Of Ants and Case Stealers

So we have a front gate at our house, in a neighborhood where crime is very low. But we've come to really like the psychological safety it provides, as well as giving us the ease of letting the dogs run out front, except for the weird rescue dog, who is a world class escape artist. I learned after a few months living here that gates break often -- something mechanical that works multiple times each day is prone to that, especially when the electronics and machinery are outside in our tropical climate. Every year or so, something would break, and finally 5 years ago the entire motors system and electronic board needed replacing. At that time, the tech told me the fewer gadgets on the system, the better, so we did away with the sensor that detects cars leaving the property -- so now we either have to let guests out, or visiting service folks who know the code have to let themselves out. And things seemed to work better, but for the damn ANTS. The critters find a way in to the plastic, waterproof box, and every year or so, short out the works. The tech comes, cleans it out, and resets the system. I don't mind too much -- the cost is around $100, and he always regales me with tales of strange animals he finds in other gate boxes. Well, it happened again -- and I await the latest de-anting again. This time we'll place mothballs INSIDE the box, and maybe buy me a whole year of smooth gate sailing...Such is the joy of homeownership in the jungle... This will just add fuel to Wifey's ever increasing desire to move -- to a simpler townhouse or condo in the Grove, where associations take care of stuff like this. D1's friend Alyssa and her new husband Freddie just bought a nice place in the Grove, right behind an office I used to work in, on SW 27th Avenue, and Wifey said she was "jealous." In response to her unrequited desires, I always quote Browning: "If our reach does not exceed our grasp...then what are the heavens for?" She rolls her eyes... Moving onto a larger version of vermin, the case stealer, today's Herald obituary brought back memories of an angry chapter of my firm's history. We were a few months old, and a former client referred a woman, whose name I still remember 21 years later, Cheryl, and Cheryl had a case right in our wheelhouse. She lived at a condo in what is now called Edgewater, and was walking at night next to the pool, when she tripped over some metal spikes that were left uncovered during a remodeling project. In other words, what we call strong liability. And, she completely tore up her knee, requiring a total replacement. I met with Cheryl, and immediately learned that condo had big insurance. Cheryl had no health coverage, and I arranged for her, in record time, to have a good ortho do the surgery on a "letter of protection" basis. This wasn't so unusual, but what was was my next move: I personally spoke with the hospital administrator, and arranged for them to wait on their charges, too. Cheryl went ahead and had the surgery, and the cost was about $75,000 in total. We immediately filed suit, and started pushing her case as rapidly as possible. Cheryl asked us for a loan, and I put her in touch with one of the companies that fund PI cases. All was going great -- I was personally proud of the Cadillac treatment I provided her. And then I got the letter... It was from a lawyer I'll call Stewart, since that was his name. The letter said we were fired, and he was taking over. I called him. He lied like a rug: "Well, David, the client just wasn't happy with the job you were doing." This was impossible -- there was nothing ethically more that could have been done. And there was the rub: I later learned Steward had met her, somehow, probably through a runner he must have had with one of her therapists, and offered her cash money to fire us and hire him. I was livid. I knew we'd lose a nice fee -- probably about $100K -- but more so the client I had handled so well was stolen by a true low life. The case, which we would have settled or tried within a year, dragged on for nearly three. The settlement was mediocre. We received out "quantum meruit," fee paid based on hours I put in. I seem to recall it was about $8K. I wished horrible things on Stewart. I wish I could easily forgive trespasses like this, but I can't. I share an odious character with my old boss and mentor Ed, who used to say "I only hold a grudge against a lawyer who screws me for a thousand years or so." Well, today's Herald reported that Stewart had died, at 71, of pancreatic cancer. I wasn't happy to read the news, but I didn't grieve, either. May he ascend to lawyer's heaven, and steal all of the celestial cases he desires... In the mean time, I have gate jamming ants to deal with ...

