Class Day, Harvard Law School

The day is searing hot. I may be the only one in Boston delighted with the steam bath, but truly, I don’t mind.

We begin the day with a breakfast across the river, in Boston. It’s pleasant and breezy in the shade and so we sit outside. I tell my clan that from now until September, I’ll eat every breakfast outside (when possible). There is no better way to greet the world, no better way to begin a summer day.

My mother, being a Berkeleyan for more than a decade now (where she tells us it never gets hot or cold), is wilting a little and so we put her in a cab for the hotel. The four of us set out for a last sentimental stroll through Boston.





















In the afternoon, all of us gather at my daughter’s apartment (another last time? I had so many happy visits here!), drink a toast to her future, their future really – both my girls, because, of course, it is their cohort that will set the terms and give us a different world.



And now the graduation celebrations begin.

Class Day. We sit under the tall trees outside the Langdell Hall of Harvard law School. It’s a time of speeches...



Samantha Power from the National Security Council, class speaker


...of many proud parents taking many pictures...



one of many


...of glimpses of our sons and daughters, the graduates...



my little one

...of sweet treats...





...of iced tea to cool off...





...and bouquets of flowers...





...of parents and their children.





On Thursday, she gets her diploma. On this day she is still a student. One last day of having a kid in school. One last day.

another short post from Cambridge

Record highs spread over the northeast states. I am completely in love with these summerlike days in Boston. A sunny last glance at a city that I have come to regard as intensely lovely to visit, and without the sharp edges of, say New York or Chicago.

We have a full day of events before us. But the day commences for me with a glance at the river, at the rowers on the Charles.





Let them exert their energies in the early hours. I’m sitting back and having a contemplative moment. Thinking about generations of family: daughters, a mother, a grandmother, and about the passing of time, about this coming together for a brief interlude, before we all retreat into our corners again, thousands of miles apart.

a short post from Cambridge

A day spent getting places. For instance – to the airport. I could not get a ride, since my occasional traveling companion was in a reclining position at the time I needed to leave home (5:30). Besides, he’s of little value, as he can’t pick me up on the day of the return (Friday). So I had to drive.

My parking of choice is usually a side street close to the airport. Of course they decided to repave it this week. Of course.

So I had to park further, in a space that might or might not be for public use. We’ll see on Friday when I come to locate the car.

You see – it’s this level of trivia that constitutes a travel day.

Interspersed with phone calls from my traveling mother (who is old and who does not travel if she can help it – last time being in 2003, to her other granddaughter’s college graduation), and from various sundry other family members gathering for the big event.


In Boston, I’m staying in a hotel overlooking the river -- quite lovely, actually (closer places were prohibitively expensive; when Harvard does commencement, prices in Cambridge triple). My room has a view that is considerably better than the view from the apartment in New York.





And the bed does not deflate.

When Ed and I travel together, I hear a running stream of grumblings about maid service. (Probably because I make him clean up and pick up before the maid comes in; this is the way I am, I cannot help it.) In this splurge of utter luxury, I intend to enjoy maid service. I intend to leave the room neat for her and I will smile at a freshly tucked in bed each day.

Other notes from today?

We gather for dinner at Hungry Mother’s...





...the daughters, their dad, their grandma and me. Tomorrow their dad’s partner will join us, but today it’s just our small set of five. Beginning the week of proud reflections on how cool it is to have all kids out of school and up and running.

I'm also proud of the fact that my mother made it here on her own and seems to be quite up for the task of navigating a graduation. Were she a blogger type, she'd rant and rave about the travails of crossing the continent. But she does not blog. She does not even have a computer. She does have us to listen. And that's a good thing.

where the wild weeds are

The only time to enjoy a bike ride on a steamy day like this is early.

I was out early. Up Old Sauk hill, down again. (Errands.) It is a steep hill.





And then I packed my bag for a day of work on the porch of the farmette.

It was a day meant for Ed's motorbike. Most often, I’m cold on it and I huddle behind Ed’s big frame to avoid the wind. Today, in the 90 degree weather, I revel in the cooling effect of the ride.

By late afternoon, I’m done with my allotted work tasks. Ahead of schedule!

I suggest a quick walk on one of my favorite paths in the area – the Nature Conservancy trail just a little over a mile south from Ed’s farmette.





No matter what season we go there, it is lovely. Today, I think we may as well be walking with the poets in the lake region of England. The path, the meadows, the woods, allowing quick peeks of the lake in the distance – surely this is what writers need for inspiration.





