Skip to main content

The Places You'll Go . . .

Well, the time has arrived. Yes, July's drawing near,
And somehow I've managed to last seven years!

I've analyzed forecasts and studied the trends,

While spreadsheets multiplied without seeming to end.


We've planned for the sunshine, the storms, and the load, while Mother Nature kept changing the code.

But through all the numbers, the forecasts, and charts, the best part of Cenergy's always been hearts.


The people beside me, year after year,

Made even the toughest challenges clear.

To the bright, talented folks reading this today,

The future is yours now—you're well on your way.


And unlike my era, here's the key:

You’ll work with AI just as smooth as can be.


The reports that took hours may take only minutes.

The models you build with intelligence in it.

The data will flow faster than ever before,

While AI handles tasks that are mostly a bore!


But here's my advice as I head out the door:

Technology changes, but people matter more.

AI can predict, calculate, and compare,

But it can't build trust, and it can't truly care.


Stay curious, keep learning, and don't stand too long.

The tools will keep changing, so adapt and stay strong.

The winners won't be those who resist what's ahead,

But those who learn how to use it instead.


So thank you, my friends, for the laughter and cheer,

For making these seven years genuinely dear.

I'll miss all of you, but retirement must start—

And I'll leave with gratitude filling my heart.


Whatever comes next, here's what I know:

Life remains full of places to go.

So embrace what's ahead, and continue to grow.


. . . And may AI be helpful,

Your forecasts be true,

Your coffee be strong–

My friends, here’s to you.


I’m Patrick Ball. Join me – On the Fly. (Est. 2012)

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...