Gratitude

So last night I was out with an old friend who well knows one of my former employees. The employee was with us when we started the firm, and was a single mother under a load of credit card debt. Paul had an idea, and I went along:  we paid off the entire debt, which was, as I recall, in the thousands, and gave her ONE card, telling her if she went into debt again, that would be it for her. But we wanted her full attention, and knew if she worried about all she owed, she would be unfocused.

She cried, with thanks to us. I mean -- who else would do that for an employee as a firm was starting out?  And as the years went by, we bonused her -- a LOT. She was a person who could barely write a sentence in English, but was good with the clients. I remember our accountant, my brother in law, gathering for our year end meeting, and asking Paul and I if we had lost our minds or were sleeping with this employee -- given the huge bonus we gave her. Neither, we said -- we had promised her if the firm did well, so would she, and we kept our word.

Well -- those days came up with our friend and the employee. The employee said -- no -- we never really paid her that well. Her salary was below average.  Yes -- the firm did very well, but we weren't really so generous. My friend knew this was complete malarkey -- the employee did so well with us, she was able to retire early and start her own business.

I've been seeing this more and more lately. In the words of the great Pete Townshend -- people forget.

So I guess the point is, it's folly to be generous if you expect gratitude. You rarely get it.

Years ago, I gave a young family an annual pass for a local aquarium, since the little girl had expressed an interest in marine biology. Months later, I asked if they were using it. The girl's Dad said "Yeah -- we go all the time, but the pass you bought didn't include the dolphin swim, and we had to pay that on our own, and it was a LOT of money."

I was floored. Ain't no one ever bought my kids a membership like that, and the very last thing I would have done if they had was even a peep about the gift's shortcomings.

No matter. Those who believe in the Big Man tell us that ultimately, all gratitude must go only to God.

And I indeed thank the Big Man daily -- even several times per day -- and ask him for continued blessings for my family and friends.

I get no joy from buying material things. Wifey was kidding me last night about a new Keurig I bought online -- and only because the 7 year old one we had had begun letting some of the coffee particles get into the mug.  Wifey asked if I had shopped around for the machine -- I had not -- just went on Jet.com and ordered it. I reminded Wifey I shop so little in a year, other than meals and travel, that if I overpaid $20 for the Keurig it was really no big deal.

Earlier in the evening, I had stopped at a local Walgreen's, to buy some travel sized contact lens solution for our upcoming trip to Texas. I noticed a sunburned homeless guy on the corner -- holding a sign begging for money.

I walked over to him, and handed him some money, and shook his hand. He asked my name, and I told him "Dave." We was "Thomas," he said in what sounded like a Kentucky accent, "Thomas Grayson Junior." I wished him luck, and told him to stay safe on the streets. And he asked God to bless me.

And for that, I felt genuine gratitude, and was honestly very thankful to him.

Modern American Medical Adventure

Like many men of a certain age (old) I have to keep an eye on my prostate gland. Of course, I don't mean that literally, but I have to let my tall, handsome urologist do it.  His name is Bob.

I've been going to Bob for 6 years, ever since a routine blood test showed a high PSA. Fortunately, usually high PSAs mean only a benign enlargement, which I had, but Bob did a biopsy and sees me once or twice per year.

Wifey once visited Bob, and he reported to her that "I really like your husband." At first, hearing those emotions from a man who does to me what Bob does was disconcerting, but I realized he meant no harm.

I was to see Bob Monday, and Friday I happened to see him at Shula's in South Miami. We hugged, which my friend Carole thought was adorable. I told him I was due to see him, and maybe we could be more efficient and just do the exam in the men's room. Bob thought that was hilarious. He likes me.

When his office called to confirm the appointment, the staff member noted I hadn't yet gotten my 4K score. She was right -- I forgot to go for the blood test. 4K is the latest arrow in the urological quiver -- it tells whether you have the genetics for really BAD prostate cancer, or just the normal, friendly type. This latter version is the kind most men WILL get, and I mean WILL. Turns out that if you autopsied 100 dead 95 year olds, 95 % would have prostate cancer -- though none may have died from it. But there's a lethal variety that will indeed spread and kill you. Just ask the widows, of Dan Fogelberg, Frank Zappa, and Joey Ramone. Maybe you have to be a successful musician to have it.