What I find most humbling are the bunches of wildflowers: phlox, clover, bramble, and the always supremely lovely lupine. I've had at least two occasions to love lupine: one straight out of a story book about a "lupine lady" that I used to read to my little girls again and again, and the other -- straight out of the real book of happy events. My friend got married amidst a field of wild lupines. No one can convince me that lupines are anything but splendid.





Then there is the lesser phlox. How is it that we have come to scorn this sweet, airy flower?





I remember when phlox had overtaken a part of my flower bed some years ago (when I actually had flower bed). I hadn’t the heart to pull the purple flower out – it was so pretty! A friend said – oh, I see you haven’t gotten to weeding either this year... But that wasn’t true: I just could not accept that this was considered a weed!





We end out walk and head back to town, earlier than usual. Tomorrow I’m flying east. My littlest one is graduating from law school. Our family is congregating in Cambridge – indeed, my 86 year old mother is flying from San Francisco to join us for this. It should be a great set of days.

(Ed? No, he’ll stay at the farmette and tend to the tomato plants. One way to enjoy the company of an occasional traveling companion is to understand that sometimes, the companion is not well suited to a particular trip. One of the best lessons for continued companionship is to understand that sometimes it has to be “occasional.”)

updates

All my balcony flowers and tomatoes survived my ten day absence. The tomatoes on Ed’s farmette? Chomped down by the woodchuck. All but two: the two that I gave him. Obviously with cooties, from a woodchuck’s point of view.

The irises (also at the farmette) that were threatening to bloom in our absence did indeed unfurl their bulging heads. But they reserved the tail end of their best days for our return.





It’s all a bit chaotic at the farmette, but somehow, plants continue to grow and thrive. Alongside others – weeds, flowers, berries, tomatoes – they all somehow coexist.







(Note two tomato plants near the bottom; they're in the woodchip driveway; no place is off limits for planting.)



Here’s another interesting update – this one is for the Ocean readers who remember that on April 5th, my purse fell out of my backpack during an Air France flight. I submitted a lost in flight report in ten different places and waited. All I got were form emails telling me that if I didn’t hear back with news of recovery within eight days, I should assume that all was lost forever.

I waited. I did not replace credit cards and licenses and IDs believing that surely at least these would be returned.

After two weeks, I gave up. I notified my credit card companies, got a new license, new this, new that, swallowed the cost of it all ($200 and counting), swallowed my pride as well and moved on.

Of course, you’ve probably guessed the next stage of the saga. For lo, this week I got an email from Air France telling me (only six weeks later!) that my purse has been found! Do I want it back? I can go to their lost and found hangar somewhere outside Paris and claim it, or I can have it shipped for a “tiny” fee of 65 Euros (close to $100).

Now, here’s the dilemma: I think I replaced all but two of my various cards and IDs. And it was an old (though still usable) purse. And there was a change purse with about 125 Euros inside. Nothing else. I never carry much in a purse. So, have it mailed, right?

Ed says no. People are likely to give over property to the lost and found, but not cash, he tells me. If I do not need anything in that bag (except for the cash), let it go.

Is he right? Or, should I trust that all was left as I left it on the plane? Should I pay the 65 Euro merely because I’m so curious to see whether my faith in the honesty of others will be validated?

Sue, an Ocean reader who lives on Isla Mujeres in Mexico (we rented a lovely little apartment from her in January) wrote recently how honest people are (on Isla Mujeres), but I note how even she claimed that people are likely to steal the trivial, useful things. Cash is useful.

I’m truly of two minds on how to proceed.


And yet another update:

One class graded, two to go. On schedule. (Let’s for the moment not pay attention to the fact that I chose to start grading with the easiest of the three.)


And finally, no update, but just a note on today: for me, a day like this gets very close to some form of perfection: hot, summer weather, without the summer bugs. When else can you work outside in Wisconsin all day long and not swat at mosquitoes? I alternate between grading and planting replacement tomatoes at the farmette.

As the day shifts into the pre-dusk hours, Ed and I take a break and lean back on a pair of canvas sling chairs (my childhood was spent in these) on the front porch. I’m thinking how lovely it is to listen to any number of birds around us. Not pigeon birds either.





(Did I mention that my last New York moment was on the West 4th subway stop, waiting at 5 am for the train and watching a rat scamper from one side of track to another in search of a decomposing piece of fast food? )

In the evening, we ride the motorcycle back to town, with a rosebush in a freshly planted pot for my balcony.

New York: refreshing the recollection...

