mis·cel·la·ny

Memories of Green and Gold

2012-01-22T13:04:00.001-06:00

The old bells from atop Pat Neff Hall resonated across the stately campus. Evenly spaced lamp posts casting soft light into the night shed a glow onto the red brick pathways. A student or two sauntered by, but most were elsewhere, leaving me and my thoughts alone to ponder my new situation. For me, it all seemed too good to be true. I wondered how many others sat on that very bench. How many others may have felt the very way I felt? I took the walk to that bench after moving all of my things into my new room just two blocks away. Classes for the fall 1994 semester would begin in a couple days, and I had time to explore this wonderful, albeit somewhat intimidating, new place.

Being at Baylor was my chance to be the version of myself that I wanted to be -- me, reinvented. Even in those days, I drew parallels between life and automobiles. So, I felt like I had been unveiled after two years of intense redesigning. I was a version of myself that only slightly reflected what I was before. If I were advertising myself in a television ad, the voiceover would have been something like, Introducing the all-new 1994 Jerome Cone. Excellence through evolution.

So, it was wonderful to walk on those same brick pathways again just two days ago. So much was exactly as it was in 1994. Yet there were several new buildings and additions that added to the campus' romance. Even the new buildings had been designed to appear as if they had been there all along, complete with red brick exteriors and tall steeples pointing toward the heavens. Things were in full vigor as students made their way from one class to the next, riding bikes and walking beneath the 150 year-old oak trees. Many listened to iPods, while others laughed with fellow students as they strolled.

I felt a tinge of envy. There was a slight urge to return to a time when my only responsibilities were to study and learn. Stepping into marble-lined walls of the Hankamer School of Business, I was thrown back to a time when I studied the disciplines of accounting and finance and marketing. My mouth watered a bit when I saw that a financial markets lab had been added. It was a state-of-the-art room with flat panel computer monitors showing real-time market data scrolling across. CNN Money played on two large flat panel TVs mounted on the wall. I think I would have enjoyed a class in there.

After a bit more strolling around, I eventually had to make my way back to the Marriot Courtyard where I would ready myself for a day of work. Later, as the airplane climbed out over the Waco, I looked down at the campus and felt a lasting surge of positivity. I mentioned none of my campus visit to my first officer, as he would almost certainly not understand my sentiments. So, I kept things to myself and enjoyed the glow I felt from within.

Thank you, Baylor, for all the memories. I'll visit again soon.

The Weight of Practicality

2012-01-08T14:36:00.000-06:00

It was a bit of a cliche really. We climbed out of our Camry and assembled all of our gear for the simple task of strolling around the Toyota new car lot. Most of the gear - the stroller and huge diaper bag - was on account of Elliot. Once everything was assembled and properly stowed, the four of us set out to determine which model would eventually replace our domestic and, thus, poorly designed Chrysler 300. We started out looking at the smaller Rav4. Then we looked at the larger and more expensive Highlander. Very nice. Next we perused briefly the Tacoma pick-ups. No. Then, we happened upon something unexpected. I saw a model to which I had never given any attention. Yet, today, it caught my eye.

It's called the Toyota Sienna. And it is a mini van.

For those of you who know me, I expect at least a few well-crafted quips about the idea of me owning a mini van. Still, I forced myself to set aside my ego and give the Sienna a fair shake. I opened the door and sat in its comfortable, roomy interior. It was equipped with the standard stuff you would expect a soccer mom mini van to have: automatic transmission, power locks, windows, mirrors, seats, dual controlled air conditioning, power side doors... you know... mini van stuff. I started the engine and eased it onto the I-35 feeder road. The ride was quiet and smooth. Hardly any road noise at all. A small green light on the instrument panel read ECO. "What does this mean?" I asked the salesman, pointing at the light.

"That means your fuel consumption is within an economical range," He explained. I also noticed the console between the front two seats could be removed and replaced with a cooler. I thought of vacations we took as kids. We had coolers packed with Capri Suns and fruit. The entire vehicle is designed for the sensible, practical, often vacationing, family.

