As most folks that know me and/or follow this page have come to realize is that my relationship with the game of golf is problematic most of the time. In Facebook relationship status terms," it's complicated."
I have a trip coming up to Louisiana here pretty soon and the plan is to pretty much play golf for 3 or 4 days. So you can imagine my abundant great joy at my last two outings being utter disasters. As in barely getting the ball into the air. As in looking like I had never touched a club in my life.
People sometimes say that tennis is a lot like golf. People who say that are idiots. Tennis is nothing like golf.
Even while enduring my worst ass kicking on the tennis court a spectator could deduce that I could play tennis at a certain level of skill and that maybe the other player was just too good that day or I was having an off day. That would be about it.
There are days on the golf course where it looks like I don't know which end of the club to grasp. Last Sunday was one of those days. This is not good seeing as how I have this trip coming up which is largely dedicated to playing the damn game. So I contacted my friend Jerry to see if I could get a lesson in.
Jerry is an interesting guy. Seventies. First met him through his brother-in-law who is my Baptist preacher golf buddy. Jerry also competes on the Senior long drive tour. He knows a thing or two about striking the golf ball. And he has a tendency to make things very simple. Simple is what I need.
"What have you done to yourself this time?" he said by way of greeting as I approached the lesson tee.
I told him that, quite honestly, I was playing like radioactive dog shit. He nodded. Told me to step up and hit a few balls. I was topping them and pulling them. You know. Radioactive dogs hit.
"You're delofting the club again," he said. "You've got that forward press going with your hands again."
He pulled a wedge out of my bag. He held it up in front of me.
"The Ping iron is a marvelous feat of engineering," he said. " It will do exactly what you make it do. And you are making it hit worm burners."
Check ball position. Pull hands to in front of right hip. Start right shoulder going before the backswing.
Bang! Nothing to this game.
"Now we are gonna change how you set up. What did you teach over there at Catholic?"
"Huh?"
"What did you teach?"
"History and choir mostly."
"Ah! An artist. Not a technician. Did you sit behind the desk when you taught?"
"Well no. I walked around the room when I taught. What's this got to do with golf?"
"This. I've known you a couple of years now. You can't stand still. You walk around or rock back and forth while I talk."
"So?"
"So when a guy as fidgety as you spends a lot of time over the ball he starts fooling around with his grip and everything else. You try to think the ball down field. We're gonna change that. This is how you set up from here on out."
He took a club. Walked over by me. He started walking to the ball.
"I'm looking at my target. I'm not looking at the ball. I stop at the ball. I hold the club straight out to get my alignment. I put the club on the ground and I aim the bottom part of the club at the target. I take one more look downfield. I hit it."
Bang. He hit it.
"And I let it go. Whatever happens I let it go. I let the swing go. I let the result go. I let it go until the next shot. And I do it all over again."
Now this was pretty zen stuff for an older Baptist. But I have to admit this approach made a lot of sense. He's right. A fidgety guy like me doesn't need to commune over the ball. Bad things start happening when I have to time to think about it.
Walk up and hit it. And let it go.
"This is supposed to be recreation right?" he said. "Go have fun with your buddy down there. Eat a bunch of good food. Call me when you get back and tell me about what all you did down there."
Let it go.
M doesn't always go clergy on me but she says there's a larger metaphor at work here as well. I don't always go "touchy feely" on her but I think she's right.
The game of golf can impart life lessons.
OK. Maybe that's not what M is getting at. And I don't much believe that anyway.
But I get Jerry's larger point. And I'm gonna let it go.
Maybe next I can cut down on my cussin' out there on the course.
Nah. Some things aren't possible.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Sunday, June 05, 2016
My Sunday Feeling
One of the things that I really like about my station in life since leaving government service is that I get to be around young folks a lot more than I used to back when I was slinging paper in the Federal Building. I think it keeps me young. And I think I'm so much outside the little boxes of a lot of these kids that they like being around me. What little success I managed to obtain as a faux teacher last semester was for this reason alone. I firmly believe this.
There were days that I wore a suit to school. I was terra incognito.
Anyway, I heard through the grapevine that one of my young adult friends had sustained "a broken heart." These are his words.
Bummer. Been there. Not lately, Praise God. But I have been there. As have we all.
I knew that he liked this girl. His face always lit up when he spoke about her. Gone on at least one trip together of which I was aware. And then something happened I guess.
And now the boy's heart is broken.
I did not let the fact that he had not actually applied for solace from me deter me from horning in. In my text, as I said totally unbidden by the kid, I told him that I was sorry. I told him that he would get over it. That I was here for him. What else can somebody say?
Well, "what else" might be something like unto this. Pain is pain and I am not discounting his. He's a sensitive guy. And I mean that in the best artistic sense and not in the "Why do you hate my cats?" sense.
But one of the good things about being my age instead of 25 is that I know the sun will come up in the morning. I have the balm of 35 years of perspective to get me through the rough patches. He doesn't. I've been 25. Don't want to go back.
I remember that 60 Minutes did a story on some famous soprano whose name escapes me. She was videoed doing a master class for young singers. A young woman sang something by Stephen Sondheim for her. Nothing as dreadful as "Send In The Clowns" but something equally overwrought and New Yorkish.
The famous soprano said something along the lines of "Dear, you were just wonderful. But you will not be able to really appreciate what you just sang until you have experienced the losses that will come your way the next 20 years." There's something to that.
Been texting back and forth tonight with my friend B. She lost her husband about a year ago. She's getting through it. But her grief at times is like unto heat waves coming off a country road in August.
When you get to be my age you reach an uneasy accommodation with pain and loss because it is the way of the world. Mother's people are not going to be around forever. I know this. It is the natural order of things. I hate it. But I expect it.
That's perspective. You don't have that at 25. My young buddy is neither a narcissist nor a pain in the ass. He would not equate his pain with the pain of someone who has lost a spouse of 40 years. But still. He's a hurtin' cowboy and I feel badly for him.
What to do? We're guys. We don't really do post-mortems when shit like this happens. Most likely I will eventually offer to buy him some kinda crafty beer somewhere.
And I won't say much to him other than "It will be alright. Really it will."
The sun will come up in the morning. Just like it has every day the 60 years I have graced this planet.
It will be alright. Really it will. Been there. Lived to tell about it. And I'm glad that I'm not 25.
There were days that I wore a suit to school. I was terra incognito.
Anyway, I heard through the grapevine that one of my young adult friends had sustained "a broken heart." These are his words.
Bummer. Been there. Not lately, Praise God. But I have been there. As have we all.
I knew that he liked this girl. His face always lit up when he spoke about her. Gone on at least one trip together of which I was aware. And then something happened I guess.
And now the boy's heart is broken.
I did not let the fact that he had not actually applied for solace from me deter me from horning in. In my text, as I said totally unbidden by the kid, I told him that I was sorry. I told him that he would get over it. That I was here for him. What else can somebody say?
Well, "what else" might be something like unto this. Pain is pain and I am not discounting his. He's a sensitive guy. And I mean that in the best artistic sense and not in the "Why do you hate my cats?" sense.
But one of the good things about being my age instead of 25 is that I know the sun will come up in the morning. I have the balm of 35 years of perspective to get me through the rough patches. He doesn't. I've been 25. Don't want to go back.
I remember that 60 Minutes did a story on some famous soprano whose name escapes me. She was videoed doing a master class for young singers. A young woman sang something by Stephen Sondheim for her. Nothing as dreadful as "Send In The Clowns" but something equally overwrought and New Yorkish.
The famous soprano said something along the lines of "Dear, you were just wonderful. But you will not be able to really appreciate what you just sang until you have experienced the losses that will come your way the next 20 years." There's something to that.
Been texting back and forth tonight with my friend B. She lost her husband about a year ago. She's getting through it. But her grief at times is like unto heat waves coming off a country road in August.
When you get to be my age you reach an uneasy accommodation with pain and loss because it is the way of the world. Mother's people are not going to be around forever. I know this. It is the natural order of things. I hate it. But I expect it.
That's perspective. You don't have that at 25. My young buddy is neither a narcissist nor a pain in the ass. He would not equate his pain with the pain of someone who has lost a spouse of 40 years. But still. He's a hurtin' cowboy and I feel badly for him.
What to do? We're guys. We don't really do post-mortems when shit like this happens. Most likely I will eventually offer to buy him some kinda crafty beer somewhere.
And I won't say much to him other than "It will be alright. Really it will."
The sun will come up in the morning. Just like it has every day the 60 years I have graced this planet.
It will be alright. Really it will. Been there. Lived to tell about it. And I'm glad that I'm not 25.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
My Sunday Feeling
It now can be revealed. And many of you know it already.
From the date of the last post on the blog up until the end of March I taught at Catholic High School for Boys here in Little Rock. A member of the faculty had to take an emergency leave of absence for reasons of his health. So one day I was looking into forming a PA and getting malpractice insurance. The next day I was teaching American history to Juniors and Marketing to Seniors. Although the boss told me to teach business law since I did not know the first damn thing about Marketing.