Evening is closing in on a Friday on Bleecker Street. That means the noise level climbs and the crowds are dense. We face the backs of other brownstones and so we don't quite hear it yet, but around midnight, the noise intensifies and travels even to the hinterlands. And I like it. Why stay on Bleecker Street if you want night quiet?

Ed’s dozing already. That’s predictable. I put him through a walking workout today: nearly six hours of crisscrossing Manhattan.

In many ways it was a idyllic and appropriately gentle ending to our ten days here. It had all the requisite elements of closure.

Breakfast, just before noon, is just kitty corner to where we are staying. (Our building is the corner one; we are on the fourth floor.)





The day is summerlike and beautiful and we sit at one of those tables in the doorway, with the full effect of the breeze outside, but without the glaring sun. Is there a better way to indulge in an hour of pure leisure?





Our waiter tells us we must have the brunch special – eggs, smoked salmon, salad, a mimosa and coffee. Ed’s dislike of coffee gains us a third mimosa – one that is very very light on the orange juice. I put in a little peach schnapps for extra flavor – he informs us.

It is a protracted meal. I look up and notice that Ed's gaze is mellower. Almost like it is back home.





After, we turn northwards, passing through Washington Square where the mood is of a summer week-end.









On 18th, off of 5th, we find Adorama – my photo supplies store of choice, even when I am in Wisconsin. They’ll give you a good price. On everything.





I want to get a new filter and I want to ask about the new Sony SLR-like camera that is about to hit the market (it’s small!) and we have some good conversations about possibly trading in my clunky SLR for the new one when it appears (maybe as soon as next week). I’m also enjoying the commotion of a thriving photography store. Photo shops in Madison are dead, no fun at all. I'm remembering  too well how terrific it was to hang out at a photography store back in my late teens, when I would learn just by listening to others talk about equipment.


We’re walking east, crossing 5th toward Gramercy Park (if there is a justification for the existence of a locked, private park in Manhattan, I’d like to hear it).

This is, we're reminded, the neighborhood where TR Roosevelt was born and where he spent his childhood. We spot a plaque on a brownstone and as we pause to read it, someone comes out and asks if we want to join in on a free tour of the premises.

Inside, we are captivated by Roosevelt trivia. As we read descriptions and ask questions, I'm very much aware of the fact that slowly, I'm allowing myself to focus on something other than the trial. I see tunnel’s end light. We will, eventually, leave this mess behind.




But not yet. At least, not entirely.

Exiting the tiny museum, we note that we are very close to where the primary “bad guy” from Ed’s trial is currently living. We’d tossed around the idea of visiting him. To talk. To communicate something. (Perhaps the futility of this line of litigation?) To suggest that there are better persons (his own lawyers!) for him to sue.

I remind Ed that last time they had a face to face encounter nearly ten years ago, the bad guy was inclined to get physical. I weighed the possibility of repeated aggression and decided that we were strong enough to get away. He, after all, walks with a cane now.

At the entrance of the apartment building we study the list of tenants. Not there. The super comes out and asks who we’re be looking for. Ed tells him. The super, recognizing the family resemblance, sends us up to the correct apartment. Ed knocks. No answer. I wait by the elevator, keeping the doors open. No, wait. That's a dumb retreat. I let them shut. Ed knocks again. Nothing.

We leave a message with the super (the bad guy does not own a phone and hasn't, to Ed's knowledge, an email address) and head out.

Maybe it’s a good thing that no meeting occurred. Still, one has to wonder whether some magic set of words could have now, after all that was already said in court, made an impression.

We belong to the band of the forever hopeful.


Our walk on this day weaves through the blocks of east Manhattan. Here, I lived here, I point out the building to Ed, but I know that I’ve done this before. I'm doing it for all the times you tell me, again and again, where you play weekly volleyball.





We cross over to the west side. Past Rockefeller Center, past 6th Avenue (oh! Here we are! Ed’s attorneys’ offices! Truly, all roads lead to the trial...), past Radio City Music Hall where the Dalai Lama is appearing this week, and where a very aggressive Statute of Liberty is collecting bucks for photo ops.





... due west to the Hudson River, where, for me, exactly fifty years ago my American adventure began. Stepping off the boat, I looked up on the confusing, chaotic city that would be home for at least six of my childhood years. And then I promptly threw up. (It was warm, the air was thick, and the drive across Manhattan was too much for me. In fact, I probably hadn’t seen the inside of a car more than a handful of times in my entire seven years of life.)