The entire experience sparked childhood memories. I pondered what my dad must have felt when he bought the vans he and my mom owned. You see, my dad is a performance car lover from way back. He's been launched down quarter-mile tracks in rumbling hot rods, and he's tasted the craftsmanship of his turbocharged Porsche. And yet, when the time came for him to succumb to the weight of sensibility, he purchased the family multiple luxury vans and station wagons throughout my childhood years. When I was in elementary school, it never occurred to me how eager he must have been to drive something for himself. Yet, I don't recall him ever complaining about driving the vans. He just drove them.

When I pulled the Sienna back into the Toyota lot. I couldn't find anything critical to say about it. Quite simply, it was more comfortable than anything we've owned. It was quieter. It was smoother. And with the rear seats removed, there was enough room to fit a full-size refrigerator and a ten-speed bicycle. Unlike the Chrysler, the build quality was good, as well. This as evidenced by my trusty door-closing test. Everything just made way too much sense.

We climbed back into our Camry and drove away, pretty sure that we would be mini van owners before long.

I suppose there are worse things.

My Hero

2011-11-01T11:04:00.003-06:00

The other night, the familiar tune of I've Got a Crush on You drifted from my pocket. It was Blythe calling. In the midst of wrestling my flight case into a dark cockpit, I wasn't able to answer it. Once in my seat, I returned her call. The conversation began as it usually does. 'Hey there.' 'How's it going?' 'Everything good?' That is, until she told me that she had been in an accident. I knew from her calmness that everyone must be okay. I asked anyway. "Who was in the car? Is everyone okay?" My stomach sank.

"Everyone is fine." She assured me. "But the Corolla is, well, dead I'm afraid. We hit a deer, baby. It was a ten-point buck, actually."

My imagination snapped to what sort of damage a buck can inflict upon a small commuter car. Images of the animal smashing through the windshield and into the cabin filled my thoughts. The mere idea of anything bad happening to the three people who were in the car made me nauseous. Jakob, Elliot and Blythe were driving home from my mother's house when the deer darted through the darkness and across the highway. My entire world was in the car.

Even after her phone call ended and Blythe had assured me that all was okay. My imagination continued to generate scenarios that could have happened with only the slightest difference in her reactions or in how the deer impacted the car. Hitting one of the many huge oak trees that line the highway or a telephone pole is all too plausible. It would only take a flick of the steering wheel in the wrong direction, and things could have been infinitely worse.

Today, I went to the lot where the wrecker driver deposited our car. It was my first viewing of the car since the accident. It was a bit like seeing a friend in the last of days of life. The damage from the deer was far worse than I had imagined. I stood and looked at the car who treated our family with such compassion and sense of duty. It was not unlike a dear old friend who had always been there to help. Even after we recently bought a newer and much nicer Camry, and the Corolla had long since been entirely paid off, we simply could not bring ourselves to sell the Corolla. It was, after all, a family member. We intended to drive it until it simply would no longer run, until the engine seized or the transmission disintegrated. But with more than 296,000 hassle-free miles on it, we weren't sure that day would ever come.

I removed our belongings from the car and thought about the day in 2003 when Blythe and I bought it new. But today I sat in the driver's seat and looked at the shifter knob. The once-textured rubber of the knob is now smooth and shiny from eight years of shifting through its five gears. I unscrewed the worn knob from the gear shifter and slid it into my pocket. Although we signed the car's title to the salvage yard so its parts could be used as scrap, the shifter knob will stay with me. And when I look at it, I will always remember the best car I have ever owned.

Thank you, little Corolla. For everything.

Hell's Kitchen

2011-10-16T11:46:00.000-05:00

The kitchen in my home is partially demonished. It is literally in shambles. It's not that a tree fell through the roof, or that it was destroyed by a tornado. No. It's a wreck by my own hand. Why? you ask.

My wife and I have planned for years to improve the dodgey state of our 58-year-old kitchen. It's original to the house and in dire need of modernization and remodeling. The project would cost about $20,000 if we were to hire professionals to do it. Because that exceeds the amount we have to spend, we are doing the project ourselves. Little by little. Many visitors might enter our home and wonder why in the world anyone would subject themselves to such a protracted mess. And until recently, I shared that very sentiment.