Anyway, this am I went to the special lab to get the 4 K test. Usually I go to my regular doc's nurse, Nancy, for blood draws, but Opko, the pharma company that does 4 K,  makes you use their own labs. Phil Frost didn't become a billionaire and give away hundreds of millions by letting any profits from his companies slip away.

The lab was right next to the Miami office of Mark, my CPA. For some reason, I chuckled to myself about that. I walked in, and there were two pregnant women waiting in the lobby. I announced I was there for a 4 K test, and the receptionist asked for my paperwork. I didn't have any -- Bob's office said to simply go over.

Nope -- no tickey, no test-y. So we both called Bob's office and got placed on 20 minute holds. Finally the staff member answered, and transferred me to another 5 minute hold. The pregnant ladies started eyeing me suspiciously -- and their looks were a bit scary.

I couldn't help myself, and said "Look -- I know you both have men in your lives, and they're probably younger than I am, but in 20 years or so, they'll be dealing with stuff like this." They both laughed, and agreed. Then I realized, wait -- this is Miami -- a pregnant woman could well have a boyfriend or husband in his late 50s, like me, or even older. I really have to keep my thoughts private.

Finally the assistant came back on. "Oh, Dave -- you have Av-Med, and they won't pay for the 4K. You can pay yourself if you want -- it's $500."

Normally I'd have said -- the hell with it and just paid, but my monthly premiums to Av-Med are near $2 thousand dollars -- the least they could do is pay for this.  So I bid the receptionist and the pregnant ladies good day, and left.

I'll likely have a different insurer come January -- maybe they'll pay.  As my very smart friend Ken said -- most screening tests are a waste. They don't lead to decreased mortality. Exceptions are colonoscopies and skin cancer screening. I can well do without the fancy 4 K.

Ah -- the joy of American medicine.  It truly is best to avoid it as much as you can.

Beware Young Men Who Never Smile

So it was a lazy day yesterday at Villa Wifey -- got up and fed the dogs and read the Sunday paper. I was going to have breakfast with Norman's boys, but plans got complicated, so I just hung around. The only plans were to visit my ancient suegra -- I haven't seen her in several weeks.

A news flash came across my phone -- another multiple shooting, this one at a gamers' meeting in Jacksonville. Really -- the holy bastion of nerds? It was true, and by later evening, they identified the shooter as 24 year old David Katz from Baltimore -- he was a known Madden football gamer who had won the tournament a few years ago, was losing yesterday, and so decided the thing to do was kill two fellow players and then himself.

By today, they had video interviews of him from years back. He was sullen faced as he discussed his video wins. He could have been a twin of the nut who shot up the Colorado movie theater a few years ago, or the loser who killed the kids in Sandy Hook.

I fear young men who never smile. The world is so rich for them -- opportunities for their lives are like mushrooms -- just there for the taking. And yet their demons instead summon blackness, evil, and never joy.

We visited the Palace, and my suegra was in full voice. She's deaf, and so doesn't realize how loud she is, but it's truly remarkable that a nearly 94 year old has the strength to project as she does. Even the rest of the mostly hard of hearing group winces when she yell-talks.

Our usual move is to take her outside, under a gazebo, but yesterday was prohibitively hot and humid, so we stayed inside. An acquaintance of Wifey's was there with HER 95 year old mother -- she moved in a few months ago after a series of falls. Her husband is a retired doctor, and the guy loves to talk and talk -- about his education and career. He never comes up for air, and after about 20 minutes of being on the receiving end of this, I feigned a cell call and got up.

I returned, and he started right up again -- actually discussing the science classes he took in high school in the late 50s. I told Wifey our next visit needs to be after dinner -- or I need to run away.

But the fellow is harmless, is the point -- unlike these young male shooters. How are their hears and souls so empty that they need to be filled with violence?

The world is so crazy and unsafe -- even a space seemingly a bastion of nerdy fun -- gaming -- can get you killed.

I guess the only answer is to live your life...and hope. Hope the truck doesn't cross the median and take you out. Hope the lightning doesn't strike. Hope the blood test results don't come back in a way that's going to insure that the long term muni bonds you bought will be claimed by someone else when they mature...

And hope that some nerdy loser doesn't pick up a gun and start shooting.

When Is It Time?

When I reflect on my life's mentors, I realize the ones I always admired most are those who have had varied and different careers. Roger Howard was the prime example.

I met Roger when he was a young partner at my second law job. He had come from Harvard Law and a federal clerkship. He had been a neuroscientist, and professor of music. He came to law in his 40s, and after a few years as a partner doing mostly aviation defense, decided his talents were wasted. He left the firm with his secretary Ann, and opened a small shop handling small PI cases.