And I'm not kidding. The teacher went away on a Thursday and the next day I was there for real. And that's pretty much all I did for 3 months. I spent my evenings preparing or grading. It was all encompassing. I didn't write. I didn't play music. I hardly played golf.
I don't want to write about the experience too much right now. For one thing, I never had a proper exit interview. That's for a couple of reasons. The principal still has way too much on his plate right now. I need to talk to him before I write about it. For another thing, I never really exited. I still go in for an hour or so each day to help with the small boys choir over there which is known as the Schola Cantorum or "Schola" for short. They are doing their first concert ever next Thursday. I am basically the tenor section. And I help run rehearsal when the director can't make it. So I'm kinda busy myself.
Also, I'm still sorting the entire experience out in my head and in my heart. And I don't really know where to begin. I can say to you out there in the audience what I say to folks that have asked me about it.
"Teaching ain't easy. Overall it was an amazing and humbling experience. When it was good it was really really good. But when it was bad it was really really bad." And when it was bad I'm sure it was, at least in part, because I wasn't much good. That's the way I always felt about it. On the other hand, the real teachers there could not possibly have been kinder or more tolerant even. It was a tough situation for everybody. For the kids especially.
And I think I will leave it at that for now.
So, what have I been up to since April? Not much. Seriously. It took me a good month to completely decompress, for lack of a better word, even after I started going back in to help with Schola or sub for somebody. Ot both.
I think that I learned that teaching high school is not a switch you can turn on or off. And it took awhile to adjust back to my former life after being amped up all the time. It was weird. I was done at spring break. I thought about my boys a lot the first week that school started back up. And I did consider them as "my boys." I still do.
I got to where I could hear their voices as I read their papers. As Melissa said, "You got attached to those kids." Yeah I did.
So shoot me. I'm not a terribly emotional person. But you can't turn it on and off. At least I can't. Which I guess means I'm not a total sociopath. So I have that going for me.
So what now? I still practice law a little bit. I still plan on incorporating myself in some fashion and I intend to get malpractice insurance. People are all the time wanting me to do stuff for them. So why not? I don't particularly need money. But I see a car note in my future along with continuing with the home improvement stuff I started back in January which got put on hold due to one thing or the other back then.
My young friend Lucas Murray and I have resumed playing guitar. I'm going to start doing the Wednesday night Open Mic Night which is now at the Next Bar and Bistro due the closing of the late and greatly lamented Afterthought.
Melissa, last time I checked, hasn't come to her senses yet and we are still together. We spend a lot of time going to Joe's AAU basketball games. Which is fine. Joe is a nice player and I enjoy watching the kids play.
Resumed working out in the day which I prefer. Resumed getting some golf in during the weekday which is nice. More and more of my friends are starting to retire. I look forward to meeting them for lunch or going for walks. I like being able to do whatever the hell I want to pretty much whenever I want to again.
And I'm going to write more including returning to this blog. Not sure if I will post every Sunday as I have in the past. But I will return to blogging. And I plan to write about sports for the newspaper's blog "Blood, Dirt and Angels." That was the original plan before I became Mister Chips from Hell last January.
Many of the kids, and some of the teachers ask me, if I am going to "come back" as it is invariably put. That's nice to hear. The principal told me the other night that I need to be at graduation next Friday. "The boys will want you to be there," he said. This comes as a surprise to me as there were 2 or 3 that I would have liked to have strangled. And I'm sure the feeling was mutual. But that, too, is nice to hear.
So in addition to getting a business license, along with all the other stuff I will need to get street legal to do the lawyer thing, I'm going to look into the requirements for getting a teacher's license on a non-traditional basis.
Because like I said. You can't turn it on and off.
We will visit again soon.
From the date of the last post on the blog up until the end of March I taught at Catholic High School for Boys here in Little Rock. A member of the faculty had to take an emergency leave of absence for reasons of his health. So one day I was looking into forming a PA and getting malpractice insurance. The next day I was teaching American history to Juniors and Marketing to Seniors. Although the boss told me to teach business law since I did not know the first damn thing about Marketing.
And I'm not kidding. The teacher went away on a Thursday and the next day I was there for real. And that's pretty much all I did for 3 months. I spent my evenings preparing or grading. It was all encompassing. I didn't write. I didn't play music. I hardly played golf.
I don't want to write about the experience too much right now. For one thing, I never had a proper exit interview. That's for a couple of reasons. The principal still has way too much on his plate right now. I need to talk to him before I write about it. For another thing, I never really exited. I still go in for an hour or so each day to help with the small boys choir over there which is known as the Schola Cantorum or "Schola" for short. They are doing their first concert ever next Thursday. I am basically the tenor section. And I help run rehearsal when the director can't make it. So I'm kinda busy myself.
Also, I'm still sorting the entire experience out in my head and in my heart. And I don't really know where to begin. I can say to you out there in the audience what I say to folks that have asked me about it.
"Teaching ain't easy. Overall it was an amazing and humbling experience. When it was good it was really really good. But when it was bad it was really really bad." And when it was bad I'm sure it was, at least in part, because I wasn't much good. That's the way I always felt about it. On the other hand, the real teachers there could not possibly have been kinder or more tolerant even. It was a tough situation for everybody. For the kids especially.
And I think I will leave it at that for now.
So, what have I been up to since April? Not much. Seriously. It took me a good month to completely decompress, for lack of a better word, even after I started going back in to help with Schola or sub for somebody. Ot both.
I think that I learned that teaching high school is not a switch you can turn on or off. And it took awhile to adjust back to my former life after being amped up all the time. It was weird. I was done at spring break. I thought about my boys a lot the first week that school started back up. And I did consider them as "my boys." I still do.
I got to where I could hear their voices as I read their papers. As Melissa said, "You got attached to those kids." Yeah I did.
So shoot me. I'm not a terribly emotional person. But you can't turn it on and off. At least I can't. Which I guess means I'm not a total sociopath. So I have that going for me.
So what now? I still practice law a little bit. I still plan on incorporating myself in some fashion and I intend to get malpractice insurance. People are all the time wanting me to do stuff for them. So why not? I don't particularly need money. But I see a car note in my future along with continuing with the home improvement stuff I started back in January which got put on hold due to one thing or the other back then.
My young friend Lucas Murray and I have resumed playing guitar. I'm going to start doing the Wednesday night Open Mic Night which is now at the Next Bar and Bistro due the closing of the late and greatly lamented Afterthought.
Melissa, last time I checked, hasn't come to her senses yet and we are still together. We spend a lot of time going to Joe's AAU basketball games. Which is fine. Joe is a nice player and I enjoy watching the kids play.
Resumed working out in the day which I prefer. Resumed getting some golf in during the weekday which is nice. More and more of my friends are starting to retire. I look forward to meeting them for lunch or going for walks. I like being able to do whatever the hell I want to pretty much whenever I want to again.
And I'm going to write more including returning to this blog. Not sure if I will post every Sunday as I have in the past. But I will return to blogging. And I plan to write about sports for the newspaper's blog "Blood, Dirt and Angels." That was the original plan before I became Mister Chips from Hell last January.
Many of the kids, and some of the teachers ask me, if I am going to "come back" as it is invariably put. That's nice to hear. The principal told me the other night that I need to be at graduation next Friday. "The boys will want you to be there," he said. This comes as a surprise to me as there were 2 or 3 that I would have liked to have strangled. And I'm sure the feeling was mutual. But that, too, is nice to hear.
So in addition to getting a business license, along with all the other stuff I will need to get street legal to do the lawyer thing, I'm going to look into the requirements for getting a teacher's license on a non-traditional basis.
Because like I said. You can't turn it on and off.
We will visit again soon.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
My Sunday, Let Me Get Back To You, Feeling
The literary world will hardly take notice but I am going away for awhile. Everything is fine. But I have taken on new, and wonderful, responsibilities for the time being. However, they come with a high learning curve, or at least I am proceeding as if they do. And until they don't, or until I semi-figure it out, as I know I will, they will be pretty much my focus for the immediate future.
I am not at liberty to discuss what's going on right now. I'm sure that will be my next entry in these pages.
I am great. I am excited. If I had any sense I would be a lot more scared than I am. But I am going to be a busy, busy man for the foreseeable future. Which will be good for me. I think.
One of my favorite clients was, and presumably still is, an African-American gentleman. He used to always tell me that everything would be revealed "in the fullness of time."
I will get back to you in the fullness of time. And I will, most likely, have some great stories when I do.
Until then, talk amongst yourselves.
I am not at liberty to discuss what's going on right now. I'm sure that will be my next entry in these pages.
I am great. I am excited. If I had any sense I would be a lot more scared than I am. But I am going to be a busy, busy man for the foreseeable future. Which will be good for me. I think.
One of my favorite clients was, and presumably still is, an African-American gentleman. He used to always tell me that everything would be revealed "in the fullness of time."
I will get back to you in the fullness of time. And I will, most likely, have some great stories when I do.
Until then, talk amongst yourselves.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Sunday, January 03, 2016
My New Year Feeling
I was never much good at math. So I don't know whether last October I had officially spent 60 years on this vale of tears or whether it was 59. Not that it much matters. But I am fortunate to have been lent sufficient breath to have seen another year come and go. I say "fortunate." I do not say "blessed."