I cannot count the number of times I've walked through the front door, often from a grueling four-day trip, and been met by an untidy home. Lately, there has been an ugly, half-destroyed kitchen with stacks of boxes containing our dishes scattered about. The wooden subflooring is partially exposed. The decorative trim is missing from the doorways. The seams from the newly hung sheetrock are showing. And my mood would begin to deteriorate -- quickly. I simply wanted to enter the place where I should find peace and comfort and relief from the frustrations and stresses of my job. And instead, I felt as though I was stepping into Beirut. I found it maddening.

My wife is far better equipped to handle this sort of thing. This is due, in large part, to fact that she grew up in a house that her father remodeled room-by-room over the years. She has experienced a house in progress many times and is able to deal with the messiness and disorder, all the while knowing that something much better awaits. I, on the other hand, did not grow up in a house under constant construction. In fact, my mother was -- and still is -- a neat freak. I come by this trait honestly. It can be said that I simply want things nice and pretty and tidy and, well, not under construction with no idea of a deadline.

I had a special way of handling this area of contention: I complained. I griped about the mess, then about the yard, then about neighborhood, and then finally about La Grange in general. (Truth is, living in La Grange was a compromise for me, but here we live. So the complaints surface all too naturally.) Blythe, gifted with the virtue of patience, would tolerate this for a while. But only for a while.

It was brought to my attention that listening to my complaining wasn't fun for anyone in the Cone family. I was a drag. She told me this over coffee the morning after I came home from a trip and began griping about everything: work, house, money, yard, kitchen -- everything. She was right. And this discussion fueled my thoughts. Is not one's life very much like an old fixer-upper house?

I would say most people who live in a house want it to be nice. Some people begin with a very nice house, and some people begin with an old fixer-upper that they can turn into a nice house. For the "fixer-upper" people, the question is whether they are willing to perform the work necessary to have the nice house. It's certainly easier to complain. Trust me. But doing that makes no progress toward a nice house, nor does it improve your mood. In fact, it's my experience that complaining often only makes you feel worse. So, having been corrected by my patient wife. I now make efforts to curtail my negative comments about the house. And instead, I pick up my hammer and make progress toward something better. One swing at a time.

Tom Hobbs

2011-09-23T10:17:00.002-05:00

I took a geology class in college. It wasn't that I had an interest in rocks or the earth's evolution. I just had to take a science class, and the surest way to secure an A was to enroll in geology. The professor's name was Tom Hobbs. He was an average guy in his late forties with short salt-and-pepper hair. I honestly don't recall much about the geology curriculum, but I do remember the professor's new car: a silver 1992 BMW 318i. Because I was doing well in his class, he was often willing to engage into conversation about his car. It didn't require much coaxing; I think he enjoyed talking about it. A framed photo of his car parked near a forest hung on the wall of his small office. He once told me that he waited all of his life to have that car. That stuck with me. After class one day, I sat at one of my favorite burger joints, and I remember thinking Why would someone wait that long to buy a BMW 3-series? After all, it was just an entry-level BMW, not a Ferrari -- or even a BMW 850i.

I ultimately concluded that Tom Hobbs' financial state must not be entirely wonderful. Clearly, he had a gambling problem, I reasoned. Or maybe the geology department didn't pay its professors very well. Whatever the reason, I decided that I would be more affluent than Tom Hobbs when I reached his age.

Let's fast-forward to current day. I'm 39 years old now. I have a wife with two children, a mortgage payment and a car payment. I live in a very modest house with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Contrary to my intentions when I was in my early twenties, I have come to have a very average existence. And like millions of other hard-working average men in this country, I watch episodes of Top Gear and tingle with desire as Jeremy Clarkson drives some of the world's most magnificent performance cars. And as I sit on my couch, I wonder if I am so unlike Tom Hobbs when he was in his late thirties dreaming of owning that 318i.