He referred several more complex matters to me at the firm I had joined -- including my first and only ERISA matter -- a case that outlived Roger and another mentor Ed -- they both worked on the case and died of cancer as the case made its way up the federal appeals chain.

Roger lied of leukemia far too young -- in his 50s. I spoke at his funeral, which was in 1995 -- and mentioned his varied and full professional life.

And yet, I'm still in the law business -- 32 years after I passed the Florida Bar. I dabbled in teaching and a bit of writing -- but the only real career has been law.

My partner and I pledged to give the firm our all -- for TEN years. In November we turn 24 as a firm. We learned that in June of '19, our very long term lease as subtenants of SunTrust Bank comes to an end. 5 months after that, we'll have our 25th anniversary.

I never planned to be a lawyer nearly this long. In 1982, when I was a college senior, I was profiled in the yearbook -- headed the next year for law school. I said I wanted to practice long enough to become "financially stable," and then do something else -- maybe teaching.

The best laid plans...

For now, we still have clean up to do -- especially in light of Fredo's defection. I guess there is ALWAYS an excuse to stay in a job, or at a career.

I admire Roger, may he rest in peace, for having a type of courage for change I have never shown.

Maybe the winds of 2019 will bring in some changes. Or not.

I know for a fact the Big Man is in charge -- we'll see what plans HE has for this getting long in the tooth lawyer.

August 24, 1992 -- A Day We Always Remember

I guess that even or significant numbered anniversaries get the most press, and last year, 8/24/16, was the TWENTY FIFTH anniversary of a life changing event for us. This year it's been 26 years gone by -- and passed with much less notice.

But I remembered. Yesterday was the anniversary of Hurricane Andrew, at the time the costliest natural disaster in US history, and for us, the scariest.

I had moved to Miami in '79 and heard about storms, but never went through one. I remember leaving UM and heading to Delray as a few threatened in the early 80s -- we'd put masking tape on the windows like the other NY transplants at the condo, not understanding that was a completely useless task. A piece of debris hurtling at your plate glass at over 100 mph doesn't care much about your masking tape...

In college, we had hurricane parties, which involved heavy drinking as the storm skirted us. So I had no real experience with these dangerous storms.  I barely paid attention to Andrew as it came towards us, other than to make a decision. My 72 year old Mom was with us -- she seemed SO elderly at the time, less so as I slog towards that age -- and we had to decide whether to return her to Delray Beach or keep her with us in South Dade. The storm appeared to be jogging north, so we kept her with us.

Our house, built in 1980, was a classic piece of crap built, developer paid off inspectors to get it passed, structure. The thing looked nice -- all sharp white lines and an indoor atrium -- but the roof decking was stapled on, not properly nailed.

And then came the cyclone.  We huddled in baby D2's room -- it was on the NW side of the house, away from the winds. D2 was 6 months old, and D1 was three.  I recall sitting next to a wall, by an electric outlet, and feeling a rush of air -- sort of like being in a swimming pool near the outlet from the filter pump. It was air rushing down through the studs and out through the outlet.  The wind increased, and we heard the infamous screech -- like animals fighting on the roof, with a freight train passing-like rumble. The animal sound was the roof decking being peeled off.

The ceiling above us bowed with water. I led us all through the dark to the car in the garage -- I figured if that ceiling collapsed, at least we'd have the car roof to give us some protection.  I got in the driver's seat, and put D1 in the passenger seat. Wifey and Mom were in the back -- Wifey holding D2. We left the dogs -- a huge Lab and small cocker, outside. They weren't having it, and somehow leapt though the open window to join us.

I was scared. Not for myself, but for the Ds and elderly Mom. I watched Bryan Norcross, the voice in the darkness for many of us, on a battery powered TV I had. He was amazing -- literally talked us through it ("If you're near the Falls, the eye just passed -- do NOT go out -- it's going to get worse soon.").  Hours passed. The house flooded. Entire structures were ripped off and blown away. The glass atrium IMPLODED. A huge high window in the master bedroom shattered from a part of the neighbor's house that sailed through like a battering ram. Staying in the master would have been deadly.