Weekend in the City

So since my father in law died in late January, Wifey has been busy leading her mother into the next phase of her life -- widowhood. This hasn't been easy -- my mother in law is not a "background grandma," as she properly labeled MY mom for her ability to go with the flow, and make things easy on us, her caregivers. D2 is also not at all needy, but humorously noted a few weeks past "Hey -- does anyone want to see ME anymore?" It had been since late January. D2 was correct -- so we booked a flight to NYC to be with her and her man Jonathan during the first nights of Passover. It actually worked out well, as D1 and her man had made plans to see Joey's family in Bogota -- to give our gringa daughter a true look at a Colombian Passover... My sister of another mother Mirta was free to dog and house sit, and so Wifey and I fired up the SUV and headed to MIA, and the best way to start a plane trip, the Centurion Lounge. AMEX opened a few of these around the country for their Platinum cardholders, and now that Morgan Stanley gives Platinum cards for free, having one is a no brainer. The food is awesome, and the coffee and drinks very high quality. A fellow sat behind us I was sure was Pharrel, but Wifey said no -- I ALWAYS think I recognize people who turn out not to be who I think they are...The flight was smooth, and we were in Queens, and soon afterwards, thanks to the nice African driver, at our hotel on Park and 29th. We unpacked and walked around in the gorgeous weather. NY is best in Spring and Fall, and it was indeed lovely -- mid 60s, bright sunshine. We found a natural themed place on Madison, either Exxi, or Ekki -- the consonants were spelled out in carrots, and I couldn't tell. Then back to the room for naps, and at 6, a delightful, hug filled reunion with D2. We repaired to the strangely named Asselina Bar, and toasted our seeing together. Afterwards, we walked to D2's apartment, greeted the absurdly long hours working Jonathan, and Ubered to SoHo for dinner at Gato. It was the first night of Passover. We talked about the holiday, but alas, no seder. Jonathan DID refrain from bread, and I thought about it, but a mushroom pizza appetizer called my name... Wifey and I made it an early night, and the next am, alas, Jonathan had to work. We fetched D2, and headed to breakfast. On the way, we ran into Ashley, D2's sorority sister and 2 year Gville roomie, who is headed on a new life adventure -- working for a start up in SF. Ashley was born and raised in Boca, and her Mom and sisters are all on the East Coast, but she is ready for a change. We wished her Godspeed, and promised to meet in the Bay Area -- my nephew and niece are there, and we want to visit sooner than later. We then walked to Midtown, on a mission. I had agreed to buy a new pair of jeans. D2 got a major discount, and we visited the original Bloomingdales. After a lost hotel umbrella humorous squabble, I bought the jeans, D2 returned some online stuff, and we went to Magnolia, the great bakery famous for its bread pudding. We again violated the no bread rule, for the delicious banana and chocolate concoction... We then headed for Central Park, and people and dog watched. The sun was streaming down. The New Yorkers and many tourists were smiling. We walked to Tavern on the Green, finally renovated after a long downtime. We sat at a table to order drinks, but were told, curtly, it was "food only." It was part of the experience -- there is too little left of the nasty New Yorkers of days past, and the jerks at the Tavern were a welcome throwback... Wifey's legs were giving out, and we ubered back to the hotel, where we took parent/daughter naps, like in the old days. D2 left to get ready for Second Seder. We made our way, with Jonathan again, to Marchi's, a place I was told about by some new friends we met in New Orleans. It's an Italian place there since 1929 --no sign on the door, and no menu. The place was very old school -- they brought many courses -- antipasta with radishes, salami, meat lasagna. And then came the moment we will long remember, thanks to Wifey. The waiter, an affable Central American fellow with a strong Spanish accent, brought fried cod. As he put it down in front of Wifey, he said "This is feeeesh." Wifey, quizically, said "Feeeeesh?" Then she realized, and said "Oh, you mean FISH." D2 and Jonathan looked on in horror at the inadvertent exchange of political incorrectness...It will now become part of our family lore... The food was good, but not great, but the memory shall last...From there we went back to the hotel, bar, where Jonathan's affable friend Andy joined us. The moon was full, and Wifey and I were privileged to be part of the talk of young careers, and making new lives in the best city in the world. The trio headed off to a party in Brooklyn, while Wifey and I retired for the night. Sunday we all slept in, and then Wifey and I checked out and rolled our bags to D2's apartment. Poor Jonathan was already at work, crunching numbers. We ubered down to the Lower East side, to Russ and Daughters cafe. The wait was 1.5 hours. We strolled North, to Ludlow and Houston, and went into Katz's Deli. Though it was 11 am, the tourists were eating enormous corned beef and pastrami sandwiches. I had a corned beef omelette, and Wifey and D2 opted for bagels and lox. We shared an egg cream. At the table behind me, a European woman with a French accent was ordering a bagel, and the waiter, an affable Egyptian man, asked what kind. "Oh -- there are different kinds???" I was about to turn around and lecture this foreigner, but D2 stopped me. We then walked around the 'hood, and wandered into the Village, and D2 and Wifey tried on glasses frames at some cheap place whose name I forget, but is famous for $95 glasses. We rested in Washington Square, and enjoyed the dogs playing in their own park, and then kept walking, to Madison Square Park, where there were more frolicking dogs. Wifey, despite a trick leg, acquitted herself well, and we collapsed into D2's apartment, where bff Ali joined us. She was D2's roomie for three years at college, and is about to graduate with her MS as a child life specialist -- already working for Mt. Sinai Children's. It was great to catch up with her. She told me Yellow House, the rental D2, Ali, Ashley, and Cathryn shared for two years, is being demolished, to make room for a new sorority house. I understood -- my college apartment building, where I lived for 3.5 years, and made indelible memories, is likewise just a big lawn. Ali left, with plans to host D2 for the "Game of Thrones" season premiere, and D2 summoned an Uber for her elderly parents, us, and off we went to LGA. It was a lovely, delightful trip. D1, returned from Bogota, texted that SHE wanted to see us for dinner tonight -- to share her adventures with us. I turned to Wifey and we both smiled -- how lucky we are that our grown Ds still fight for our time and attention. If there's something better than that...I don't know what it is.