You may have heard that the Arkansas River is way past flood stage. It hasn't affected Little Rock all that much. But homes and farms to the west of here have been impacted as has property downstream in Pine Bluff.
Facebook may be safely relied upon at times like these to be a repository of bad theology. People who have been spared are "blessed." Which implies that folks who were not are cursed. One poster went so far as to see the hand of God in her not being able to reach her home, which I guess would have been destroyed with her in it had she not been forced to turn back. By God I suppose.
Of course, this is purblind nonsense of the purest grade. I do not for one minute think that God sits up in her Heaven and picks winners and losers in Jefferson County. But I also think that the "winners" should be more gracious about it when they choose to open their mouth to the press. But I ramble.
I'm comfortable with describing myself as "fortunate." The word strongly implies that I am aware that I didn't get to this spot solely by stint of my own merit. It is for that reason that I threw a little party back in October. I invited my friends and family out of gratitude for their presence in my life. These are the folks that encouraged me, dog-cussed me, listened to me, came to me for help, hugged me, kicked me and preached to me. The latter whether I wanted to listen to it or not. I only got a couple lightning bolts from eyes looking over the top of Vic Nixon's glasses. They were all sufficient. But enough about that. Maybe 2016 will find me less likely to belabor my points. You never know. Anything's possible.
So what to do about 2016?
So far so good. But its early yet.
I am with a woman who says she loves me. It must be true. Otherwise, why would she put up with the likes of me? Indeed, she tells me that she loves me on a frequent basis. She does this with her kids too. It's like she has thrown up a force field around them that she has let me enter. One of my friends described M upon meeting her as "very tall and way cool." Another said that she "radiates peace." All of these things are true. Quiet and reserved, she loves books, old movies that she has watched before (which I don't get but that's OK), naps, crossword puzzles, long walks, and pinot noir. And naps. Lots of naps.
Of course, it is a package deal. Her daughter S, a freshman away in college, is an 18 year old cauldron of emotion, words and eyelash-fluttering. She's also 9 kinds of smart. As is her brother J. He's 16. He's the spitting image of his mom and has her laid-back temperament. Like both his parents who were DI athletes, he is a good ballplayer and I enjoy watching him play football and basketball. Good thing I enjoy watching kids play sports. Because I do a lot of it nowadays. Which is AOK by me. S and I are likewise OK. She is far more complex than her brother but I think has resolved it in her mind that my continued presence in her life is inevitable. That's about all I can say with any degree of certitude. That's OK too. We take what we can get. But she thinks I'm funny and she lets me touch her now. This latter observation sent a friend of mine who raised a daughter into a spasm of tear-inducing helpless laughter. Baby steps.
We're coming up on a year now. It's a good situation.
So back to 2016. I don't make resolutions as such. But there are things I want to accomplish.
I want to play more golf this year than I did last year. Especially since I am playing better now than I ever have. Granted it's a near thing but it's a thing.
I'm going to play and sing more. I've got about 9 songs ready to go. Either my young friend Lucas is too busy to fool with me anymore or his absence is his way of saying "fly away little bird." Either way, like my golf, I am playing better. And I owe the boy a debt of gratitude. Really I do. He was a kind and patient teacher. Which is the way you like them.
I'm going to write more. I think it's just going to have to be part of the schedule of the day, along with guitar practice and exercise. A friend of mine who retired from teaching at Hendrix told me something last Fall. "You worked for a long time. You have earned the right to do nothin' if that's what you want to do. But I'm telling you that you need to write more." Chuck is not one to stick his nose into other people's business. And so I will take his advice. Which leads me to the next topic.
I continue to practice law here and there. I do it enough to keep my hand in and what passes for my skills up. I used to feel guilty that somebody with my formidable talent-and yes I am kidding- wasn't working more. But things are better now. Although just like "once a Baptist always a Baptist" once a lawyer you're "always a lawyer." I don't define myself so much as a lawyer anymore. Or I don't define myself by work anymore and I think there's a reason for that. And things are much the better for it.
But I think I'm going to become a "PA" and bite the bullet and get malpractice insurance. People keep trying to hire me to do stuff for them. Wills. Business stuff. Stuff I can do. No divorces. No criminal. There's no need to leave money on the table.
Both M and my Mississippi lawyer friend think I should stick with my work with the schools I sub for. Marge in Oxford says that this is my chance to "do what I enjoy." And I do very much enjoy being with the kids. Even when they piss me off. Which happens with some frequency. This is despite the fact that I ask the boys at the start of each class to recite my "Rule #1." Which is of course, "Don't piss me off."
For her part, M reminds me that she makes a good living at her day job and that all she wants is for me to do "what makes me happy." Women, as a rule, tend to be more intuitive than men about such issues. Perhaps I should listen for once. Like the man said, I did work for a long time. I'm not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination but I make a pretty decent income just for waking up in the morning. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. It's a good situation.
And so I look forward to the coming year. Or at least the part that comes after Valentine's Day. Some things never change.
It's all good. I'm content.
And I'm fortunate. Very fortunate.
You may have heard that the Arkansas River is way past flood stage. It hasn't affected Little Rock all that much. But homes and farms to the west of here have been impacted as has property downstream in Pine Bluff.
Facebook may be safely relied upon at times like these to be a repository of bad theology. People who have been spared are "blessed." Which implies that folks who were not are cursed. One poster went so far as to see the hand of God in her not being able to reach her home, which I guess would have been destroyed with her in it had she not been forced to turn back. By God I suppose.
Of course, this is purblind nonsense of the purest grade. I do not for one minute think that God sits up in her Heaven and picks winners and losers in Jefferson County. But I also think that the "winners" should be more gracious about it when they choose to open their mouth to the press. But I ramble.
I'm comfortable with describing myself as "fortunate." The word strongly implies that I am aware that I didn't get to this spot solely by stint of my own merit. It is for that reason that I threw a little party back in October. I invited my friends and family out of gratitude for their presence in my life. These are the folks that encouraged me, dog-cussed me, listened to me, came to me for help, hugged me, kicked me and preached to me. The latter whether I wanted to listen to it or not. I only got a couple lightning bolts from eyes looking over the top of Vic Nixon's glasses. They were all sufficient. But enough about that. Maybe 2016 will find me less likely to belabor my points. You never know. Anything's possible.
So what to do about 2016?
So far so good. But its early yet.
I am with a woman who says she loves me. It must be true. Otherwise, why would she put up with the likes of me? Indeed, she tells me that she loves me on a frequent basis. She does this with her kids too. It's like she has thrown up a force field around them that she has let me enter. One of my friends described M upon meeting her as "very tall and way cool." Another said that she "radiates peace." All of these things are true. Quiet and reserved, she loves books, old movies that she has watched before (which I don't get but that's OK), naps, crossword puzzles, long walks, and pinot noir. And naps. Lots of naps.
Of course, it is a package deal. Her daughter S, a freshman away in college, is an 18 year old cauldron of emotion, words and eyelash-fluttering. She's also 9 kinds of smart. As is her brother J. He's 16. He's the spitting image of his mom and has her laid-back temperament. Like both his parents who were DI athletes, he is a good ballplayer and I enjoy watching him play football and basketball. Good thing I enjoy watching kids play sports. Because I do a lot of it nowadays. Which is AOK by me. S and I are likewise OK. She is far more complex than her brother but I think has resolved it in her mind that my continued presence in her life is inevitable. That's about all I can say with any degree of certitude. That's OK too. We take what we can get. But she thinks I'm funny and she lets me touch her now. This latter observation sent a friend of mine who raised a daughter into a spasm of tear-inducing helpless laughter. Baby steps.
We're coming up on a year now. It's a good situation.
So back to 2016. I don't make resolutions as such. But there are things I want to accomplish.
I want to play more golf this year than I did last year. Especially since I am playing better now than I ever have. Granted it's a near thing but it's a thing.
I'm going to play and sing more. I've got about 9 songs ready to go. Either my young friend Lucas is too busy to fool with me anymore or his absence is his way of saying "fly away little bird." Either way, like my golf, I am playing better. And I owe the boy a debt of gratitude. Really I do. He was a kind and patient teacher. Which is the way you like them.
I'm going to write more. I think it's just going to have to be part of the schedule of the day, along with guitar practice and exercise. A friend of mine who retired from teaching at Hendrix told me something last Fall. "You worked for a long time. You have earned the right to do nothin' if that's what you want to do. But I'm telling you that you need to write more." Chuck is not one to stick his nose into other people's business. And so I will take his advice. Which leads me to the next topic.
I continue to practice law here and there. I do it enough to keep my hand in and what passes for my skills up. I used to feel guilty that somebody with my formidable talent-and yes I am kidding- wasn't working more. But things are better now. Although just like "once a Baptist always a Baptist" once a lawyer you're "always a lawyer." I don't define myself so much as a lawyer anymore. Or I don't define myself by work anymore and I think there's a reason for that. And things are much the better for it.
But I think I'm going to become a "PA" and bite the bullet and get malpractice insurance. People keep trying to hire me to do stuff for them. Wills. Business stuff. Stuff I can do. No divorces. No criminal. There's no need to leave money on the table.