It's interesting how one's life unfolds at a certain pace and is almost impervious to outside forces. I've certainly made efforts to accelerate things. I've set goals and worked toward them. When I've achieved them, I set new goals. But this lifelong process only advances you at a slow-and-steady rate, never significantly quicker than your peers. Apart from a relative few -- like celebrities and lottery winners -- most people who have especially wonderful things have had to wait to have them. They've had to work their asses off for a long time. It's not coincidence that the people you see driving a Porsche, a Maserati or a Ferrari almost always have white hair. They're old. They waited. They worked hard. I suppose I understand that better today than when I was in my early twenties. In those days, I was under the ridiculous impression that I would make large volumes of money after graduating from college. Obviously, I did not have that experience.

So, today I watch Top Gear and frequently visit the Porsche website. I ache at the occasional Carrera that drives past me. And as I pull into the driveway of my basic home, I accept with certainty that I will be just like Tom Hobbs. One day I'll say to the young person drooling over my 911, "I waited all of my life to have that car."

Writing New Chapters

2011-06-21T20:22:00.001-05:00

Although hospitals aren't traditionally designed with the intention of being luxurious, I must say our experience there was exceedingly positive. My iPod played a streaming channel of soft little lullabies. I watched my wife cradle our newborn son in her arms. He was asleep for the moment, and my wife also slowly faded in and out of a state of well-deserved sleep. Occasionally, she caught me staring at her and smiled before drifting off again.

A few days later, we carried Elliot into the home in which he will live. Jakob has taken to his new role of big brother naturally. "Can I feed him, Mommy?" Jakob asks. "I wanna feed him." I enjoy watching from across the living room as Jakob gazes down at the sleeping newborn cradled in his small arms. What a calming force for me.

Perhaps it's merely the way I'm wired, but since meeting my new son, there is a renewed air of obligation that almost always weighs on me. I am constantly being reminded that it is my responsibility to guide these boys through their lives in a meaningful way. This new development has also stoked the fires of achievement and, therefore, I am driven to pursue greater things and, of course, earn more money. But it's not entirely about a larger paycheck. I find myself pondering how my two sons will perceive my life's accomplishments when they are grown.

It was a week after Elliot was born when I got the news. I received a phone call from the Colgan Air Flight Standards department. The interview in Memphis nine days earlier must have gone well enough, because the manager of flight standards told me that I had passed all the checks. Then he offered me the position of check airman, which is an instructor of the SAAB 340. I was elated and honored. I had taken another step upward.

The landscape of my life seems to be steadily improving. I believe that's due in large part - not entirely - to a lot of hard work. Maybe Jakob and Elliot will understand that a steady diet of fortitude and persistence can produce almost anything they dream up. If I'm lucky, my life will be an example of that.

And if I'm really lucky, they'll see that as an accomplishment -- regardless of my paycheck.

Being a House

2011-04-25T10:32:00.002-05:00

I remember when our home was being inspected before we bought it. The man who performed the inspection spent time in the attic, and he crawled around under the house. He checked the plumbing and insulation, the roof, the flooring, the hot water heater and a host of other things about which I know little. When he was finally finished, he informed us that the house was in pretty decent shape and that it passed the inspection. Still, I was only mildly excited about becoming the new owner of the 1952 ranch-style house. The yard was full of weeds, and there was almost no shine on the wood floors. The bathrooms were dated and ugly. It smelled like mothballs. The house we bought didn't come close to the gorgeous home that I had constructed in my head for my first house.

I had imagined my first house being beautiful, adorned with custom landscaping and crown moulding and beautiful wood flooring. I imagined owning the kind of house I saw on the covers of home improvement magazines while standing in line at Lowes or The Home Depot. Our home offers none of those things. Instead, it simply offers the possibility of those things. It's as if the home says, "Look, I want those things, too. But you're going to have to do them for me. I'm a clean slate. Turn me into anything you wish."

So, that's what we've done. The work began the very night we moved into the house. Paint cans were opened, and the scream of power saws and drills filled the air. Since we've owned the house, we've made large patios, dug flower beds, remodeled bath rooms, planted trees and had carpet and tile installed. Our list of things still to do is quite long, but the home is the nicest it has ever been. On occasion, I sit outside on the red brick patio, look out across the green grass (that once was more weeds than grass) and think about this house's story and how similar it is to my own.

