North

“It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive”

-Robert Louis Stevenson

A brief update after missing a day yesterday because I was an arbitrator in the morning, then mediated a case a few minutes after the arb hearing wrapped up. I enjoy both functions quite a lot, stretching my tired old brain and keeping me engaged and in the moment when my tendency these days is to wander off.

The mediation ended in an impasse, meaning no settlement, so I shifted to the fifty other things on my list between work, the farm, and whatever emergency has cropped up on any given day. The weather lately has beckoned me outside, beautiful and in the mid-70s here in north Florida. Perfect golf weather, perfect indeed. I dreamed of slipping out of the Wyldswood office by four or so to engage in my fourth consecutive day playing golf until the fading evening light rendered the ball invisible. At $21 a round, with a cart, it's cheap therapy and a chance for P and me to talk through our day and all the challenges we're managing, sort of.

But the golf round almost was not to be, after a client called late with an emergency involving a construction lien in California. I don't practice in California, but the dispute involves a property back in my old high school stomping grounds, so I agreed to find them a lawyer there to address the situation.

I found a nice guy online who went to Cornell, makes his living in this arena, and most importantly, promptly called me back. When I told him where I was from, his first comment was, "Your governor is a lunatic." Surprised we arrived there so quickly, I then I mentioned how much P and I enjoy going up to Ithaca when we're at Tara, and again with no filter he responded, "What in the hell is there to do in Corning?" A great deal actually, as I explained.

After he peppered me with questions I couldn't answer about the lien, I sent an email to the client with his query, and started slipping into golf shorts and shoes. Then the phone rang, these same clients on a conference line wanting an immediate audience. I took the call. What else could I do? Peg watched my demeaner turn from liberated to irritated as the call went on, with me answering the same questions over and over. She brought me a Proper Twelve (no more Jameson's for me, because P is my buyer and she's taking a principled stand against cannibalism).

Finally the call ended and I blazed out the new gate George has opened for us on Golf Course Road, hurrying through getting a drink and cart key from Nikki the bartender as our friend Billy at the pro shop bar cheered us on: "Set the course record!"

"The way I play, that's entirely possible."

P dislikes my constant self-deprecation. I need to work on that.

Sure enough, however, I whacked a half dozen tee shots on the first hole, each errant in a different way. Things weren't looking good, but between the calming cocktail and P coaching me to take a deep breath and relax, my swing settled down and by the time we were duffing along in the near darkness at the end I was playing respectably, if not well.

And at the end of the day's journey we were back home on the farm, dodging geese and cats after visiting with George as he meditated from the cab of his truck on a pile of debris he was burning over where he's cleared the new driveway. Apparently this sunset ritual of contemplating the silence on some corner of the property has become part of his nightly routine now that he's back with us. We're blessed; he loves this place as much as we do.

Today's mediation cancelled, so we spent the night at Wyldswood and drove over to Panama this morning, but not terribly early. Peg's not been able to sleep until 8:00 in decades, except maybe for the six months of peak pandemic, and with my office on central time nothing's happening here anyway until nine or ten eastern. So we sleep. Now I'm wrapping things up at the office before dinner with friends over in St. Andrews, and then packing for a trip back to Corning with P very early tomorrow morning. I dread dealing with Delta, even if we're in first class for two of the three legs, but look forward to a little time back with our ghosts, literal and otherwise, as we try to exercise some discernment as to where life goes from here.

The weather looks like it should cooperate on Sunday when we're scheduled to bring the mighty Columbia back to Florida, and I'm hoping to arrive back at the condo or the farm in time to watch a little of the Super Bowl.

It's a great life. I shouldn't worry so much.

Next post from New York, most likely.

Selah.