Both M and my Mississippi lawyer friend think I should stick with my work with the schools I sub for. Marge in Oxford says that this is my chance to "do what I enjoy." And I do very much enjoy being with the kids. Even when they piss me off. Which happens with some frequency. This is despite the fact that I ask the boys at the start of each class to recite my "Rule #1." Which is of course, "Don't piss me off."
For her part, M reminds me that she makes a good living at her day job and that all she wants is for me to do "what makes me happy." Women, as a rule, tend to be more intuitive than men about such issues. Perhaps I should listen for once. Like the man said, I did work for a long time. I'm not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination but I make a pretty decent income just for waking up in the morning. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. It's a good situation.
And so I look forward to the coming year. Or at least the part that comes after Valentine's Day. Some things never change.
It's all good. I'm content.
And I'm fortunate. Very fortunate.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
My Sunday Feeling
So, M and I packed the camera along with the Christmas wine I had bought and the salad that she had made and over the river and through the woods to the Village of Wellington we went.
After everyone had eaten, about 6:30 or so, John called everybody into the living room, ostensibly to pass out gifts. He instead reached into his pocket and produced a box. In it contained two wedding rings. About that time other family members and friends started coming through the front door behind him.
"Well," he announced. "Since everybody is gathered together and since we have two preachers here-referring to Cousin Bruce and M-Michele and I are going to get married on Christmas." Actually, we have 3, the third being Bruce's wife Carolyn. But who's counting?
He turned to the bride-to-be.
"Go get your dress on and let's do this."
Obviously, Bruce-a minister in the Disciples of Christ or Christian Church (think TCU)-was in on this from the get-go. But that was probably about it apart from Michele's sister. I'm not sure that Clarke or Kole knew. As I got the camera ready Bruce told me they decided that the time was right and that this is how they wanted to do it.
"Besides," he said. "We really are lousy with clergy in this family nowadays."
Could be worse I suppose. Some families are lousy with lawyers.
Presently, Michele made her way down the stairs escorted by Kole. Bruce gathered the wedding party to order. The bride was radiant. The groom was gallant.
And there in the living room, John and Michele were married on Christmas night. All was calm. All was bright.
After champagne went around, M and I went back over the river and through woods back to the People's Republic of Hillcrest to exchange gifts. We had just gotten settled in when my buddy Dale texted me from over above the river just east of here.
"You missed one hell of a good time over here," he wrote.
"I bet I did," I wrote back. "But John got married tonight. And I had to take pictures."
His response was intemperate and shall not be repeated in this space.
"Huh?"
"You're next," he then wrote. " Don't dare do it without telling us."
Dale hates surprises even worse than I do. The big sissy left town on his 50th birthday for fear that we would throw him a surprise party. Really he did.
" I promise you," I replied. "If I ever decide to give up my celibate lifestyle you will be the first to know."
"You monk you."
"Good night."
I don't know if I would want to get married at Christmas. Or Valentine's Day either. Things are stressful enough on those occasions. Further, I know a couple of people who have birthdays around Christmas. They say it still sucks as much now as it did when they were kids.
Then again, I ran into my buddy Jim on Saturday morning. Jim was the friend that was not drunk texting me on Christmas night. He said his brother got married on the 4th of July just so he would always remember his anniversary. So there is that.
Still it is exciting to officially add to this family that is lousy with clergy. Michele is a great gal. John over-married. Even he would admit it. Kole is a good kid.
They have a great future ahead of them.
All is calm. All is bright.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Still MIA
I got too much stuff going on. The literary world will just have to do without me again today.
It will live. Most likely it will prosper.
Talk amongst yourselves.
It will live. Most likely it will prosper.
Talk amongst yourselves.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Sick Leave
I have been struck down again by bronchitis, this time pretty bad. It's hard to blog when you got pleurisy.
The good news is that the horse pills seem to be kicking in. I should be well JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!
Talk amongst yourselves.
The good news is that the horse pills seem to be kicking in. I should be well JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!
Talk amongst yourselves.
Sunday, December 06, 2015
My Sunday Feeling
I'm thinking about getting a gun.
I would buy it from a licensed dealer. I would go through training. I would get a concealed carry permit. All of that.
I wouldn't pack it in church. Or at the doctor's office. Or at a high school ball game. Or at a nice restaurant.
At least I don't think I would. I haven't really thought it through.
I guess most people that know me would be surprised by this notion. After all, I don't hunt, although I have no problem with it. I'm not paranoid. Indeed, I think that I am fairly well adjusted and socialized. Lord knows I'm not insecure. I'm extremely comfortable in my own skin and have no particular need to exert dominion over others.
But I have this feeling that I am outnumbered.
Let's face it. Gun control has failed. There are more guns floating around out there than could ever be confiscated without a house-to-house search by the Marines.
Which, contrary to the het up delusions of what used to be the fringe, will never happen.
And here's something else. The other day Congress voted down a bill which would have, in part, prevented folks on the Federal terrorist watch list from buying guns. President Obama rightfully referred to this as "insane." I refer to it as failing to "provide for the common defense" which according to the Constitution of the United States of America is one of the jobs of the government.
OK. So I have established that I am neither crazy nor paranoid. OK so I'm not paranoid. I think my public record is one of civic duty and adherence to the rule of law. I vote. I pay my taxes along with my personal obligations as they come due.
So what am I scared of?
Home invaders? Not really. While there's always that chance, I am fortunate to live in a safe neighborhood where that sort of thing is pretty much unheard of. Mass shooters? A little. But that's nothing that won't be ameliorated by my not attending the opening of Star Wars or staying out of a Planned Parenthood clinic. That and I don't work in an office anymore.
But I live in a country in which the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution is evidently sacrosanct and entitled to greater deference to the obligation of the government to provide for the common defense.
Which means that pretty much any idiot with a driver's license and a Certificate of Live Birth and no felonies can buy an assault rifle at Bass Pro Shop. Which means that you never know when some white punk whose boss yelled at him or whose wife cut him off won't try to man up and show the movie theatre who's boss. Like the guy in Mississippi who plugged the server at the Waffle House for telling him to put out his cigarette.
Think about it. You can't smoke in most restaurants or other public buildings because smoking is considered a risk to public health. But packing a gun is not.
Off the top of my head, I can't think of a better metaphor for the insanity of the gun culture.
Do not misunderstand me. I know many law abiding and responsible gun owners. I would shoot craps over the phone with Chris and Jim Mark.
But neither one of these gentlemen, as far as I know, have a felt need to openly carry an AR-15 on a trip to the hardware store.
The ones that do are the ones that scare me.
And so I'm thinking about getting a gun.
Because I KNOW I'm not crazy.
I would buy it from a licensed dealer. I would go through training. I would get a concealed carry permit. All of that.
I wouldn't pack it in church. Or at the doctor's office. Or at a high school ball game. Or at a nice restaurant.
At least I don't think I would. I haven't really thought it through.
I guess most people that know me would be surprised by this notion. After all, I don't hunt, although I have no problem with it. I'm not paranoid. Indeed, I think that I am fairly well adjusted and socialized. Lord knows I'm not insecure. I'm extremely comfortable in my own skin and have no particular need to exert dominion over others.
But I have this feeling that I am outnumbered.
Let's face it. Gun control has failed. There are more guns floating around out there than could ever be confiscated without a house-to-house search by the Marines.
Which, contrary to the het up delusions of what used to be the fringe, will never happen.
And here's something else. The other day Congress voted down a bill which would have, in part, prevented folks on the Federal terrorist watch list from buying guns. President Obama rightfully referred to this as "insane." I refer to it as failing to "provide for the common defense" which according to the Constitution of the United States of America is one of the jobs of the government.
OK. So I have established that I am neither crazy nor paranoid. OK so I'm not paranoid. I think my public record is one of civic duty and adherence to the rule of law. I vote. I pay my taxes along with my personal obligations as they come due.
So what am I scared of?
Home invaders? Not really. While there's always that chance, I am fortunate to live in a safe neighborhood where that sort of thing is pretty much unheard of. Mass shooters? A little. But that's nothing that won't be ameliorated by my not attending the opening of Star Wars or staying out of a Planned Parenthood clinic. That and I don't work in an office anymore.
But I live in a country in which the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution is evidently sacrosanct and entitled to greater deference to the obligation of the government to provide for the common defense.
Which means that pretty much any idiot with a driver's license and a Certificate of Live Birth and no felonies can buy an assault rifle at Bass Pro Shop. Which means that you never know when some white punk whose boss yelled at him or whose wife cut him off won't try to man up and show the movie theatre who's boss. Like the guy in Mississippi who plugged the server at the Waffle House for telling him to put out his cigarette.
Think about it. You can't smoke in most restaurants or other public buildings because smoking is considered a risk to public health. But packing a gun is not.
Off the top of my head, I can't think of a better metaphor for the insanity of the gun culture.
Do not misunderstand me. I know many law abiding and responsible gun owners. I would shoot craps over the phone with Chris and Jim Mark.
But neither one of these gentlemen, as far as I know, have a felt need to openly carry an AR-15 on a trip to the hardware store.