In 1997, I graduated from college with nothing. Nothing. I had a tired 1989 Chevrolet IROC-Z. I had the clothes that could fit into a trunk and some hand-me-down furniture. I wasn't exactly sure how, but I was supposed to find a job and somehow make a good living. The road since then has been twisty and hilly and, at times, arduous. There were times when I've been confused and knocked down. Frustrated and disappointed. But as I sit on the patio now, sip a glass of wine, watch my son play on his fort and smell the steaks on the grill and the jasmine flowers, I come to the realization that I've never had such a comfortable situation before. Am I happy where I am? Not entirely. I have a long way to go. If I were a house, I wouldn't yet be that beautiful home on the cover of the home improvement magazine. By the same token, I think if our house could speak, it would say much the same thing. It might say, "Hey, look. I'm cuter and more comfortable than I've ever been before, but there's quite a lot I still need." And it would be right.

A mistake I've made in the past is to focus on the things I don't have or haven't accomplished. When I do this, I eventually become impatient and frustrated at my situation, preventing me from enjoying the things I do have or have accomplished. I try to force myself to block out the always-growing list of things I still want and focus, instead, on trying to enjoy the life I am living today while still continue inching along toward something better.

I'm now convinced that those beautiful homes on the covers of those home improvement magazines didn't become beautiful overnight. It took time. One project at a time. One nail at a time. One paint brush stroke at a time.

What I'm saying is I don't think life is any different.

Thin Green Line

2011-02-17T20:59:00.003-06:00

At the time of this writing, a website is allowing me to watch the real-time progression of a Continental Airlines flight from Houston Bush-Intercontinental to New Orleans International. A thin green digital line plots across a blue map of the country pixel by pixel. I'm watching it because my wife is aboard that Boeing 737 making its way to New Orleans.

I suspect most people who monitor flights on websites like these do so for practical reasons. A husband may monitor to see how much time he has to finish a surprise meal for his wife after she's been away on business. Or a manager ensures that his employee will land in time to make the big meeting. Or perhaps a nervous flight instructor watches to see his newly endorsed cross-country student succesfully complete a training flight. I can tell you with certainty that I have been all of those people. While it's true that I watch tonight to observe my wife's flight safely touching down in New Orleans, there is another set of thoughts floating through my head.

In additon to my wife's flight, many other Continental flights are represented on my monitor by small green airplane icons, each making their own thin green line as they fly closer to their destinations. And as I stared at the screen, I envisioned a captain and a first officer in the flight deck of each of those airplanes. Each having endured a path of of their own toward the job they now have. I wondered what sort of thin green line their individual careers plotted before they were allowed to wear a Continental Airlines pilot uniform. And just like that, I had a mild epiphony. I realized that people do this all the time. They have gone through all of things that I'm going through. The question then dawned on me: Why not me?

I actually saw myself flipping the switches of a Boeing -- and I believed it would eventually come to pass. The clarity and realism were powerful. And that's the part that can be difficult at times. I mean simply imagining something is one thing, but forging it to reality can often be so daunting that it seems somewhat out of reach or "pie in the sky". But tonight, much of that doubt cleared, offering me a glimse of the blue skies on the other side. I imagine someone one day sitting at their computer looking at my flight to anywhere. They'll watch me and they'll see the thin green line from behind my airplane. It will trace the path I've taken -- and the distance I've gone.

The Worry Wart

2011-02-16T12:32:00.000-06:00

I feel it in my shoulders. I roll my neck around and squeeze the muscles in my neck trying to relieve the discomfort. It's tension. Even my boss told me recently that I worry too much.

He's right, and this is nothing new. I'm a stresser. I hate it, but it's undeniable. I envy those who cruise through life with an air of calmness. They're laid back, like the California surfers I've met. I've tried to emulate this unflappable demeanor, and I may even fool some folks, but inside I still feel the weight of worry.