April Miami Breezes

It's funny how our long term memories are so much deeper and poignant than our short term variety. My mother in law, now past 91, has crystal clear recall about events from her childhood and young adult years, even as she experiences early, creeping dementia. Her memories of growing up in a large, warm, and loving family in small city Poland give her so much pleasure. Weather and climate trigger many of my oldest memories. On the relatively rare cool nights in Miami, when neighbors light wood fires, the smell always takes me back to my adolescence, walking home on a Winter Long Island night, and how lovely it was. To this day, my cheap fire pit is my favorite possession, for exactly that reason. From 1970 through 1976 or so, my parents would take me to Miami each Winter and Spring Break. The first time we came, we checked into a higher end hotel on mid-Beach, called the Barcelona. It's no longer there, and my Dad hated the place. It was pretentious, and, as he said, every service person had their hand out, and for not providing service. My Mom's sister Lorraine and her adventurous husband Abe checked into a much lower rent place on South Beach, the Ocean Haven. This was before South Beach was South Beach -- it was a decaying area of extremely elderly Jews, going to early bird specials, collecting pensions, and waiting to die. My grandmother Anna was one of them -- she was a snowbird who lived at the Edward Hotel on Collins (still there), which she pronounced "EdVard." Seeing the better beach, and how much fun there was to be had, my Dad moved us to the Ocean Haven. Later, he found a better place next door, the Seacrest, and this became a twice a year family tradition. One year, he paid for my sister, brother in law, and baby nephew to come, as well. Another year, when I was 15, we brought my childhood friend Michael Monahan -- his first time on an airplane. When we got to Lummus Park, Michael scurried up a palm tree and got us some coconuts. My parents were so happy on those trips. My Mom was with her beloved sister, and Miami Beach was a natural habitat for my Dad. He loved the ocean so, and got a kick out of the culture -- it was a transplant of the Jewish Bronx he knew as a boy. Abe and Lorraine, and my cousins Michael and Janet, were awesome. Michael had a conversion van, and evenings we'd go cruising in it -- I was 13 or 14 and felt so much older. Michael was 5 years my senior,and a role model. He was a cool teenager, and enjoyed having a little brother around. But back to the memory trigger. I remember well the smell of the air when we'd come in Spring. It was warmer, and it always seemed breezier, than when we visited in December. It was truly, well, tropical. This morning I saddled up the weird rescue dog for an early walk. As I stepped outside, the breeze and smell were there. We live about a mile from Biscayne Bay, but the smell took me to South Beach in the 70s. The air FELT the same. Those were fine years of my youth. It's so nice to go back there in memory. I see my Mom, sitting on a beach chair, chatting happily with Lorraine. They were two beauties who married very well -- my Dad and Abe were typical Greatest Generation guys who did well in business -- certainly relative to their poor, Depression era childhoods. They talked of their kids and friends gone by. Dad is there in the impossibly bright Miami sun, bare chested, and inhaling the sea air deeply, and saying to me "Dave -- this just SMELLS like good health!" It's so lovely how a simple breeze and scent in the wind can bring you back so far.