The ones that do are the ones that scare me.
And so I'm thinking about getting a gun.
Because I KNOW I'm not crazy.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
My Sunday Feeling
One of the best things about my new life is that I get to spend a lot more time with kids now than I used to. My nephew Clarke's Mom lives just down the road from Catholic High as do I. So, one of the things I do about once a week when he's with Amy is take him home after he has ROTC.
Like most 14 year olds, some days he is chattier than others. Some days he is downright grumpy. He had a lot on his mind when I went to get him last Tuesday.
"What do you think about the Syrian refugees?" he asked.
"It depends,"I replied. "What's your question?"
"Well, some people say they need to be monitored."
"And to them I would say that it seems like they will be monitored as well as any other legal aliens can be once they get through a pretty in depth screening process that will take about 2 years to complete."
"Some people even say that all Muslims in the country need to be monitored."
"Even American citizens?"
"I guess."
"Well," I said again." That's unconstitutional."
"Really?"
"Sure. You have a constitutional right to be a Muslim. Or a Baptist, Catholic or nothing at all. According to the First Amendment to the Constitution the government can't pass a law that would interfere with the free exercise of religion. Whatever religion that might be.
Second of all, how on Earth would the government do it? Have them all register as they leave services at the mosque? Investigate the background of all people with Arabic surnames? Then how would they "monitor" them? Law enforcement is doing good just to keep up with guys that are on parole.
And who would do it? The FBI? Not likely. The INS? Please. The military and CIA can't be used against US citizens. So you see people that are in favor of crazy stuff like this haven't really thought it through."
He grew pensive for a moment.
"But WHY would people even WANT to do this? What would monitoring Muslims accomplish?"
"Good question," I said. "I guess some people think expending zillions of dollars and violating folks' constitutional rights in order to flush out a handful of potential terrorists is a wise expenditure. Personally, I think we would be money ahead to keep guns out of the hands of crazy white folks."
"It doesn't make much sense to me," he said.
"People are scared. The problem is that the world is a complicated place. There are no simple solutions. Only difficult responses."
By then we were at his house. I watched him walk to the back in his fatigues and cap. This is the world his generation will inherit. A world where fools dream about creating apps to track Muslims.
Good luck, Son. Maybe you young folks can straighten it out someday. Come tell me about it in the nursing home if you do.
Like most 14 year olds, some days he is chattier than others. Some days he is downright grumpy. He had a lot on his mind when I went to get him last Tuesday.
"What do you think about the Syrian refugees?" he asked.
"It depends,"I replied. "What's your question?"
"Well, some people say they need to be monitored."
"And to them I would say that it seems like they will be monitored as well as any other legal aliens can be once they get through a pretty in depth screening process that will take about 2 years to complete."
"Some people even say that all Muslims in the country need to be monitored."
"Even American citizens?"
"I guess."
"Well," I said again." That's unconstitutional."
"Really?"
"Sure. You have a constitutional right to be a Muslim. Or a Baptist, Catholic or nothing at all. According to the First Amendment to the Constitution the government can't pass a law that would interfere with the free exercise of religion. Whatever religion that might be.
Second of all, how on Earth would the government do it? Have them all register as they leave services at the mosque? Investigate the background of all people with Arabic surnames? Then how would they "monitor" them? Law enforcement is doing good just to keep up with guys that are on parole.
And who would do it? The FBI? Not likely. The INS? Please. The military and CIA can't be used against US citizens. So you see people that are in favor of crazy stuff like this haven't really thought it through."
He grew pensive for a moment.
"But WHY would people even WANT to do this? What would monitoring Muslims accomplish?"
"Good question," I said. "I guess some people think expending zillions of dollars and violating folks' constitutional rights in order to flush out a handful of potential terrorists is a wise expenditure. Personally, I think we would be money ahead to keep guns out of the hands of crazy white folks."
"It doesn't make much sense to me," he said.
"People are scared. The problem is that the world is a complicated place. There are no simple solutions. Only difficult responses."
By then we were at his house. I watched him walk to the back in his fatigues and cap. This is the world his generation will inherit. A world where fools dream about creating apps to track Muslims.
Good luck, Son. Maybe you young folks can straighten it out someday. Come tell me about it in the nursing home if you do.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
My Thanksgiving Feeling
A couple of Sundays ago, I went out to my car to put something in the golf bag. Sylvia was on her knees tending to her flowers at the antique store across the street. There was a young woman standing over her. She was gesticulating in a dramatic fashion as she talked. Sylvia seemed to be ignoring her.
The young woman approached me as I stood in the yard.
"Hey Mister," she said. "Can I talk to you?"
Great. A panhandler. We don't get many of those in this neighborhood. We get the door-to-door sales crooks and jackleg yard guys all the time. Panhandlers not so much.
She was in her early twenties. Her hair dyed jet black, was parted in the middle, which required her to repeatedly push it out of her face.
As I have written in the past, I don't give money to panhandlers. It's not that I am heartless. Indeed, I think I enjoy something of a reputation for charity and good works in this town. Which doesn't make me the second coming of Gandhi. I get that. But I don't get guilted into much either.
And while I typically take an exceedingly aggressive approach toward solicitors that arrive unbidden on my porch, I didn't throw this girl off of my yard as a matter of course. Maybe because she was a young woman. I don't know.
"OK," she said brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm really embarrassed to have to do this."
"Do what?" I asked.
"To ask for help. But I'm kinda desperate. I hitched a ride with a guy in Springfield who was coming to Little Rock. Anyway, he had a heart attack and is one of the hospitals here. I don't know which hospital. I don't even know his name. All I know is all my stuff is in the trunk of his car. And I need some money to get something to eat and to get back to Springfield."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any money on me."
That's what I always say.
"Well, maybe you could take me to an ATM and you could use your card."
"You must be kidding."
She didn't look particularly dangerous. But for all I know she was packing. No way I was going to get in a vehicle with her.
"No. I'm not. I really need some help."
There was a part of me, the part of me raised by Donice Bowen and the United Methodist Church, that wanted to believe this. Then I remembered the last woman who showed up at my house looking for help. She turned out to be a total con artist who had taken the time to do research on me. She was a pro. You have to protect yourself.
This girl looked more crazy than criminal. But still. Her story didn't make a whole lot of sense. That's when I went full blown lawyer on her.
"You mean to tell me you rode all the way from Springfield, Missouri to Little Rock with some guy and you didn't catch his name?"
"Well..."
"Tell me how you know he's had a heart attack."
Silence. She was getting pissed.
"I think you need to leave. Now." I said.
She headed back across the street from whence she came.
"I hope I don't die!" she yelled back at me from over her shoulder.
OK. That hurt a little bit.
I have written in the past that while I'm not a very good Christian. I'm a pretty good Methodist. And us Methodists are hard-wired to "do all the good we can." And while I've done well for myself, I'm hardly wealthy. Still, it would not have made a dent in my standard of living in the slightest to have slipped her 5 bucks. And maybe I should have done that.
But ask anybody in law enforcement or social work about panhandlers. They will tell you that 90% of them will take any money you give them and will either smoke it up or drink it up. It is a better and more efficient use of the money to give it to homeless shelters or food ministries. Which I do.
Or to give it to friends that are soliciting for charitable purposes. A buddy brought his 10 year old daughter over the other night. She was selling some homemade granola trial mix junk she called "reindeer food." The 2 buck donation goes to "Toys for Tots." I gave her a 20. I know where that money is heading.
I saw the Girl from Springfield last week. I saw her over by the grocery store down the street. She was wearing a poncho and a backpack. Maybe she got her stuff back. And maybe this was a line of bull straight from jump street.
But she didn't die after leaving my house.
And I am grateful for that.
I am also thankful for people whose vocation is to help the less fortunate. The ones who run the shelters and the feeding stations. They deserve all of our gratitude and support.
As I have written once before, about turning away a guy who showed up at my house at 2 AM allegedly seeking warmth, Jesus walked the streets. But he didn't walk these streets. Theodicy is theology's attempt to explain the inexplicable. Check it out on your own time.
Back to the real world.
I don't particularly regret not giving money to a panhandler with a sketchy story.
But I guarantee you I will write a check to the homeless shelter this week. I'm not a very good Christian but I'm a pretty good Methodist. And I try to do all the good I can.
The young woman approached me as I stood in the yard.
"Hey Mister," she said. "Can I talk to you?"
Great. A panhandler. We don't get many of those in this neighborhood. We get the door-to-door sales crooks and jackleg yard guys all the time. Panhandlers not so much.
She was in her early twenties. Her hair dyed jet black, was parted in the middle, which required her to repeatedly push it out of her face.
As I have written in the past, I don't give money to panhandlers. It's not that I am heartless. Indeed, I think I enjoy something of a reputation for charity and good works in this town. Which doesn't make me the second coming of Gandhi. I get that. But I don't get guilted into much either.
And while I typically take an exceedingly aggressive approach toward solicitors that arrive unbidden on my porch, I didn't throw this girl off of my yard as a matter of course. Maybe because she was a young woman. I don't know.
