"It is not well to make great changes in old age."
Doing much better today, thank you. I've been warned these grieving episodes arrive in waves, and seen the same in P during these months after Laura's death. P was a lifesaver last night, a light out of the darkness that had enveloped my day. I don't know what I'd do without her.
I thought of her and smiled this morning as I walked past Laura's Room and saw her attire laid out on the bed.
She's planning ahead for the Willie Nelson concert on Friday night, I gather. P's sartorial sensibilities are so unique, so Peg's only. She'll make that outfit work, and the 70 degree evening forecast for Saratoga Springs should make it about ideal. I reckon I need to give some thought to my own costume for this country music extravaganza, which promises hours and hours of music by multiple bands, culminating in the performance of the ninety-year-old main act.
What will I be doing at ninety? Decomposing, most likely. Fishing with Jesus. But one never knows.
In the meantime, I find myself flailing a little with fifty-nine. I mean, vocationally. What should I be doing at this moment? Quite a few of those around me have retired or gone of-counsel or set up solo shops so they can putter without worrying about partners or feeding work to associates. Very few of us still show up in court or onscreen for Zoom hearings. I already had one of those this morning, down in Charlotte County on a case involving an alleged breach of a sales contract for a very expensive boat. The lawyer on the other side was the same age as I am, judging from the year he graduated from law school. I would've pegged the judge as much younger, tan with a close-cropped white beard and a generally jolly demeanor, but he graduated from school the same year. I guess that happy vibe just made him seem younger than the weary looking barristers appearing before him.
I rarely see lawyers older than me actively litigating, and when I do I always wonder what went so wrong in their lives that they're still living in six minute increments. Poor financial stewardship? A couple expensive divorces? Most seem unhappy, or at least grumpy to find themselves still burdened with managing other peoples' problems for a living when they'd rather be playing with grandkids or driving their tractors. I hear both laments frequently among those who've been at this job for a few decades. Occasionally I'll run into one who seems happy with his lot in life, but usually they've slowed down to the point that they're just handling the stuff they want to handle, and leaving the penny ante and the needlessly rancorous disputes to the young bucks.
I'm older than almost all of the judges now. Hell, I'm older than maybe half of the mediators who've transitioned into that role as they've slowed down.
Which is why this New York adventure hasn't exactly taken flight so far. The Florida practice still keeps my in-basket full and my calendar clogged with appointments and hearings. Establishing a beachhead here requires a commitment of time, effort, and money. That first element has been the hang-up, simply because I've been so incredibly busy for, well, pretty much the last quarter century. Today, for example, I already attended a hearing at 8:30 eastern, and see six conference calls on my calendar. And this is a fairly easy day. How does one join the local Kiwanis Club, ride up to Bath to make introductions to the judges, or figure out a marketing plan, with at most maybe a ninety-minute block that isn't already spoken for?
Which all feels a little like an excuse. The thought of the undertaking, when viewed in its entirety, makes me weary. It took years of steady and intense exertion to create the Florida practice that pays our bills. Do I have the gas in the tank to do that again?
Maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe the goal here isn't to create a busy trial practice handling complex civil cases with lots of moving parts. Maybe I need to look at this as an exercise with the goal of creating enough income to supplement our retirement, with a little work up in the Southern Tier and a little work down in the panhandle. I owe too much alimony to consider actually retiring for another few years, so these days of billing seven plus hours need to continue for a while. Meanwhile, it may be more realistic to list the things I need to do to shove a toe in the door in this neighborhood, and simply try to accomplish one every week or two when I'm in town. The task would prove too daunting for this wheezing old man otherwise. Eat the elephant one bite at a time.
Time. The thing I've mostly burned through already.
Charles Spurgeon, the English preacher who provided this morning's opening quote, was dead at 57 from complications of gout. The title of this post comes from the most iconic song of the Smiths, and its haunting guitar work and Morrissey's voice bring me back to Los Angeles in the 1980s, as a starving undergrad at USC.
The bass line you're hearing in the background was provided by Andy Rourke, considered by many to be one of the greatest bassists of his generation. He died a few weeks ago, at 59.
There's a little space on my schedule between now and my next call. I think I'll get my exercise by walking down to Wegman's with Peg's short grocery list, taking advantage of the bright skies and cool temperatures that promise the arrival of autumn before too long. I still feel healthy enough to walk down the hill and back up lugging a bag of groceries, which isn't all bad. And of course in the back of my mind I can hear friends in their eighties reminding me that I'm really not all that old. Just too old to practice law at the same pace as when I was forty.
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