About half the practice of a decent lawyer consists of telling would-be clients that they are damned fools and should stop.
-Roscoe Pound
Woke up out-of-sorts after missing my call with P last night. I worked until almost eight, and stopped by the yacht club for a take-out appetizer and a drink. Trivia night was just breaking up, and an old friend and now competitor swung by to talk about the business of law, recruiting, and then airplanes and aerial combat. His dad was an old F-15 pilot, one of those old school, tough but loveable, chain smoking, blunt speaking types whose last gig was running the company that manages our condo building. We both miss him.
As we were talking, an old friend from my Kiwanis days sidled up. Now managing an engineering firm here in town, he wanted to talk about relationships of all things, after slogging through his second divorce.
"How do yo make it work? You guys seem so happy on Facebook."
"Find someone who shares your values, is close to your age, and makes enough money to support herself. Physical attractiveness doesn't hurt."
He looked discouraged and ordered another drink.
All this life counseling got me home a half-hour later than planned, and by then P was dead asleep. I listened to the end of the Braves game as I picked at my incredibly expensive tuna appetizer in the styrofoam box, then trudged off to bed.
I didn't much feel like going for a run this morning, but this whole health kick depends on having the discipline to go when I really don't feel like exercising. So away I went.
BP was 147/87 this morning. Up a little from yesterday, but I'll take it.
The bay was slick calm, reflecting the soft grayish light of the sunrise.
I snapped this pic and sent it to P, which started a text conversation that gave me a chance to stop and pant every couple minutes while I read and replied.
The fishing fleet tied up at the base of the Tarpon Dock Bridge has been a part of my life for over twenty-five years now. It never gets old.
Trudging my sweaty mass across the Fourth Street Bridge, I veered right and down Massalina Drive, passing the vacant lot where my house once stood before the storm whacked it.
Here's a shot of the same spot, maybe two months before Hurricane Michael.
There's a wonderful photo I can't find right now, of P dressed as a deer for Halloween. I wore my hunting gear. Get it? A hunter and his prey. We sat out front and filled plastic jack-o-lantern buckets and old pillow cases for smiling, grateful kids. It was a good night.
Puffing up around the edge of Massalina Bayou, I caught a view of the courthouse bathed in "sweet light".
The first time I ever stood up on a Friday morning to address a jury in closing argument was right there, in January of 1998. The building on the right is new--they tore down our unlovely jail with the waterfront view to build it. I sort of liked the old, 1920s space better.
And here's the house whose second floor was my apartment home when I clerked for Barron Redding in 1996,
I remember putting a marble on the floor up there, as amusement after a few beers, and watching it roll into the corner. Adumbrations of Tara nearly thirty years later.
Now I'm fed, showered and dressed, and getting ready for my first call in a few minutes. From there, I'll attend a pretrial conference by Zoom and get read the riot act by the judge over that missed deadline that led to my legal assistant becoming an ex-legal assistant. At least the other side missed the same one, so she has two cringing counselors to dress down.
Later we mediate a case that the lawyers all agree should settle, but our clients are both stubborn and well-heeled, a difficult combination when trying to resolve a dispute. Both can afford to lose, and are willing to take the chance just so the other guy doesn't get the upper hand. I like our case, which I guess is a good thing because my prediction is that I'll be trying it in a few weeks.
Comments