"OK," she said brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm really embarrassed to have to do this."
"Do what?" I asked.
"To ask for help. But I'm kinda desperate. I hitched a ride with a guy in Springfield who was coming to Little Rock. Anyway, he had a heart attack and is one of the hospitals here. I don't know which hospital. I don't even know his name. All I know is all my stuff is in the trunk of his car. And I need some money to get something to eat and to get back to Springfield."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any money on me."
That's what I always say.
"Well, maybe you could take me to an ATM and you could use your card."
"You must be kidding."
She didn't look particularly dangerous. But for all I know she was packing. No way I was going to get in a vehicle with her.
"No. I'm not. I really need some help."
There was a part of me, the part of me raised by Donice Bowen and the United Methodist Church, that wanted to believe this. Then I remembered the last woman who showed up at my house looking for help. She turned out to be a total con artist who had taken the time to do research on me. She was a pro. You have to protect yourself.
This girl looked more crazy than criminal. But still. Her story didn't make a whole lot of sense. That's when I went full blown lawyer on her.
"You mean to tell me you rode all the way from Springfield, Missouri to Little Rock with some guy and you didn't catch his name?"
"Well..."
"Tell me how you know he's had a heart attack."
Silence. She was getting pissed.
"I think you need to leave. Now." I said.
She headed back across the street from whence she came.
"I hope I don't die!" she yelled back at me from over her shoulder.
OK. That hurt a little bit.
I have written in the past that while I'm not a very good Christian. I'm a pretty good Methodist. And us Methodists are hard-wired to "do all the good we can." And while I've done well for myself, I'm hardly wealthy. Still, it would not have made a dent in my standard of living in the slightest to have slipped her 5 bucks. And maybe I should have done that.
But ask anybody in law enforcement or social work about panhandlers. They will tell you that 90% of them will take any money you give them and will either smoke it up or drink it up. It is a better and more efficient use of the money to give it to homeless shelters or food ministries. Which I do.
Or to give it to friends that are soliciting for charitable purposes. A buddy brought his 10 year old daughter over the other night. She was selling some homemade granola trial mix junk she called "reindeer food." The 2 buck donation goes to "Toys for Tots." I gave her a 20. I know where that money is heading.
I saw the Girl from Springfield last week. I saw her over by the grocery store down the street. She was wearing a poncho and a backpack. Maybe she got her stuff back. And maybe this was a line of bull straight from jump street.
But she didn't die after leaving my house.
And I am grateful for that.
I am also thankful for people whose vocation is to help the less fortunate. The ones who run the shelters and the feeding stations. They deserve all of our gratitude and support.
As I have written once before, about turning away a guy who showed up at my house at 2 AM allegedly seeking warmth, Jesus walked the streets. But he didn't walk these streets. Theodicy is theology's attempt to explain the inexplicable. Check it out on your own time.
Back to the real world.
I don't particularly regret not giving money to a panhandler with a sketchy story.
But I guarantee you I will write a check to the homeless shelter this week. I'm not a very good Christian but I'm a pretty good Methodist. And I try to do all the good I can.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
No Time For Blogging
I have been forced to actually work this week and last. It no longer suits me.
So no blogging this week.
If we don't talk before then have a Happy Thanksgiving!
So no blogging this week.
If we don't talk before then have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 15, 2015
My Sunday Feeling
I haven't had as much time this Fall to substitute teach as I have the previous couple of years. I have been practicing law a little more than I have since leaving Uncle. Most of it has been Legal Services stuff. They tend to call me in on stuff involving money or property or Federal Court. They don't get a whole lot of that kind of business.
I spent a good bit of last week helping with a housing discrimination case down in El Dorado. Next week I have depositions in a really interesting case in which we opened a Probate for our client's daughter. Client's boyfriend, the child's father, got whacked a year or so ago. Shortly thereafter, Quitclaim Deeds purporting to bear the Decedent's signature which were allegedly executed prior to his death popped up which purport to convey certain real estate owned by him to a woman who claims to be his cousin and boon companion.
My client contends that the decedent's signature is a forgery. It sure looks like it to the untrained eyes of me and co-counsel. So we filed an action in the Probate case to cancel the Deeds for that reason. And away we go.
This is actually fun. You can't make this stuff up. It's a lot of work. But fun nonetheless.
However, I was able to go spend last Friday with the Middle School kids at St. Edward's downtown. Which once again raises the entirely legitimate question of how a Methodist lawyer got himself in the big middle of Catholic secondary education in this here town. This is certainly the question raised by many of my greatly amused Catholic friends. But here I am.
I got asked to help out at St. Edward's last Spring. I was kind of apprehensive because I had never spent time with kids that age outside of baseball. I certainly had no experience with girls that age. It worked out all right. I discovered that I get along with sixth graders which was unknown to me. I got along with everybody else too. And they behaved for me.
I am not above this sort of commerce and so last Friday I offered the 6th graders a bribe. They had never seen a fountain pen before. So I told them if they behaved we would take some time at the end of class for them to write with my fountain pens. The fact that I carried two astounded them. Worked like a charm.
I like it over there.
However, I suppose I am sufficiently exotic to them that they had questions for me. Mainly about my "favorite" things.
"What is your favorite color?"
"I don't know. I'm wearing black, blue and khaki today. I wore a lot of blue and gray when I worked all the time. Kinda like a uniform. But I don't have a favorite."
"What's your favorite TV show?"
"I don't watch much TV except for sports and the news."
" What is your favorite sport?"
" I'm mainly a golfer now. But I played pretty much everything but soccer when I was your age."
"Why didn't you play soccer?"
"Because nobody played soccer back then."
" What's your favorite football team?"
"The Saints. Lord help me."
"Do you like Notre Dame?"
"I hate Notre Dame."
That one actually drew a gasp.
"What is your favorite soft drink? Coke or Dr. Pepper?"
"I don't drink soft drinks." I decided it was best to let it go at that.
"What is your favorite pizza place? Papa John's or Pizza Hut?"
"I try not to go to chain restaurants."
"What is you favorite video game?"
"I don't play video games."
"You don't?
"I think we are establishing here that I'm just not much fun. Sorry."
At that point I was saved by the bell-literally- and they scurried out.
But it occurred to me that maybe the tastes of these kids are largely shaped or influenced by the advertising with which they are bombarded. I am pretty much impervious to advertising. There is no car ad in existence that could entice me to a showroom floor. But I had to at least quit tuning them out once I started doing consultant work for the Better Business Bureau a couple of years ago though. I know at least take notice.
Part of it is their age. Things are pretty black and white at 12. So when I was asked about my favorite food, I had to tell them that I didn't know. That I liked all kinds of foods just like I enjoy all kinds of music. That it largely depends on my mood.
Then again, I'm 45 years plus older than these little guys. I have experienced and done more. My tastes are broader and not informed by the media. At least not much. My responses to their questions were the nuanced answers of an adult. Sixth graders don't do nuance much.
But I wonder about them and the messages they are getting. I'm not so sure it's a good thing.
The guy the State accused of killing my client's boyfriend and an associate who was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time was charged with everything they could think of. 2 counts of capital murder, arson (he is alleged to have set the house they were in on fire), 2 counts of corpse desecration (secondary to the arson), unlawful possession of a firearm by a prohibited person (naturally he was out on parole when this all went down) and spitting on the sidewalk on Sunday.
He was tried a couple of weeks ago. The jury hung up 11-1. He is back in prison (they revoked his probation when they arrested him a year ago. Duh.) awaiting a retrial in May.
Like I said. You can't make this stuff up.
The sixth graders' world may not be subtle or nuanced. But at least it is safer than the real world.
It's too bad it can't stay that way.
I spent a good bit of last week helping with a housing discrimination case down in El Dorado. Next week I have depositions in a really interesting case in which we opened a Probate for our client's daughter. Client's boyfriend, the child's father, got whacked a year or so ago. Shortly thereafter, Quitclaim Deeds purporting to bear the Decedent's signature which were allegedly executed prior to his death popped up which purport to convey certain real estate owned by him to a woman who claims to be his cousin and boon companion.
My client contends that the decedent's signature is a forgery. It sure looks like it to the untrained eyes of me and co-counsel. So we filed an action in the Probate case to cancel the Deeds for that reason. And away we go.
This is actually fun. You can't make this stuff up. It's a lot of work. But fun nonetheless.
However, I was able to go spend last Friday with the Middle School kids at St. Edward's downtown. Which once again raises the entirely legitimate question of how a Methodist lawyer got himself in the big middle of Catholic secondary education in this here town. This is certainly the question raised by many of my greatly amused Catholic friends. But here I am.
I got asked to help out at St. Edward's last Spring. I was kind of apprehensive because I had never spent time with kids that age outside of baseball. I certainly had no experience with girls that age. It worked out all right. I discovered that I get along with sixth graders which was unknown to me. I got along with everybody else too. And they behaved for me.
I am not above this sort of commerce and so last Friday I offered the 6th graders a bribe. They had never seen a fountain pen before. So I told them if they behaved we would take some time at the end of class for them to write with my fountain pens. The fact that I carried two astounded them. Worked like a charm.
I like it over there.