Miami Gringos

Living in our international city, it's easy to forget that there are still here good, old fashioned gringos. And by that, I mean Christian ones, not my people, the Jews, who are NOT easy to forget. The Latins call all non black, non Latin people gringos, but to me we Jews are at least still a LITTLE exotic, and don't meet the true gringo criteria... You can find many of the gringos, at least the ones in South Miami Dade, at sports bars, the type of establishment I tend to favor. I don't like the chain sports bars, which are just TGI Fridays, or Bennigans, with different decor. I like the real ones -- with dated looks, even when they aren't too old. I tend to go to Hole in the Wall, a local, place with great wings, and always good sports on, but the Hole, as we call it, has a deficiency: no full bar, just beer and wine. I love a good pitcher of cold beer once in awhile, but I'm more of a vodka guy...So the Hole falls short. A few weeks ago, three gringo friends, who I'll call John, Pat, and Mike, since those are their names, decided to get together to watch the NCAA Final game. Two of us are Canes, and two are Gators, so we had no intense rooting interest, but I was pulling for North Carolina, to help D2's bracket contest (she finished out of the prize, which was days off from her company), and Pat HATED the NC coach since he always disrespected Billy Donovan, the beloved Gators coach. In any case, John suggested we go to one of his client's places, the Sports Grill at the Palmetto Golf Club. Palmetto is a public course, and used to have a great place called Bogey's Barn -- a huge barn with a restaurant and disco. It was a favorite college hangout, since you could have dinner like a fancy burger, and drinks, for about $8 per person (this was the early 80s), and then you got free entrance into the disco, which had great live bands on the weekends. It was the perfect college date place, but blew down in Hurricane Andrew. They rebuilt a clubhouse in its place, and a few years ago, Sports grill took over. It was terrific -- wonderful wings, and a FULL BAR. Our foursome had a great time. On Wednesday, there came a gift from Sunrise, via the Atlantic: the Panthers emailed me saying my friend Norman had gifted me two playoff tickets. Norman is on a repositioning cruise, from Miami to Tenerife, and I guess found it a bit too daunting to make the Panthers game from the middle of the Atlantic. I accepted, of course, and now had a more intense interest in the Panthers. Pat called and asked to watch the game with me -- we returned to the Sports Grill. The Panthers lost a tough one. The place was packed -- a fellow was at a table behind me, and we waved, but I couldn't place him, except to see he was a typical Miami gringo -- sandy haired, wearing a visor, fishing shirt featuring some type of gamefish, and shorts. Yesterday Wifey and I had lunch at Bagel Emporium in the Gables, and then I walked to the train and commuted Downtown. I love that ride -- seeing all the 'hoods from above. I was one of the original MetroRail riders in the early 80s, and I still get a kick out of the ride. I exited at Brickell, and walked sweatily to my office, opened a bit of mail, greeted Stuart, and left. Stuart asked why, and I told him there was a bad vibe there...truth was, I needed to get to Mike's office. I met Mike, and showed his secretary a picture on my phone of Mike, me, and our third law school stooge Jeff, at law school graduation. Thirty years had passed. She remarked Mike and I still looked the same. He needs to bonus that young Cubana... We tooled up to Sunrise in Mike's souped up Dodge Challenger -- he said he'd had it to 130 on Alligator Alley -- and entered the arena. I told Mike it might be racist even being there -- hockey is not a sport watched by too many people of color. We ran into our host's boy +Benji, who KNOWS his hockey, and his buddy Ramon, Jr, who we tailgate with at Canes games. We ate, and drank, and watched the Cats win a great one. Of course, we texted Norman our selfie, so he could be there in spirit. We flew back to Miami -- the expressways are finally, nearly finished, and the traffic was mercifully light. Wifey was watching movies with three dogs (actual dogs, not movie dogs) as D1 is visiting her sister in NYC and left the spoiled Spaniel with us. This am I took a walk. The huge, gold, SUV was rounding our block, and I waved to the driver -- a Miami gringo, at least half. I think his Mom is Japanese. I always see him leaving with a boat on a trailer, or working on the boat. It's a BIG boat. I figure either there's family money, as he seems to fish a LOT. He stopped, and asked if I watched the PAnthers win. Yes, I told him, due to the generosity of my buddy, I was there. I asked how he knew I followed the Cats. He said he had seen me at the Sports Gill the night before, and told his buddies I was his neighbor. So THAT was the mystery white man... Miami gringos are still around, and pop up -- sometimes in expected places.

