Luxury

A road like this in the moonlight becomes magic in a Jaguar

     When you see that title, your first thought may well be, “What does anyone from Lubbock know about luxury?”  I admit West Texas is not exactly chock full of luxury, but if you look past the surface, it is there.  

     As a young man, when I considered the word “luxury,” the first images that came to mind involved objects.  Automobiles, diamonds, mink, leather, and silk—that sort of thing.  After spending my life chasing all the above, I discovered that luxury has nothing to do with things.  Luxury is much more complicated—and simple.  It is a state of mind.

     In 1975, I made a decision.  I had been to the showroom three times the week before, looking, touching, admiring, and dreaming.  At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon,  a neighbor and I finished pouring his new concrete driveway.  He and I started at seven that morning, and worked in the heat and humidity of late-summer Houston.  We were hot and sweaty, dressed in tee shirts and cut-off jeans, splashed with concrete.

Remember, this was 1975

      “You want to take me down to Overseas Motors, Rudy?  I’m going to buy that car.”

     “Right now? Overseas Motors?  Dressed like that?”  Rudy was incredulous.

     “Right now.”  I said.  He grinned.  Rudy was a Rice professor, a PhD, and the idea appealed to his overdeveloped sense of irony.

     I wrote a check for a brand new, 1975 Jaguar XJ6L, a four-door sedan, midnight blue, with extended wheel base.  The seats were Corinthian leather and the dash gleamed with polished burled walnut.  The car had power everything, two gas tanks and a state-of-the-art sound system with eight speakers.  The speedometer was pegged at 140 mph. I drove it home that afternoon, dressed in concrete-splattered cut offs, with a day’s growth of beard and a lot of what I considered justifiable pride.

     The Jaguar was not just a car.  It was a statement.  I was thirty-nine years old, my company was thriving, my wife was lovely, my children were beautiful, and I was just getting started.  I well remembered the one room house on the dirt farm in Lubbock where I started first grade.  It would fit in my West University living room. I knew where I came from and I knew where I was going.  It was time everyone else did.

American version, with the controls on the left.

     Charlotte, Rudy, and Jola, his wife, loaded into the car for a demonstration ride.  Immersed in classical music from the unbelievable sound system, we eased onto the Southwest Freeway.  The powerful vehicle accelerated soundlessly while music and the smell of leather permeated the interior.  We were cruising at seventy in the far left lane as the independent suspension straightened the curves and buffered the road noise.  Luxury.  Pure automotive luxury.

     Tink.

     The small rock was evidently kicked up randomly by a junky ’63 Ford Galaxy going fifty miles an hour in the lane ahead of us.  The stone created a ding just under the rearview mirror in the exact center of what the English call the windscreen.  A dark circle, maybe three-eights of an inch in diameter marred my view of the world and shattered my sense of superiority.  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach.  I wanted to cry.  I turned the music down and drove home.

     One night, in February of the next year, Charlotte and I drove from Breckenridge to Copper Mountain to meet some friends for dinner.  On the way back, it was late and powdery white snow covered the black pine trees that dotted the mountains.  A bright moon lit the landscape; the curvy road was lonely and dry.  The Jaguar was in its element.  Dual heaters silently kept the interior cozy and Ferrante and Teicher filled the car with fantastic music as I effortlessly negotiated the sweeping curves.  To this day, I cannot forget the intense pleasure I felt that night.  It is easily the most memorable drive of my life.

     Back in Houston, about six months later, Charlotte called me from Wagner Hardware, on the corner of Kirby and Rice Boulevard.  “The Jaguar quit.  Just died in the middle of the intersection.  What should I do?”

     “Call Triple A and have it towed home.  I don’t have time to fart with it now.  I’m trying to work.”   

      When I got home, I raised the bonnet and inspected the motor.  I checked the wiring connections and wiped dust off the air cleaner.  Nothing amiss.  I tried the starter.  The car started immediately and ran beautifully.  

     The next day, Charlotte took the Jaguar to the dealership.  They could find nothing wrong, so naturally, they replaced the spark plugs, the spark plug wires, the distributer cap, all the filters, the oil, the coolant and the fan belts.  The amount of the invoice was obscene.  During the next two months, the car died in the middle of the street four more times.

     No matter how fantastic the sound system, it is little consolation when you’re stopped in the center of a busy intersection with the motor dead and half of Houston honking at you.  Just ask Charlotte.  We bought a Buick station wagon for her and I kept the Jaguar to play with.

     I talked with an architect friend of mine who loved Jaguars.  “John,” I said, “I’m thinking of buying another Jaguar, an XKE.  What do you think?”

     “Jim, if you had two Jaguars, what would you drive?”

      The logic of his comment was obvious.  I had no reply.

       Charlotte still loves silk, fur, leather and Joy perfume, but my idea if luxury has evolved.  Luxury is simple.  A faucet that doesn’t drip.  A spotless bathroom. An intelligent conversation.  Sharp kitchen knives.  Warm, thirsty towels.  A drink of cool water.  Homemade lasagna.  Ironed sheets.  Strong, black coffee.  Things that touch you and make you feel good.  That is luxury.