However, I suppose I am sufficiently exotic to them that they had questions for me. Mainly about my "favorite" things.
"What is your favorite color?"
"I don't know. I'm wearing black, blue and khaki today. I wore a lot of blue and gray when I worked all the time. Kinda like a uniform. But I don't have a favorite."
"What's your favorite TV show?"
"I don't watch much TV except for sports and the news."
" What is your favorite sport?"
" I'm mainly a golfer now. But I played pretty much everything but soccer when I was your age."
"Why didn't you play soccer?"
"Because nobody played soccer back then."
" What's your favorite football team?"
"The Saints. Lord help me."
"Do you like Notre Dame?"
"I hate Notre Dame."
That one actually drew a gasp.
"What is your favorite soft drink? Coke or Dr. Pepper?"
"I don't drink soft drinks." I decided it was best to let it go at that.
"What is your favorite pizza place? Papa John's or Pizza Hut?"
"I try not to go to chain restaurants."
"What is you favorite video game?"
"I don't play video games."
"You don't?
"I think we are establishing here that I'm just not much fun. Sorry."
At that point I was saved by the bell-literally- and they scurried out.
But it occurred to me that maybe the tastes of these kids are largely shaped or influenced by the advertising with which they are bombarded. I am pretty much impervious to advertising. There is no car ad in existence that could entice me to a showroom floor. But I had to at least quit tuning them out once I started doing consultant work for the Better Business Bureau a couple of years ago though. I know at least take notice.
Part of it is their age. Things are pretty black and white at 12. So when I was asked about my favorite food, I had to tell them that I didn't know. That I liked all kinds of foods just like I enjoy all kinds of music. That it largely depends on my mood.
Then again, I'm 45 years plus older than these little guys. I have experienced and done more. My tastes are broader and not informed by the media. At least not much. My responses to their questions were the nuanced answers of an adult. Sixth graders don't do nuance much.
But I wonder about them and the messages they are getting. I'm not so sure it's a good thing.
The guy the State accused of killing my client's boyfriend and an associate who was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time was charged with everything they could think of. 2 counts of capital murder, arson (he is alleged to have set the house they were in on fire), 2 counts of corpse desecration (secondary to the arson), unlawful possession of a firearm by a prohibited person (naturally he was out on parole when this all went down) and spitting on the sidewalk on Sunday.
He was tried a couple of weeks ago. The jury hung up 11-1. He is back in prison (they revoked his probation when they arrested him a year ago. Duh.) awaiting a retrial in May.
Like I said. You can't make this stuff up.
The sixth graders' world may not be subtle or nuanced. But at least it is safer than the real world.
It's too bad it can't stay that way.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Veteran's Day 2015
The Veteran's Cemetery is a heavy place. I generally get out there to see Buck at least a couple of times a year. And I never get over the optics of white markers "row on row" to quote the famous poem as far as you can see.
They put American flags out throughout the grounds on Veteran's Day and on the Fourth of July.
On gray days like Veteran's Day 2015 and 2014, the colors literally pop in front of you. The stately white monuments seem to strain to reach up to the sky. At least that is the illusion my mind plays on me as it attempts to process the final resting places of Americans that are denoted by so many markers. The red, white and blue flags remind you that you are in a place of shared sacrifice. Sure, not every soul interred there was killed in action. Not all of them saw combat. But they all share the common bond of having worn the uniform.
Which I never did. My father and I never saw eye to eye about, well, anything. He was a very good man. And I would imagine that I wasn't exactly a day at the beach as a young person. He joined the Navy at 18 and went off to the Pacific Theatre with the Seabees. Can you imagine? The enormity of what he did, being the bookish and painfully shy man that he was, is overwhelming to me. And so I go pay my respects. Day late and dollar short at this point. But it's the best I can do.
Arkansas weather is by definition crazy and unpredictable. Last year was freezing cold. This year I played golf in my shorts the night before.
M and I were just getting to know each other by this time last year. I was standing out by Buck's grave when she called last Veteran's Day.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied as I threw my scarf over my shoulder and turned my back to the howling wind. "It's cold."
"Don't stay too long."
"I won't."
"And you need to find somebody to hug."
"Huh?"
"Anytime a person visits a loved one in a graveyard by themselves, they need to find somebody to hug."
"Never heard that one before."
"Well, you need to do it."
By the time I got out there today, an unseasonably clement gentle rain was falling. From my vantage point where Buck is buried, I could see out across the plain that serves as a huge columbarium. There are plaques in the ground to note the resting places.
There was a lone woman out there in the middle of the plain. She was sitting on the ground under an umbrella. She was wearing jeans and her legs were open, astraddle a plaque there on the ground. She sat there motionless for as long as I was there. Eventually, she got up and walked to her car, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
I remembered last year's advice about going to the graveyard alone. If the lady had been closer to me I would have offered her a hug.
M and I are together now. It's hard to extrapolate from memories that are damn near over 40 years old at this point. Indeed, it's almost like he never existed at this point. But I think Buck would have liked her. I wouldn't call her shy. But she is a quiet sort who has her nose in a book whenever she gets the chance. Quiet people, like water, find their own level. But I'm making stuff up.
Maybe that's why I go visit my father a couple of times a year. It's proof he really existed.
And that he, along with other (mostly) boys, did this amazing thing.
Sunday, November 08, 2015
Two Weeks In A Row
Between actually practicing law and attending ball games and fundraisers I have had no time to pick up the pen. Er, keyboard.
Let me clear some things out. I will return then.
Talk among yourselves.
Let me clear some things out. I will return then.
Talk among yourselves.
Sunday, November 01, 2015
Day of Rest
No time for blogging this week. I'm actually having to do some work and it doesn't suit me anymore.
Talk among yourselves.....
Talk among yourselves.....
Sunday, October 25, 2015
My Sunday Sexagenarian Feeling
The doctor took the stethoscope out of his ears and reached in his pocket for his prescription pad. I have been sick off and on for a month due to allergies and sinus stuff. The bronchitis returned last weekend so I went in to get a steroid shot.
"The deal with patients like you," he said as he wrote me a scrip for antibiotics and cough medicine. "Is that y'all never met a day that you didn't find something to like. And that's a great thing. The problem with guys like you is that you never rest when you are sick. You're always pushing."
I never thought about it like that before. In retrospect the good doctor is on to something. While I will never be confused with Fred Rogers or any other Mary Sunshine type you may think of, I do tend to find something to like about most every day the Lord sends. Especially now since I don't practice law all the time anymore.
Perhaps that is what has sustained me for much of my 60 years, the first day of which I enjoyed yesterday.
Yesterday, I became the first male on my father's side in 2 generations to hit the big six-oh. While I can't say that I obsessed about the bad hand I've been dealt genetically or went screaming in the night about it, it is fair to say that I have been aware of, not so much my mortality, but just how any of a number of things that happened along the way could have jumped ugly.
Around 1986, I was mugged at gunpoint. My Tulane classmate Jeff Adams had the same experience right after graduation. He got his head blown off. I didn't. About 5 years later a drunk in a Tahoe ran a red light turning my Chevy Nova into a concertina. I walked out with a small laceration in my ear.
Around 1993, I came home from work to find 3 guys robbing my house. I must have scared them as much as they scared me. They went out the back while I went back out the front. Surely one of those assholes had a gun. I certainly didn't. All they got was stuff. You can replace stuff. It worked out.
About 2008 I was diagnosed, much to everyone's considerable surprise despite my sorry family history, with coronary artery disease. It is in the left anterior descending artery which is popularly, for lack of a better word, referred to amusingly as "The Widowmaker" for it's documented ability for killing people dead. Heart disease claimed my father and his father. I'm asymptomatic. I crush every stress test they throw at me.
My cardiologist says I have a better chance of getting shot than having a fatal heart attack. Whatever that means. My PCP goes so far as rating my chances for such an event as "zero" despite the sludge in my system. I am fortunate to be living in the era of statin drugs and stents. My dad was not so fortunate. Also, unlike my father and my grandfather I don't smoke. Smoking will kill you graveyard dead about 5 different ways.
One of the reasons I don't smoke is because I have suffered from upper respiratory problems all my life. I had pleurisy as late as last May. Some folks get colds. I acquire stuff out of a book by Dickens. I catch these things and I get over them. Around 2010, Hugh Tedder, another Tulane classmate, caught the flu. He died. He left two daughters. Where's the fairness in that?
I don't much ascribe the hand of God in sparing me all these years. That would suggest that God routinely intercedes in human history which I can't say that I see from the evidence before me. Or that if he does, he is perverse about it.
So I can't say that I can provide an explanation for how I arrived at this charmed state of affairs.
But as the doc says, I do tend to find something good in every day that I am lent breath. I enjoy spending time with the boys at Catholic High. Even when they piss me off. I practice law just about as much as I can stand. I think my current caseload stands at 3. I still pretty much suck at golf but it no longer troubles me enough to try to improve. I am playing guitar and singing with the help of an exceedingly patient and frequently amused young professional musician.
I have stumbled into a relationship with a beautiful, kind, and tolerant woman. She is lovely in every way. Far better than I deserve in any event.
