments, I was in preschool, about half a block away. I was at recess on the swingset when I’d lost my balance. I fell off the side and into one of the support pipes for the swingset. I hit hard, at the top of my forehead, with one of the bolts holding the swing set together piercing my head. I remember the rush of pain, clear as the skies my grandfather piloted his plane through. Then nothing but darkness — I’d passed out. I also must have let out one heck of a scream before blackness because my grandfather heard and recognized my cry and rushed to get me.

He must have run at full steam because when I was awaking, I was in my grandfather’s arms being carried back to his truck, blood gushing from my head, and he rushed me to the hospital for 8 stitches in my forehead. I don’t know what he was working on that day — but I know that whatever it was, I was more important, and that stuck: I am important.

As he got older, he eventually sold his airplane. I think he used that money to build the addition onto his home — which made life more comfortable for him and his wife as they shifted to something more akin to traditional retirement. It was that room that he built exactly as he wanted, with his own two hands, where he finally succumbed to cancer — on his own terms, in his own home, with his adoring family surrounding him.

I could tell about a million stories about my grandfather, but the easiest way to see his life is to look at those who inherited his love. I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it weren’t for his influence, and I’m forever indebted to his memory.