Buzzer Beater

I'm not a huge college hoops fan, but I have to admit that two of the best endings in sports came from the game. Last night was one of them. My only rooting interest in the game was pulling for the Heels, as D2 had a bracket with her company, and out of more than 3500 entries, was perched in the top 10. The first five winners got paid days off, while the proceeds all went to charity. D2, not known as a sports junkie, somehow maneuvered well, but needed UNC to win. It was not to be... My friend and broker Pat texted and asked to get together to watch the game. My law partner John suggested a place his client owns, the Sports Grill, which last year took over the clubhouse of a local public golf course. My friend Mike joined us, and the foursome headed to the site previously occupied by Bogey's Barn, a huge building that had a restaurant and bar with live music == one of our college hangouts. Alas, Hurricane Andrew did away with that cavernous building, but they rebuilt, and now a sports bar is there. And it was awesome for us. We shared a few pitchers of beer and wings and sliders, true man food, and talked of sports and life. Mike, Pat, and I are all married forever, and John lost his wife to cancer young, but has had a serious girlfriend for awhile, so we compared notes on how the women in our lives are all far more logical, clearly motivated, and easier to understand and deal with than men are...Ha. As if! Our two waitresses were, well, buxom is the word, and both were Canes fans. Mike and I considered this a win over the Gators Pat and John... In March of '83, Dr. Barry and I watched the final on our tiny, black and white TV, in our apartment. Barry was a bigger roundball fan than I was, but we sat on the shag rug. The game ended spectacularly, as the NC State player grabbed a short shot and dunked it at the buzzer, giving the underdogs the win. Their coach Jim Valvano, ran around like a crazy man. I remember the next day Barry reading out loud from the paper the man's quotes, and savoring the writing. Looking back, this was probably a portent of Barry's future -- having a son who wanted to be a sports journalist, and is in fact doing it -- finishing his freshman year at Maryland... Have 33 years truly passed since then? Poor Jim Valvano would die soon after of cancer...but that shining moment remains in my memory. So back to last night. The game was close all along -- something like 15 lead changes. It got late, and Mike and John each left -- early hearings this am. Pat and I stayed and watched -- the buxom waitresses were ready to close, but even they wanted to see the final minutes. With 4.7 seconds remaining, the Heels tied the game, and it looked like overtime was coming. But then scrappy Vilanova hit a long shot, with less than a second remaining, and won. Pat and I headed to the empty parking lot knowing we had just watched a sports classic. More important was the memory of the evening, shared with fine company. Now if only the Canes can someday make it that far...