Finally, as the sun came up, the winds subsided. I got out -- went outside. My street was gone, mostly. It truly looked as if a bomb had directly hit. I saw some neighbors -- it appeared that no one was hurt. But Manny, across the street, was crying -- he had paid off his mortgage a few months before, and forgotten to renew his insurance. He'd have to pay all the losses.

Mom, Wifey, and the Ds were intact. I got on a bicycle to ride to my in law's house, a mile and a half north, in Kendale. I was able to navigate the obstacle course that was 107 Ave, past buzzing downed power lines, and people walking around dazed and confused -- and not from weed.

I found Rachel and Richard fine -- they had stayed in a closet. And their house -- built well in the 50s, with Dade County pine tongue and groove roof, had exactly one broken window. Their total damage ended up being about $5000.

I biked back home, helped the women get packed, and piled into my car. We caravaned up to my Mom's condo, and stayed a few days -- blissfully with power. My in laws returned home -- they camped out in their house for a month. They had survived the Nazi concentration camps -- living without electric was no big deal.

Wifey's friend Linda lived on Brickell Key -- relatively untouched by the storm. She KNEW we were wrecked -- and ran to the rental office and snagged the second to last open apartment for us. It was an act of kindness and savvy I will always be thankful for.  We moved the Ds and 2 dogs into the Island Club -- it would be our home until New Year's Eve, when we would move into my in law's house -- they had decamped to Century Village in Pembroke Pines.  But that's another, of many, Andrew related stories.

The point is, for any of us living in South Dade in August of '92, the term "before or after" is instantly recognizable.

1992, looking back, turned out to be an excellent year for us. D2 was born in February, I settled and got paid for my first multi million dollar case, and Andrew converted so much of our crap into money -- money I invested, and which provides security to us even today.

So it was 26 years ago.  I don't think I'll ever forget.

Football Season

In the hottest and dampest part of Miami summer, excitement awaits just over a week away: the start of Cane's football season. It almost makes up for putting up with the sweltering weather.

The Herald has been ramping up coverage, and my close circle of friends and I have been ramping up emails and texts. Most of us are flying to Dallas next week to watch the first game -- our boys open the season against LSU, and we're planning a great football weekend in the Big D -- actually, in the smaller Fort Worth, where, I am told, the hipper part of town, the Stockyards, lies.

Last night I met my old friend and banker Carole at Shula's. When I walked in the door, my friend Eddy was at the bar -- he's heading to Dallas, and we compared notes about restaurants and tailgate parties.  We're all teenagers with more money, and now that we're empty nesters, these trips loom large in our lives.

Carole arrived and said "So are you ready for football, or what?" Yes, there was no "or what?" Carole was born and raised here -- the daughter of a rabid Canes fan who passed away a few years back. Carole is a 'Nole, but has a special place in her heart for my team, as well. The big game between our schools is here this season, and I told Carole to come join our tailgate party.

The big game for the Noles at home this year is Notre Dame, and Carole is planning to attend -- two of her nephews attend school in Tally.  The spirit of the game is among us.

I told Carole about the betrayal of Fredo from our firm. She was shocked -- she remembers my trying to have her bank give him a line of credit years ago. She told me he never sent back his financial statement -- so obviously he had major money issues even three years ago. He knew he wasn't credit worthy then, but hoped a bank would lend him money based on a big case we had given him to work on -- one he ended up stealing from our firm.

Carole was just happy she didn't involve her bank with this loser. He would have taken advantage of friendship through me, and nastiness would have resulted.  Hey -- as I told her, he's Saul Goodman's problem now.

Carole's about my age, and we talked about long careers. She started in banking right out of FSU, and is amazed at how her job went from true customer service to essentially being an agent of the US government.  When clients of over 20 years want to do simple transactions, Carole is stymied when they're foreign nationals, which are a majority of banking customers in Miami. Carole used to have "sweet retirees" with big accounts, but they've all moved on to Palm Beach County or Naples. Or, they've died. The young, vigorous go getters have to constantly explain themselves to the government -- and rich folks don't do that happily.

I told Carole I was ready for a change -- if something exciting or interesting came my way, I'd happily say adios to the law business. I told Carole that as a young man, those mentors I admired most had done several things with their work lives. Law has been mostly it for me for over three decades -- it would be terrific to try something else.

Who knows -- Dave's Funny Tavern?

In the mean time, tonight we get to see D1 and Joey. Joey's parents have shabbat each Friday, and we've settled into a nice routine -- every other week we have our non shabbat, shabbat at a local restaurant with them. Tonight we're meeting in the Grove. Wifey and I savor these times.

