daverea.com

At 5:15PM yesterday, Kelly and I (and our realtor Dave) rolled up to a nice-looking split-level colonial in Pittsford. By 7:00, we had finished our walk-through.

A little after 3 this afternoon, we drove by for another look from the curb, and by 4:30 we were sitting at Dave’s office pen-in-hand. The offer was written by 5:30, and we headed for dinner.

And at 9:30, Dave called to let us know that our offer had been accepted, and we’re officially on-track to be the proud new owners of our very own home!

Eventually, I’ll post some thoughts (hopefully inspiring ones) about home ownership, the things we’re looking forward to, the things we’re anxious about, and how it all fits into the American Dream, and how important all of that is. But for now, it’s after midnight, I’m tired and giddy and I’m amazed I’m even typing coherently.

More soon!

[As promised, the following is an update to my previous mini-post, which went up early this morning while I was waiting for my toast to be done...]

It’s not every day that you see an Opel Zafira (a small minivan that’s manufactured and sold in Germany) cruising down Main Street USA. It’s even less frequent that you see one whirr by that has never smelled – much less burned – a drop of gasoline.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the unique treat of driving the General Motors HydroGen 3 minivan, a modified Zafira that’s driven by a Hydrogen-powered fuel cell propulsion system. The van I drove is one of only eighteen in the world, which are located in Meinz-Kastell Germany, Washington DC, Torrance CA and … Honeoye Falls, NY.

Gallery: Driving the GM HydroGen 3

The HydroGen 3 I drove was recently retired from service in DC, where it was used to showcase Fuel Cell technology as a reality, not just a pipe dream. Another model is still there, being used as a mail delivery vehicle by the US Postal Service.

Driving the HydroGen, or “H3″ as it’s come to be abbreviated, was nothing short of a jaw-dropping experience. Even though I work on fuel cells every day, and sit at the controls of tomorrow’s fuel cell engines five-days-a-week, feeling a fuel cell engine on the open road was – pardon the pun – moving. While it drives like any other car, the sound of the H3 was worlds apart.

Rather than the cranking of an engine, you’re greeted by a beep and the whirr of the compressor when you turn the key. On the road, you hear nothing but the wind through the cabin (we had as near a perfect day as I could ask for) and the slight whine of the electric motor.

Lots of car companies like to advertise that their cars inspire or move you. Countless ads tout the emotions you’ll be filled with by the cars they showcase. But as much as I like the feel of soft leather or the sound of a well-tuned engine as it climbs through the revs, today’s cars just can’t evoke the excitement that I felt yesterday: The excitement of knowing that the future of transportation as we know it is embodied by the car that you’re piloting. The hope that the work you’re doing will bring that future closer, faster. And the honor of knowing that you’re driving a vehicle that’s twenty times rarer than a Ferrari Enzo, infinitely cleaner than any automobile that’s ever filled up at a gas station, and that embodies the hard work, vision, determination and hope of countless people who genuinely earned the legacy and believe in the future of their craft.

At the end of the workday yesterday, as I hit the stairs toward my car, one of my co-workers caught the door behind me and asked “winning or losing?” as he started down the stairs.

“Winning or losing?” I asked in return, confused at what the context of this odd question could possibly be. “Winning, I guess!” I finally exclaimed back, after a 2- or 3-second pause that seemed extraordinarily long.

I didn’t realize the implications of the question – and of my answer – until I thought about them for a few minutes. It had been a long day. I was tired from running between one thing and the next since 7:30 that morning. My head hurt and I was hungry. But I was still winning.

My colleague at GM (whose name I’ll figure out once I get back to work this morning) transformed an inane question, to which are possible any number of inane answers, into a way of forcing a fast, no-holds-barred, but ultimately accurate evaluation of “life at the moment”. To answer the question “Winning or losing?”, you have to look at how you feel, look at “how’s it goin?”, look at the day you’ve had and the day you’ve still got ahead of you, and answer quickly and simply.

There are no complex, passive answers to this question like, “eh, could be better, but I’ll get through it,” or, “hey, not too bad, it’s almost Friday!”

As I carded out of the building and walked toward my car, the power of the simple binary “winning or losing?” question started to get clearer. Yes, I had a headache, and it had been a long day, and I was tired. But I was leaving my good job and heading for a reliable car, to drive to visit a nice house that I can afford to buy, to meet my beautiful, wonderful girlfriend who will eventually live there with me. There were no car bombs to worry about during the drive, and no flood waters to wade through.

The simple question: “Winning or losing?” forces a true answer that reflects not just how one’s day is going, but how one’s life is going. Because at any point in every game, no matter how long the game is, you’re nearly always doing one or the other.

Are you Winning today, or Losing?

Since hurricane Katrina battered the Gulf coast on August 29th, I’ve been trying to come up with some manner of commentary for this space. First, I wanted to write about how horrible the actual storm was – how people were stranded, displaced or killed when a wall of water washed over their homes, businesses, churches and schools – over their lives.

Then, I tried writing about what began to happen in the aftermath – looting, armed gangs shooting at emergency workers, helicopters plucking the more-fortunate off the barely-above-water roofs of their former homes. When that didn’t work, I tried writing about the stubbornness of those who refused to leave, and who still refuse to leave. No dice there, either.

By that time, the political scraps over levee funding, complaints about FEMA response times and accusations of racist handling of rescue efforts began – so I tried (unsuccessfully) to write about all those things.

And then Bill Whittle’s essay called Tribes popped up on my feedreader. As with most of Bill’s writings, it took me about 45 minutes to read through entirely. Bill writes well, and like many well-written works, the reader has to pay attention to what’s being said.

But damn, is it ever worth it.

I could go on for paragraphs about how, and how much, Tribes spoke to me. I could rant for the rest of the evening about the things Bill describes, about the ignorance and cowardice and evil and irresponsibility that he tramples with his words.

After you read Tribes, you will understand what I mean when I claim that ordinary folks like you and me can be sheepdogs, and perhaps some of you will know how I feel when I say that – every day of my life and every time I climb onto an ambulance – I’m fulfilling my desire to be a sheepdog, on some level, to someone.

After you read Tribes, sit down and ask yourself a hard question: To which tribe do you belong? Which color fills your life? And, most importantly – if you were in Louisiana, Mississippi or Tennesee right now – would you feel right about your answers?