Last night we attended a party where I was surrounded by family and friends. Good food and drink. Much story swapping and laughter along with a few tears. How did I get to this pass? Call it pure dumb luck. Call it what you will.
But I realize that I am the most fortunate man on Earth. And I don't take it for granted one little bit.
The doc handed me the scrip.
"Have fun at your party. Take a little of the cough medicine about an hour before you go. Eat and drink what you like as long as you got a driver," he said. "Just see if you can find something good the next couple of days that involves reading a book or watching sports. Because I want you to rest. No working out. No golf. Chill out. You're in remarkable shape for 60. But you are 60. And you need to get well."
I started to walk out of the room. The doc called my name. I turned around.
He gave me a fist bump.
"Congratulations, man," he said. "You did it."
So it would appear.
And I don't have to think about this stuff anymore.
"The deal with patients like you," he said as he wrote me a scrip for antibiotics and cough medicine. "Is that y'all never met a day that you didn't find something to like. And that's a great thing. The problem with guys like you is that you never rest when you are sick. You're always pushing."
I never thought about it like that before. In retrospect the good doctor is on to something. While I will never be confused with Fred Rogers or any other Mary Sunshine type you may think of, I do tend to find something to like about most every day the Lord sends. Especially now since I don't practice law all the time anymore.
Perhaps that is what has sustained me for much of my 60 years, the first day of which I enjoyed yesterday.
Yesterday, I became the first male on my father's side in 2 generations to hit the big six-oh. While I can't say that I obsessed about the bad hand I've been dealt genetically or went screaming in the night about it, it is fair to say that I have been aware of, not so much my mortality, but just how any of a number of things that happened along the way could have jumped ugly.
Around 1986, I was mugged at gunpoint. My Tulane classmate Jeff Adams had the same experience right after graduation. He got his head blown off. I didn't. About 5 years later a drunk in a Tahoe ran a red light turning my Chevy Nova into a concertina. I walked out with a small laceration in my ear.
Around 1993, I came home from work to find 3 guys robbing my house. I must have scared them as much as they scared me. They went out the back while I went back out the front. Surely one of those assholes had a gun. I certainly didn't. All they got was stuff. You can replace stuff. It worked out.
About 2008 I was diagnosed, much to everyone's considerable surprise despite my sorry family history, with coronary artery disease. It is in the left anterior descending artery which is popularly, for lack of a better word, referred to amusingly as "The Widowmaker" for it's documented ability for killing people dead. Heart disease claimed my father and his father. I'm asymptomatic. I crush every stress test they throw at me.
My cardiologist says I have a better chance of getting shot than having a fatal heart attack. Whatever that means. My PCP goes so far as rating my chances for such an event as "zero" despite the sludge in my system. I am fortunate to be living in the era of statin drugs and stents. My dad was not so fortunate. Also, unlike my father and my grandfather I don't smoke. Smoking will kill you graveyard dead about 5 different ways.
One of the reasons I don't smoke is because I have suffered from upper respiratory problems all my life. I had pleurisy as late as last May. Some folks get colds. I acquire stuff out of a book by Dickens. I catch these things and I get over them. Around 2010, Hugh Tedder, another Tulane classmate, caught the flu. He died. He left two daughters. Where's the fairness in that?
I don't much ascribe the hand of God in sparing me all these years. That would suggest that God routinely intercedes in human history which I can't say that I see from the evidence before me. Or that if he does, he is perverse about it.
So I can't say that I can provide an explanation for how I arrived at this charmed state of affairs.
But as the doc says, I do tend to find something good in every day that I am lent breath. I enjoy spending time with the boys at Catholic High. Even when they piss me off. I practice law just about as much as I can stand. I think my current caseload stands at 3. I still pretty much suck at golf but it no longer troubles me enough to try to improve. I am playing guitar and singing with the help of an exceedingly patient and frequently amused young professional musician.
I have stumbled into a relationship with a beautiful, kind, and tolerant woman. She is lovely in every way. Far better than I deserve in any event.
Last night we attended a party where I was surrounded by family and friends. Good food and drink. Much story swapping and laughter along with a few tears. How did I get to this pass? Call it pure dumb luck. Call it what you will.
But I realize that I am the most fortunate man on Earth. And I don't take it for granted one little bit.
The doc handed me the scrip.
"Have fun at your party. Take a little of the cough medicine about an hour before you go. Eat and drink what you like as long as you got a driver," he said. "Just see if you can find something good the next couple of days that involves reading a book or watching sports. Because I want you to rest. No working out. No golf. Chill out. You're in remarkable shape for 60. But you are 60. And you need to get well."
I started to walk out of the room. The doc called my name. I turned around.
He gave me a fist bump.
"Congratulations, man," he said. "You did it."
So it would appear.
And I don't have to think about this stuff anymore.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Day of Rest
No post today as I have been busy with all things HarvestFest this weekend.
Talk amongst yourselves.
Talk amongst yourselves.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
My Sunday Feeling
I had just gotten on the "El" from the stop located at Midway. I was trying to get to stop at Adams and Wabash to go spend the afternoon at the Art Institute of Chicago before hooking up with my friends Don and Mark. Mark and Don went to Vanderbilt together whereas Don and I went to law school at Tulane together. Over the years we have all become friends.
Mark lives in the Lake Forest section of Chicago (I think) and graciously offered to put us up if we ever wanted to come up for a "guy's weekend." The stars aligned and off we all went a week or so ago, me from Little Rock and Don from San Francisco.
Now I have taken the El many times but always from Evanston or Willamette. I had never gone from Midway to the Loop. I was pretty sure I had figured it out but just to make sure I made discreet inquiry to a woman that was the only other person in the car.
She was a beautiful. Blond hair, black sweater and coat. Pearls. Grey pants.
"Excuse me ma'am," I said. "This goes straight to the Loop doesn't it? I'm trying to get to Adams/Wabash."
She smiled and nodded.
"Oh yah," She said. "Da Loop is da only place dis train goz. Adams/Wabash is da last stop before it turns around an goz beck to Midway."
Face like Catherine Deneuve. Mouth like Studs Terkel or Dennis Franz.
I was in Chicagah all right.
Chicago is a hell of a town. It has the harmonic convergence of sports, the arts and really cool bars that would give me plenty to do. Think of a more frigid version of New Orleans which is not a completely inapt analogy. They both are Catholic towns. Indeed, folks in both cities identify themselves by what parish they are situated in. They both are completely mobbed up. And the politics of both are riven with corruption.
I could deal with all that. What I couldn't deal with is the cost of living up there and the fact that Mother Nature tries to kill you 3 months out of the year. So my appearances in Cook County will be sporadic in nature and limited to early Fall and late Spring.
This trip was a quick one. Don's visa was of a limited duration and both he and Mark have to work for a living and all that. Besides both Don and I have been to Chicago a bunch of times. Neither of us needed to see the sights. So we basically hung out at the Art Institute and in a couple of bars in the Loop.
Chicago and New Orleans are both alike in that they are both tavern towns which is nothing you can say about Little Rock. The bartender that ministered to us at Miller's Pub on Wabash Avenue was 75 if he was a day. The lady that waited on us at Exchequer down the street on Saturday told us she had been working in bars for 15 years. A person can actually make a career working in joints like Miller's and Exchequer.
Both establishments have been around forever. Dark wood paneling. Pictures of various celebrities and sports figures up on the walls. Ball games on the monitors. And, as Don pointed out, pretty girls everywhere. I've had better steaks. I've had better pizza. But being with good friends in a couple of cool bars made the dining experience all the better.
Speaking of weather, I'm glad that I pretty much limited my sartorial selections to golf stuff. Saturday was pretty nasty. The high was 52 or so and the wind was howling across the lake at 30 mph. Walking from the Art Institute to Centennial Park was a trek under the circumstances. The breakers on Lake Michigan were up around 7 feet which I had actually seen before. Still an amazing sight.
Talk of the weather was not far from many casual conversations with folks in the restaurants and the guy in the liquor store. This was pretty cold for early October even for those folks. Does this mean we are in for another terrible winter?
Not for me. Oh, we will have our ice storms and day or two of three inch snows here in Little Rock. We will be inconvenienced for a couple of days. Mark has to shovel snow a couple of times a week every winter. And like the rest of us he isn't getting any younger. I can see why retirees leave there for warmer climes. I understand why folks with the means to do so winter in Florida. Like I said, Mother Nature tries to kill folks that live up there for about 3 months a year. And the older you get the tougher it is to put up with.
I love Chicago but I'm glad I don't live there. Better to hop on a plane and head back home reading the Chicago Tribune sports page where the bottom line is they hate Jay Cutler and love the Cubs. The Northwestern Wildcats, occasional doormat of the Big 17 or whatever they are calling it now, are 5-1. Things are good on the North Side.
But better to come home.
Sunday, October 04, 2015
Greetings from Midway
No MSF today as I am waiting to board a flight home after a weekend in Chicago.
Northwestern is 5-0. The Cubs are in the playoffs. All is well on the North Side.
See you later.
Northwestern is 5-0. The Cubs are in the playoffs. All is well on the North Side.
See you later.
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