Next weekend, the whole family will be traveling. D2 and Jonathan are spending a night down the Jersey Shore, as they say -- one of D2's work friends is getting married in Long Beach Island. D1 and Joey are off to Utah for another friend's wedding. And Wifey and I are headed to Texas, for good steaks, laughter, and, of course, Canes football.

The days of Awe draw happily nigh...

Deponent

So yesterday Wifey and I did something together we only did once before, and it was back in 1989: we sat for depositions.

The one nearly 30 years ago was much funnier.  When D1 was born, my Mom brought her then friend Mae and Mae's sister Ettie (Mom loved to call her E.T.) to visit the baby. Actually, Mae was the bringer -- Mom would never drive all the way from Delray to our Kendall home.  Wifey brought in sandwiches, and Ettie was walking with hers, and our beloved Labrador, Midnight, was overcome with food lust, as was typical, and decided to share Ettie's sandwich. His 95 pounds of retriever ebullience knocked the old lady down, and she ended up breaking her ankle.

By the time I returned from work, the three old ladies had left, and I called Ettie to see how she was. She was ok, but had indeed broken an ankle. I told her to get a lawyer, as we had homeowner's coverage, and it would be unethical of me, a lawyer, to represent her against ourselves. She did, and the lawyer tried to settle with our carrier, State Farm. State Farm tried to shortchange Ettie, and so suit was filed. I got to pick my defense lawyer, and I choose a fellow I had become buddies with -- Richard.

Ettie's lawyer came to depose Wifey and I -- he merely had to establish we lacked a "Bad Dog" sign, which would have given State Farm a defense.  Midnight was no bad dog -- he was, well, just a bit too wild, which was indeed our fault.  Midnight slinked around our feet as the depo went forward -- he seemed to know he had caused trouble. After we were done, State Farm did the right think and paid Ettie and her lawyer. 

Miami being the small town/big city it is, Richard is about to become the father in law of one of D1's closest friends. He's become very successful, and I love reminding everyone that he started out representing a black Lab named Midnight...

Well, State Farm hasn't changed their claim practices in nearly 30 years. In April of '15, their insured, and ancient but sweet man , also named Richard (the parallels amaze) pulled out his SUV in Coral Gables and crashed into Wifey's SUV. Wifey had a broken wrist.

After she finished treatment, I wrote to State Farm and asked to settle. Some nasty adjuster in Lakeland acknowledged that Wifey's treating doctor, Lew, an old friend, was indeed very conservative, and if he said Wifey had a permanent injury, she was inclined to believe it. Also, her insured was totally at fault, so they would offer to settle for LESS than the medical bills.

Ha. As if. We put the thing into suit, as we say in the biz, and last week our young Turk Vince deposed the ancient man. He was sweet -- from Oklahoma, now living in Guatemala with his Latina wife. He recalled events a bit differently than they occurred -- thought Wifey was speeding, and that a cop who saw the whole thing blamed her. But he couldn't explain why that cop gave HIM the ticket. Also, and this was the best part for me -- he remembered that Wifey's SON came to the scene.

Of course, it was me. The court reporter said "You'd better not tell your wife that" and I replied that I planned to tell her that very night.

Anyway, yesterday came our turn, and the defense lawyer, a nice enough native Jewish Miami guy who went to Norland High in the 70s when they had Jews there, took a very courteous and thorough depo of us.  Wifey's lasted over three hours -- mine was under an hour.

We have a mediation next week. I think State Farm might come up with some more shekels. If not, the case will be an excellent training case for Vince -- Stu would have to pay money to send him to civil trial school, and this case could train him while getting us the fair deal.

Last night, Wifey asked why they needed all of the details about her bad back, which has nothing to do with her broken wrist. I explained they would try to show that her wrist issues are minimal in her life compared to her years of fighting back pain.

We're just both grateful the bad back no longer rears its ugly head.

So State Farm is, as all of us in the business know, no one's good neighbor. That's ok. 20 years past, I gave them the opportunity to settle a case for $10,000.00. They hedged, claiming the quadriplegic child I represented wasn't entitled to the money, as she lived in the same house as her bad driver aunt, who had caused the injury.

We filed suit, and they paid in the millions. The child passed away some months after the settlement.

I don't think Wifey's case is worth in the millions, but with the right Miami Dade jury, you never know.  I guess we'll find out in the coming months...