Last Woman Standing

My Mom was one of 5 Goldsmith siblings -- a boy and 4 girls. The youngest, Giggles, who got the nickname because she used to cry all the time as a baby, died last year. Her husband Bernie was one of the two surviving Goldsmith sibling spouses, and he died yesterday, at 90. When I was a kid, I enjoyed the tail end of the extended family closeness. I idolized my older cousins Michael and Jeff -- my Aunt Lorraine's boys. They were 5 and 10 years older, and taught me some adolescent life lessons. Michael had one of the first conversion vans, a Dodge, with a shag carpeted bed and killer stereo system. Our families vacationed together in Miami Beach in the early to mid 70s, and when Michael would take my 15 year old self for cruises up Hotel Row, or to visit his Aunt Claire in Coral Gables, well, it was a highlight of my youth. Over the years we cousins have all grown apart. Contact today is only by FaceBook (tm) or the occasional call to me for free legal advice. And most of the cousins live within an hours drive of each other in South Florida -- relocated over the years from the NYC metro area. When Wifey and I bought our first house, I planned a big cousin reunion. I invited maybe 10 of the 16 of us who were close, and they all said they'd come. This was 1988, so pre cell phone and social media. Wifey and I ordered a TON of our go to take out -- from Canton -- and I well stocked my bar, and picked out appropriate 60s and 70s music for us -- the whole range of Baby Boomers -- born 1945 until 1961 (me, the youngest first cousin). We waited, and waited, and only one couple, my cousin Jeff and his wife Lynn -- showed. Jeff and I ended up sharing a whole bottle of Absolut, and laughing as we told tales of the family. But as I called each of the other invitees, their responses were, essentially, "Oh -- was that tonight??? I totally forgot." So I vowed that would be MY last effort to keep the cousin's circle going, and it has been. And whenever we get together, for a wedding, we have a blast. But then someone would say "We really HAVE to see each other more often," and I agree, but no one cares enough to actually plan it. So back to Bernie...he was the family's lovable loser. The lore, told to me by my Mom, was that when Giggles brought him home, my sage Grandma Anna was concerned. That Bronx boy wasn't right. So "she had him seen by a psychiatrist" to make sure he was marriage material for Giggles, and apparently he passed the test, as they married, had 4 kids, and stayed married until Giggles' death. Bernie was a trendsetter -- a typical Fox News watcher and believer, decades before Fox. He was convinced of EVERY conspiracy theory there was -- and warned us all of the coming of the second Depression. I hope he felt partially vindicated last decade, with the Great Recession. Bernie always had lower level jobs -- US Mail, security guard, store assistant manager, and there was some family looking down at the fact that his wife, among the siblings, always had to work. Of course, in my Uncle Marty's case, he escaped this ignominy only because his wife Muriel (more on her in a moment), had a very rich brother who supplemented Marty's signmaker business income. But Bernie was richer in another way -- he had 4 kids, and they all adored him. He provided for them, and they loved him so. After Giggles died, my cousin Marlene (her twin is Arlene -- really) moved Bernie from Florida to New Jersey, to better care for him. Each of the other 5 families Ha! had much more pathology than Bernie and Giggles' did. Their kids and grandkids all clamored to be around them. Bernie died well loved. So now, of that generation, only one remains -- my Uncle Marty's wife Muriel. Her daughter Ronnie, my cousin, called last year, to ask me about top cardiologists. I recommended Dr. Eric's practice -- Muriel was a former patient, and thought they were horrible. She was a classic example of why Eric now does more administration and sees fewer patients -- his practice is MOSTLY angry, aging Northeasterners, who blame him for their declining health, instead of their serious aging, and poor habits... When my Mom was in the nursing home, Muriel and her family visited her exactly the same amount of times the rest of my Mom's many nieces and nephews and grandnieces and grandnephews visited -- ZERO. So my extended family is indeed meaningless to me, other than for historical purposes. And Bernie is gone. Muriel is last standing. Of the 16 first cousins, the oldest, my Aunt Dorothy's daughter Arlene, is the only one to die. She was in her early 70s. I anticipate the number will increase over the coming years. But as for Bernie -- may his memory be as a blessing. It shall be for his kids and grandkids, at least.