The piers along Hudson River. They aren't the entryways for boats from the old country anymore. Indeed, even in the sixties, when I sailed across the Atlantic for the first time, very few were immigrating from Europe by boat. Planes were just beginning to push ocean liners aside.

[For circumstantial reasons of dock repairs elsewhere, there actually is a boat today at the piers – the Queen Mary 2. (Only slightly reminiscent of my old boat – the Queen Elizabeth.)]




We turn south now as we begin our walk along the fairly recently completed Hudson River walkway.

It’s warm and lovely and New York seems almost gentle.









It’s a long hike back, but this is our final review of the city, as it feels on this unusually toasty May day in 2010. Not bad. Not bad at all.





We eat dinner at Fish. Of course we do. At the bar. Two platters of oysters, with glasses of wine, $8 each, just like ten days ago. And a small lobster roll.




And cookies from the Italian bakery.

By five in the morning, we’re walking to the subway, to catch the bus to the airport, to make the connection to Chicago, from where we’ll take the bus back to Madison.

teamwork

If ever you doubt the importance of team lawyering, I would suggest that you observe a case tried by a well integrated group of attorneys. Headed for litigation? Demand good teamwork. Otherwise you'll get the other end of it – the dysfunctional representation, as, for example (in my opinion), the representation of the bad guys in the case before us. So, demand discussions (of narratives, of forests) and demand teamwork. And get yourself an Ed for a client. And hope that the wind blows in a good direction.

An Anonymous commenter posted this message, which I refuse to publish in the comments section, because – how many times do I have to say this – I will not publish comments without a name attached to them. Anyway, this is the comment -- which I found to be thought provoking and so I took the extraordinary step of putting it into the text of the post, being rather a stickler for my policy on not publishing completely anonymous comments in the comments section (see previous sentence):

We just finished our own "Good Guy" vs "Bad Guy" lawsuit in NYC. Like Ed's, ours never should have been filed, but when someone with deep pockets and attorneys for family members wishes to use the law as a bludgeon, the courts say, "Bring it on..." After 2 years of motions, depositions and appearances, our "Bad Guys", just the day before trial is to begin, say, "Never mind.." We, now being some $30,000 lighter, find it difficult to celebrate a win. Our legal system, and the concept of "justice", has left us flat. Here's hoping Ed's side, the "Good Guys", get a better measure of justice than we did..

I do have a thought or two on this.

Justice, fairness... uff! That’s a tough one. Did I mention that the law suits that I’ve been tracking here, in New York, ones that have been draining energy and resources for close to ten years are (in my opinion, but not only) completely without merit? And even as one can expect a favorable outcome this time (though truly, you never know, as judges’ minds can work in mysterious ways), everyone knows it will be appealed. As you say – stuff some money into the pocket of a litigious man and you’re in for years of legal harassment. And I mean harassment. Where not only Ed, but a number of members from his family are suffering simply because one person didn’t like the way two people wrote their wills (Ed is the executor and trustee – a thankless job if I ever saw one).

The solution? Surely there should be a greater penalty against frivolous lawsuits. But of course, we will all squabble endlessly as to what constitutes “frivolous.” (If you want examples, ask me about the ones I’ve just spend ten days listening to. With experts, counter experts, depositions, motions – you name it, we had it.)

So, in answer to the commenter's generous hope that Ed should fare better: no, that can’t happen. Moreover, there is no feeling of relief after the trail. It went so well, so brilliantly well, but should I believe that fairness will prevail? The drain on resources will continue, the bad guys will not stop. The reality may, in the end, have little to do with fairness.

Sigh...

But I’m straying from the narrative of Ocean, so let me step back and begin earlier, at a time when we were still grabbing a very good muffin and an espresso at Once Upon a Tart. I like that place. Customers are regulars and they like to hang out. Of course. A West Village habit.






A few more blocks and the scene changes. We're approaching the judicial hub of the city.





The name tags come out, Ed reaches for the rolled up shirt and tie in my bag, we go in.

In the morning portion of the proceedings, Ed has another chance to address the monumental incompetence of the work done on behalf of the “bad guys.” He is passionate and extremely in command of detail. His attorney (teamwork!) ask all the good questions, Ed sails with emphatic and forceful answers. His narrative is superb.

...even as it depletes his energy for the rest of the day. Ed is not a confrontational person by nature, his New Yorkedness notwithstanding.