I recently made a mental list of things about which I repeatedly worry. I have found that the list is almost always centered on career and money. It's not that we're in dire straits now, but rather I look at what the future may hold. Things like the state of my 401(k). What if I lose my medical certificate? What if I don't get on with a major air carrier? I worry about the state of my life insurance policy. Will I have enough to send my two children to college?

I would love to be able to loosen my grip a bit and breathe easier, but I'm wired to think that mentality opens the door wider to miss something or make a mistake. In other words, I have trouble separating being calm for being a slacker. I know they are two different things. I have absolutely no interest in being regarded as a slacker, but I would love to be thought of as calm and collected. My wife is so wonderful at this. I once asked her what we would do if I was somehow unable to get on with a major air carrier. Without missing a beat, she shrugged and replied, "What if?" I asked her if she ever worries about things like that, and she said what she always says: We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

I have come to understand that she simply means that we are currently doing everything we can and that worrying would only bring problems -- not help. She's right.

Her calmness goes a long way to soothe my emotional racket. I've tried to take steps toward being the guy I want to be, because I genuinely believe it's a choice. I still find myself falling off the wagon from time to time, but, overall, I can feel my mental programming slowly changing for the better. I try to remember to count my blessings and remember that in the grand scheme of things, I will end up okay -- despite what might, or might not, happen.

I'm okay so far, anyway.

Eleven

2011-01-22T10:02:00.003-06:00

I watch our six-year-old son eating a bowl of Special K before he goes to a piano lesson, and I see Blythe, four months pregnant, sipping coffee (decaf) in her pajamas. My lanyard with company and airport ID lay on the dining room table. All of these are discreet reminders of how much we've conquered as a family.

I met her in 1995 at Baylor while working on accounting homework. It was a purely chance encounter. I was acquainted with her only through a mutual friend - her roommate. She is as beautiful today as she was then. She was unaware that I stared at her so long, but I found it difficult to look away for very long. She wore a cute little hat, like the ones Meg Ryan wore in When Harry Met Sally. Her name was Blythe.

I was fortunate enough to convince her to go to dinner and movie one night. I managed to avoid making a lump of myself, because we dated for the next four years.  This gave us time to identify each other's personal preferences and idiosyncrasies and how ours can differ. She likes blue cheese on her burgers, whereas I am a mushroom-Swiss man. I must have a tidy house, whereas she is less motivated by this. She likes listening to ABBA, whereas I would extricate myself from a moving vehicle if I were exposed to prolonged periods of any disco music. But most importantly, we've naturally seen eye-to-eye on the most crucial aspects of our marriage. We both wanted children. We know our priorities for our lives together. We want the same things for our family. We want each other to be happy.

The challenges we've faced along the way were, at the time, daunting, but never out of reach. We lifted each other up and encouraged each other to move ahead and persevere.

On January 22, 2000, eleven years ago today, she slid onto my finger the ring that I will wear until my dying breath. And I did the same for her. We said our vows.  And off we we went into the world as a team of two. The things we've accomplished we've done as a united front. Cars were purchased, homes were purchased, bouts with unemployment overcome, expensive flight training completed, children were born. I find it difficult to imagine we could have done these things individually. I cannot see how. I can tell you with certainty I have no interest in trying either.

Thank you, Blythe, for putting up with all of my stuff. Truth is, nothing else elevates me like knowing we have what we have. It makes it much easier to overlook a slightly messy house or a load of laundry needing folding. I look around and don't see what we have very often with others. It's genuinely special.  You are special. I love you, Blythe - forever.

Happy Anniversary.

The Envelope

2011-01-17T09:37:00.002-06:00

I came across it while rummaging through a box I found in the garage. It was the very box I used to pack up my belongings the day I left the bank. Although I vaguely recall writing it, I don't remember exactly when or what motivated me to do so. I'm fairly certain I composed it at work, because it's in a State Bank letterhead envelope. I can imagine something took place that frustrated me, so I sat down at my desk, opened Word and began typing, no doubt as a kind of self-therapy. The question that I have now is what is in this letter? There's no way of knowing, of course. It's sealed and has Do Not Open Until November 16, 2011 on the envelope. That's my 40th birthday.