     A friend of mine put everything in perspective.  He said when we’re young, we want everything to be up to date and stylish.  Our clothing must be snappy and well-tailored, our cars need to be sleek and shiny, and our women trim and shapely.  As we grow older, we begin to place a lot more value on comfort.

     A new Jaguar, fresh off the showroom floor, is nice, but it is not luxury.  It is a machine.  If you’re lucky, one day you might drive it through snowy mountains at midnight, and remember the trip for a lifetime.  That is luxury.  Luxury makes us feel good, no matter what it costs.

Putting the Lid on the Churn--Final Episode of the Fishing Trip

The Conejos River, near Platoro.

 

     The wake-up aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted up the stairs.  I knew it was sometime after 4:30, and, as John Wayne said, we were burning daylight.  That whole idea confused me, but I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bath room.  I could hear Roy telling his story as I dressed and went downstairs.

      Coffee just tastes better out of a heavy mug.  We pulled on jackets and went outside to sit on the front porch and drink the steamy brew, watch for any hint of daylight, and listen to Roy weave his endless tale.  He was building the drama as he neared the climax.

    “Finally, she got this little gleam in her eye and said, Uh, er, uh—oh shit!  I forgot!” Roy said.

     “What do you mean, she said, ‘I forgot!’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Collins said.

     “She didn’t say 'I forgot.'  I did.  I’m the one who forgot.  I don’t remember what she said, but it was really cool,” Roy explained.

     “Dammit Roy, you mean we been listening to a story for two days and you can’t remember how it ends?  What the hell kind of deal is that?”  Wayne was stunned.  He never failed to properly finish a story, even if he had to make up the ending, which I suspect happened more often than not.   We let Roy off the hook because we all tend to let details drop through the cracks on occasion.  That may be a function of age.

     I fixed “Country Eggs Benedict” for breakfast.  Simply split one of Neil’s big scratch biscuits and top each half with a thick slab of fried ham and a poached egg.  Smother the whole thing with a ladle full of Tabasco-spiked cream gravy and serve with a side of German fried potatoes and onions--sophisticated, southern, and delicious—stick to your ribs food.  I know, I know—some of it will also stick to the inside of your arteries.

     On a fishing trip, I don’t do real Eggs Benedict for several reasons.  We don’t generally bring English Muffins and Hollandaise Sauce to camp.  I could do the sauce from scratch, but it is just not civilized to serve Eggs Benedict unless preceded by spicy Bloody Marys and accompanied by crisp, dry, fermented-in-the-bottle Champagne.  After a breakfast like that, it’s impossible to concentrate on fishing.

A mountain with the not unusual name, "Old Baldy," adjacent to the Alamosa Canyon, near Platoro.

     Time passed, as always, and our few days stolen from reality came to an end.  Someone may find it possible to leave those fellows and not miss them immediately, but not Wayne and not me.  We talked all the way to Kerrville, over 800 miles, about Roy’s wonderful stories, Neil’s quiet wisdom, and James’ quick wit.  We marveled at how little we all have changed, while the world kept turning and perhaps, passed us by. 

     No doubt, we have changed—we’re almost eighty years old.  For one thing, we drink better whiskey.  We also drive better cars and eat better than we once did.    All of us parlayed the lessons we learned in West Texas into a good life.  The work ethic we learned is taken for granted out there, but in the rest of the world it is much admired and sought after.

     I think the lack of change in our personalities is due to the fact that we were pretty well satisfied with who we were when we got out of high school. We chose not to change.  College and professional life taught us new ways to express our ideas and expanded our vocabularies, but short of superficial changes, we stayed true to the land of our youth and the rules of life we learned on the high plains.

     We all have made new friends.  Part of being from the Texas panhandle has to do with being open to friendship.  In the early days out there, neighbors lived on lonely farms, miles apart, and seldom saw each other.  When they did get a chance to visit, they took full advantage of the opportunity and regaled each other with stories, news, and gossip.  Friends were necessary, whether building a barn, rounding up cattle, fighting Indians, or chasing outlaws.  New friends were desirable, and old friends were indispensible.  We inherited these traits, refined them to suit the times, and live with them to this day.

Neil, James, Wayne, and Roy.  Four better fly fishermen may exist somewhere, but I doubt it.  About 280 years of experience is represented here.

     The guys on this fishing trip are some of my closest friends.  We’ve known and loved each other since we all had pimples.  We’ve shared each other’s highs and lows.  We know instinctively which buttons to push…. and which ones to leave alone.   We sometimes don’t visit for months, but that does not matter—we know where we stand.  We’re friends.

    James Collins called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.  During our conversation, he mentioned that Neil and he were already planning next year’s event and it was going to be a regular stem-winder.  He intimated that if Wayne and I were nice to him for the rest of this year—very nice to him—we might be invited.  Ford nailed it—the little S.O.B. has been that way since he was five years old.