We recess for lunch and Ed and I eat at the wonderful Odeon on West Broadway, where you can have eggs even at 1 pm and where the teamwork (!) of the wait staff is exceptional. But I can see it in Ed’s eyes: he’s spinning back to the court room. His mind is on the trial. (Yes, it's true: he sheds the court clothing the minute we leave Chambers Street.)





We have an hour still before the resumption of proceedings and so he and I head for the southern tip of Manhattan. My goal is to reach the Battery Park, but we stray toward 1 World Trade Center, where the new tower is now finally under construction.





Did I mention how almost painfully sunny it is on this day?


The final testimony is of another expert, testifying well but irrelevantly about matters that have little meaning and even less consequence for anyone. And finally we're done. As a last task, there is a review of the issues remaining before the court. Of some forty idiotic ones, about a dozen (still idiotic) remain.

And that's rather discouraging: to realize that the “bad guys” have stubbornly insisted on keeping on the table issues that should have been thrown out with last year’s trash.

Being rather sentimental about good work and especially good teamwork, I am sad to say goodbye to the attorneys. From this point on, their work will not require (I don’t think) Ed’s presence (and therefore my presence) in New York. I’ll have memories of the excellent skills that went into the arguments offered in response to the absurd arguments of the bad guys. I’ll surely have these lessons with me next time I discuss a legal issue with students back home.


Ed is completely spent. We pause at Bruno’s for a sugar boost...





...but upon our return to the Bleecker Street walk up, after making reservations for an early flight back on Saturday, he cannot stay awake.


It’s late now. You think maybe we should celebrate? No, my travel companion is the one with the “every day’s a birthday” slogan running through his brain. I go out and get him egg rolls from his new favorite egg roll place and for myself – a pizza.





We are often of different minds as to what constitutes a good meal. But I have to say, in the matter of the trial, we were completely in agreement. Along with the attorneys. Teamwork.

New York, New York

Suddenly, in the middle of a direct examination of an expert witness for the bad guys, I’m struck by how exhausted I am with paying attention to the detail. And how terribly difficult it is to remain sharp and keep the juices flowing during hours and hours of this kind of proceeding. The attorneys for the good side never falter. I think yet again, amidst all the snarky put downs of lawyers, how undervalued the work of a good lawyer can be.


I’m starting to type my post for Ocean in the heavy cloud of a tired mind. (The rose? Oh, Ed would say that at $3, it’s an awfully cheap way of getting days worth of goodwill from me.)





And it was a rush of a day. Straight out of the shower, we did our usual walk to the courthouse. Yes, wet hair and all. Both of us.





We search for a quick bite to eat, find nothing good and settle for a standup muffin. Greasy and sweet. Bleh.

At the trial, things proceed with a certain degree of sanity. I find myself wishing for the moment where everyone would stand up and say – let’s all go home. We know this entire proceeding should not have come to pass, we’re sorry that we let it go this far. Not surprisingly, the judge does not say that. She admits evidence, even unnecessary evidence, because it’s better to err on the side of having a complete record than to make hasty pronouncements that later will be appealed by the party who sure as hell loves to appeal everything, even though he has never won (known here as “the bad guys”).


Walking home, I notice, as ususal, the traffic lining up to get into the Holland Tunnel. It’s rush hour, and the cars are clamoring to get in, or rather out of the city.





The cars stand frozen and you can do a dance between them and not get hurt. I am always surprised the next morning when we pass this way, that nothing of their mess remains. They do eventually get into that tunnel. People reunite with families, sleep and the next day it all repeats itself.

We stop at Bruno's Italian bakery for cookies. It's our aperitif. To help maintain the pace for the closing hours of the day.





Ed has a quick meeting with the attorneys in the evening. We’re really on the last stretch. Everyone expects tomorrow to be the final day of the trial.

I take a walk, weaving my way through the Village, taking it all in, sometimes mesmerized by the hyper crowdedness of it all, sometimes confused by it all, watching people hang out in the neighborhood that has made a cult of hanging out, so long as it includes lots of late night food, late night drinking, and in between, things I can’t really give a label to. Colorful? Sure, with insanely dizzying color.





Again I think back to when I was a kid here. After Warsaw, New York’s frenetic buzz was a stunning distraction. But I missed even then the quiet of empty spaces. Now, too, I’m starting to itch for an espresso in the stillness of a flowering garden. Or a walk where the birdsong isn’t that of a pigeon.


Ed comes back and we head out to dinner. Not far. Sammy’s Noodle Shop and Grill. Ed wants Chinese. Sammy’s, he later tells me, served up the best egg roll ever.