I should tell you I'm a planner. I set deadlines. I set a deadline for buying our first house and when Blythe and I would go on our first overseas vacation. I set a deadline for when our yard would being fully landscaped (which hasn't happened yet). The list of examples goes on. There are those who might think that's a proactive approach, but the truth is it all stems from impatience. It usually goes something like this, "I've had it! The yard will be comepletely landscaped by the end of April!" Another problem with this deadline setting of mine is the deadlines are somewhat arbitrarily chosen, giving little consideration to factors outside of my control. So, it's not difficult for me to imagine the contents of this letter being chock-full of expectations I had for myself by the time I reach forty years old. But if so, what are they?

Could it be that I am supposed to have at least $200,000 in my retirement account by that date? Maybe I'm supposed to have moved into a larger, nicer house by then. Perhaps I'm supposed to have run a marathon or have our current house remodeled? Maybe. But I don't think so.

Truth is, I have no idea what this envelope contains, but I feel fairly certain that it mentions something about being a pilot for a major air carrier by the time I reach forty years old. That objective would have made sense for an aspiring pilot stuck as a frustrated middle manager under a glass ceiling at a bank. If that's the case, then I feel I'm on pace to possibly satisfy my own expectations.

The envelope now resides pinned to my corkboard. It serves as a steady reminder to soldier on. I admit I wrestle with the temptation to disregard the instructions on the front of the envelope. Curiosity pulls at me to open it. What would be the harm? Well, I don't mind telling you I'm a little scared to open it. Scared? you ask. Yeah. A little. What if I've not accomplished the things in the envelope? What if my progress isn't significant enough? What if I've fallen short of the expectations of the man at the bank? I probably won't take it lightly. I'll be disappointed in myself for sure.

Then again, I suppose it's possible that the envelope is just a self-written birthday greeting. Possible. But I don't think so.

Changes in Motivation

2011-01-14T20:07:00.014-06:00

When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I often got in my car and drove through the finest, most exclusive neighborhoods of Houston. I wasn't just killing time. I did this in search of motivation, usually to go home and study. I drove slowly through the neighborhood streets, sometimes even coming to a stop in front of homes I found especially attractive. I saw houses with rock exteriors draped with walls of ivy. The driveways were made of patterned stone and the flower beds were precisely trimmed. I often sat in my car and imagined how hard they had worked to have such luxury. Wanting that sort of success for myself, I would return to my small apartment and usually begin studying.

I recently turned 39 years old. All the studying hasn't yet produced riches, but things are always improving. I've found that I'm now motivated by entirely different things. Well, maybe not entirely. I still drive around and look at pretty houses, but now it's so I can steal ideas for my own house. I still have every intention of owning certain expensive things, too. But it's not with the aim of impressing others. At least, I don't think so. I find my focus to be on other members of the Cone household: Blythe, Jakob and my unborn child (whose name is not yet determined). It's so we can have the most comfortable situation I can provide. That's what dads and husbands do. That sounds syrupy and idealistic, I know. I don't care.

But I've come to accept that becoming the CEO of Continental Airlines or somehow making $1M a year is fairly unlikely. That's okay. I can deal with that. I'll make my place somewhere in the great big middle. Still, I find a degree of comfort from a certain Porsche TV ad that communicates the idea that dreaming of having just a few "impractical, irrational and unnecessary" things for ourselves is actually, well, good.

I agree. Now that works for me.

A Little Drool Time

2011-01-07T17:54:00.001-06:00

I am entirely aware of the rung on which I stand in world. I know how much money I earn. I know what sort of house in which I live and what sort of cars I own. I accept it, albeit with expectations for something better in the future. I'm able to live with the periodic disappointment from time to time, often converting that disappointment into motivation. One of those occasions happened just the other day.

As I drove along Lamar Avenue in my pleasant, but unmistakably middle-class Chrysler, a black Porsche Carrera passed me. Not in a brash, loud, punky manner, the way someone in, perhaps, a Camaro SS or Mustang GT might. Just in a polite "Pardon me, Sir. I'm a bit late for a meeting," way. From inside my car, I peered longingly at its soft German lines as it drifted by in the lane to my left until disappeared into the distance.

