The Geometry of a Generalist

Series: The Generalist’s Confessions
[1. The Mechanic] • [2. The Junk Journal] • [3. The Geometry] • [4. The Field Manual]

Part 3 of 4: Deconstructing the three-year rule and the load-bearing pillars of a curious life.

The Stuff That Holds Me Up

Every few years, someone pulls me aside. Usually, it’s a friend with a worried look on their face. They get real quiet, lean in, and tell me—with a kindness that almost stings—that maybe it’s time I finally "find myself."

It is a funny phrase, isn't it? It makes it sound like I’ve been misplaced, like a 1/2-inch socket that rolled under the workbench in 2014 and stayed there. They look at my life—which looks more like a yard sale than a career path—and they see a man who is lost. They see a guy just wandering around.

But I’ve never felt lost. I’ve just been busy with my head under the hood.

My Personal Inventory

If you stop looking at the fancy job titles and just look at the plumbing, my life isn’t actually that messy. I’ve realized that everything I’ve ever put my hand to fits into a few simple buckets. I call it my inventory:

  • How Things Work: I like the "why" behind the "how."
  • Building and Fixing: I like the feeling of grease and sawdust under my fingernails.
  • The Land: Dealing with dirt and plants that don't care about my opinion.
  • Food and Patience: Where chemistry meets a slow-cooking fire.
  • Money: Keeping the lights on and making sure the math stays honest.
  • New Places: Moving to a new town just to see how the houses are built there.
  • Ownership: Putting your name on the door and hoping the hinges hold.

Learning the Language

It all started with computers back in the late 80s. Back then, they were real cranky. Nothing worked "out of the box." If you wanted a program to run, you had to learn its language. I spent nights fighting with tiny switches and wires. It was technical, sure, but it felt like carpentry. You were just joining pieces of logic together instead of oak boards.

Then I started moving. I have a habit of treating a new zip code like a fresh blueprint. Each new house I bought was a lesson. I’d tear into the walls and realize you don’t really know a place until you’ve seen the messy wiring hiding behind the drywall. Eventually, I stopped just fixing them and started building them from the dirt up.

I took that same approach to the driveway. I don't fix my Subaru just to save a few bucks. I do it so I’m not a hostage to my own stuff. It’s the same on a motorcycle. When you’re riding across the country, you aren’t just looking at the trees. You’re in it. You meet people from all over, and you realize pretty quick that while the way they talk changes, the way they solve a leaky pipe usually doesn’t.

The Three-Year Rule

What the people worrying about me usually miss is "the clock." See, I have a rule: I give every new thing at least three years.

Year One is the honeymoon. Everything is shiny and new. Year Two is what I call "The Suck." This is when you realize you don't know anything and everything you make looks like junk. Year Three is when the shine is gone. The "fun" part is over, and now it is just work.

Three years is where most people quit. But the things on my list aren't just "phases." They are the survivors.

I didn't just "try" doing taxes or accounting; I stayed until I could read a balance sheet as easily as a road map. I didn't just "dabble" in programming; I stayed until the logic was second nature. When you stick with a lawn or a garden for thirty years, you stop fighting nature and start working with it. The same goes for the kitchen. Making ice cream or smoking a brisket isn't just about the food. It’s about the discipline of waiting. It’s about the process.

The Load-Bearing Truth

Years ago, I picked up a book called Think and Grow Rich. A lot of people think it’s a book about a bank account. It’s not. It’s a manual on how your brain works. It talks about things like sticking to it and having a plan.

I’ve handed that book to my nephews over the years. I just wanted them to see that being focused isn’t something you’re born with—it’s a practice. It’s a habit, just like changing your oil or sharpening a wood chisel.

I wasn’t wandering through all these different jobs looking for a "new me." I was assembling a toolkit. Each move, each house, and each new "obsession" was a pillar holding up the roof. If it looks like I’ve tried a lot of things, that’s because I have. But I stayed with each one just long enough to know if it deserved a permanent spot on my workbench.

The Generalist's Confessions:
[1. The Mechanic] • [2. The Junk Journal] • [3. The Geometry] • [4. The Field Manual]

I am not an expert. I am an assembler. I notice how the parts fit together.