Because I had the day off, I was eager to spend it doing fun things. I stopped at one of my favorite restaurants in Austin and had Baja fish tacos for lunch. I perused a couple good book stores. I went to Whole Foods and browsed the aisles for goodies. But lingering somewhere in my thoughts was that black Carrera. What would it be like to drive something like that? Hmmmmm...

I decided to find out.

I parked my car in front of the showroom. Through the glass, brand-new beautiful works of German craftsmanship stood like supermodels, each with a price tag of near -- and some more than -- six figures. What was I doing here? I asked myself. Don't be ridiculous. This is entirely out of your league. And it was. Absolutely.

Still, I got out of my car and walked into the showroom. There was actually classical music playing overhead. A nicely dressed receptionist smiled and greeted me, "Good afternoon, Sir. How can we help you today?" Behind her was the daddy of the Porsche creations standing front and center: a 2010 Carrera 4S. In front of each displayed car was a plaque that gave the specs and date the car was made before it made its journey across the Atlantic to the US. In discreet print, the price was printed in the lower right corner. This particular car was going for $101,742. I didn't bother to even touch the car. It was quite safe to assume I would never have the disposable income necessary to purchase a car with that sort of price tag. Instead, I saw another car across the showroom floor. And this car could be within grasp someday.

It was a 2010 Cayman dressed in Silver Metallic.

I admired the graceful uninterrupted lines, which closely resembled those of its older sibling, the 911 Carrera. While it's true the 320 rated brake horsepower of the Cayman was less than the 911 offered, I knew it was still more than sufficient to bring about childlike giddiness once the throttle was flattened. I went through the motions of talking to the salesperson. I answered his questions. He answered mine. I was forthcoming by explaining that I was not in a position to buy yet and that I didn't want to waste his time. I explained that I just needed to know what I was missing. I needed to know what the decades of hype is really all about. He seemed to understand. Then he sent a driver to pull one up for a test drive. My test drive.

A stunning machine soon appeared. It was a 2010 Cayman in Meteor Gray Metallic. I opened the small door and smelled the hand-stitched leather. The car's interior was well thought out but not over thought. There were no unnecessary flairs or goofy styling. The genius was in its simplicity.

I slid into the driver's seat and looked around at the sensible instrument cluster. The engine came to life with a quick twist of the key in the ignition. A deep muffled drone was silenced when the door shut. This was going to be fun. Once we were in an area where we could properly experience the magic, the salesperson told me to "really drive it". So, I did. I finished off the last bit of second gear and smoothly moved into third. The pull on my body into the seat was constant, and the speedometer was passing through 85 mph. Three more gears remaining. I went into a slight turn to the right and continued to accelerate without any strain. 100 mph now. Fourth gear. Another bend to the left. I kept the RPM high and pulled it hard at the apex of the turn, rapping out the last of fourth. No tire squealing or drifting. 125 mph. I was running out of real estate. There was a stop sign ahead. My foot came off the throttle and the engine began winding down. The last two gears would have to come another day. It was okay. I had seen enough. I had been seduced. And I was in love.

I returned the car to the very parking space where I had first seen it. I shook hands with the salesman, chatted a bit, and then walked back to my car. I spent the rest of the day somewhat inspired to make small steps toward owning one of those machines someday. And that's what it's about.

I understand now.

A Brief Introduction

2011-01-06T21:55:00.000-06:00

Hello. Let me begin by extending a sincere thank you for stopping by. This is the first post, so I'll use it to tell you what this blog is all about. I'll tell you what in the world could be so interesting that it justifies the publication of a blog? Well, the thing is... uh...

I have no idea.

This blog will simply be a telling of whatever I want. I may post about what sort of pants I prefer for a certain occasion. I may choose to go on about how frustrating a six-year-old child can be at bedtime. I may write about some issue at work that's robbing me of a good night's sleep. See what I mean? Pretty loosey goosey.

But I think you'll have fun.