The Calm Before Christmas

It's the morning of Christmas Eve and I'm having a coffee at Crema, after being met with a locked door at Barista Parlor and a friendly barista advising me they're not opening today until 8 a.m.  

Christmas music is playing in the background and I'm sitting across from Crema's Christmas tree as I sip my coffee.  There's a few tables of coffee lovers, like me, smiling and talking quietly.  Crema is one of my favorite coffee shops in Nashville.  Very good coffee made by baristas who care about making good coffee.  Nice atmosphere.  

Generally, Crema is busier than it used to be, when it was more of a coffee outpost.  Now, the neighborhood has caught up, as buildings, apartments, and condominiums have sprouted up around them the last couple of years.  Good for Crema.

I've got a lot of wrapping to do today, and tonight.  Not my favorite thing in the world but 'tis the season.  In our guest room and in my truck, I've got boxes shipped from Amazon and elsewhere, along with items I've picked up the last few weeks for Jude, the boys, or other members or our family.  One year, someday, I'll be more organized for Christmas, but not this year.

Masks are back in force, as they should be, with the arrival of the Omicron variant of Covid-19.  I'm double vaccinated and boosted but I'm not sure that matters anymore.  It's all kind of depressing, to be honest, worrying - again - about the virus.  Nearly 900,000 Americans have died from Covid-19 and with the surge due to the Omicron variant and the holidays, soon the national death toll will hit 1,000,000.  

I distinctly remember my law partner, Mark, laughing at me in April or May 2020, when I told him in a partner's meeting that the University of California San Francisco's epidemiologists had run models that predicted 1,000,000 Americans would die from Covid-19.  In the same conversation, he laughed at me when I told him Joe Biden could win the presidency.  I'm glad I was right about the latter but I wish I had been wrong about the former. 

Still and all, now is not the time to worry about Covid-19.  Today and tomorrow - Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - is a time to be in the moment and enjoy down time with Jude and the boys.  A time to be grateful for what we have and for the opportunity to spend another holiday season together.  A time to unwind and a time to recharge.  

Last night, while I made white chili in the kitchen, Jude and the boys watched A Charlie Brown Christmas and Frosty the Snowman, at Joe's request.  It's funny, sweet, and a little bit sad, but Joe is at that age, 9, where he's a mixture of childlike innocence and preadolescent angst.  He believes, fervently, in Santa Claus and Elf on the Shelf - probably for the last season - yet he's becoming more aware of current events and their impact on family and friends.  I'll miss these days, as I miss the stroller days.

Tomorrow, Jude's parents will come over in the morning, as they typically do, to celebrate Christmas with.  Tomorrow evening, we're going to drive down to Franklin to my sister's house, which will be nice.  

Christmas, again, is upon us.   

Whatever Happened to Escondido?

In February 2013, a Nashville-based band, Escondido, released their first album, The Ghost of Escondido. Lead by classically beautiful singer/guitarist, Jessica Maros, and multi instrumentalist, Tyler James, the band's music was described alternately as indie folk or psychedelic folk.  

A part-time barista at Frothy Monkey and full-time Seattle Mariners and Seahawks fan, Grant Geertsma, played guitar in the band, as well.  I knew Grant in passing only, as we often exchanged small talk when I went to the Frothy Monkey for coffee on weekends before going to visit my mom at NHC Place before she died.  A class Nashville thing, for sure.  An acquaintance of mine played - who made me coffee and good coffee, at that - played in a band I liked completely unbeknownst to me, at least initially.

The biggest song off the first album and, I think, the band's biggest song, period, is Cold October.  What struck me first about the song was Jessica's voice, best described as haunting.  The lyrics of the song, too, stayed with me.  

Miles down the highway

I called you on the phone

Couldn't bring myself to tell you

When I had you all alone

'Cause I love you like a summer's day

Those night's spent in your arms

I said I'd never leave you

Guess I'll be doing you some harm

I'm not sure when or how I first discovered Escondido.  I think Cold October appeared in my Spotify Discovery playlist one Monday morning - probably in 2015 - and after hearing the song one time, I was hooked.  That's usually how it happens for me with a really good song, like Cold October. 

I do know that Joe and I used to listen to Cold October every day on the ride to Children's House, which would have been 2015 or 2016, when he was three or four years old.  He absolutely loved that song and I did, too.  To this day when I hear it the opening guitar chords of Cold October, I'm instantly transported back in time to those mornings Joe and I spent together before school for him and work for me.  Simpler times, yes, before Carley got really sick and my mom died.

The band had a moment, for sure, and three years later released a second album, Walking With a Stranger. I'm not sure but I don't think that album did as well as the first album.  And suddenly, like a star shooting brightly across the sky on a late summer night, Escondido was inexplicably - to me, anyway - gone.  No formal announcement of a hiatus or breakup.  Just no more shows or new music.

This being the age of social media, of course, I kept up with Jessica Maros, Tyler James, and Grant Geertsma, individually, on Instagram.  In an odd way, this made the end of the band's run harder for me to take.  Why?  I could see what they were up to, almost in real time.  And what they were up to was not making new music or playing together as Escondido. 

Jessica traveled a lot and, sadly, dealt with the death of her father.  Having fairly recently lost my mother, I could understood how hard that must have been.  Tyler built a studio at his house and kept making music.  He even produced a few songs by the Almanacks, another band that Grant Geertsma played in.  Grant got married.  In other words, life moved on for the members of Escondido and for me, too.  

Every now and then, I'd check in Escondido's Instagram feed to see if I had missed a post or if there was any news about the band?  Nothing.  

Finally, on May 19, 2021, Jessica and Tyler posted a video of the two of them sitting on a couch at her house, playing guitar and signing a song together.  By way of explanation, they had run into each other at Publix and decided to show each other their new houses.  At Jessica's house, they decided to play a song together and, I guess, to video it and post it on Instagram.  

It was breathtaking beautiful to watch them play together again but, predictably, it left me with more questions than answers.  

For one thing, how could two people front a band for several years, experience a modicum of success, then lose contact with each other to the extent that they hadn't seen the other's new house?  In the same town?  Strange, or maybe not. 

Or, how could two musicians - artists - find the chemistry some search and entire career for and stop playing together on the brink of stardom, or whatever passes for stardom in the music business these days.

For sure, bands I've loved have broken up before but usually after a longer run together.  Blue Mountain out of Oxford, MS, comes to mind.  Cary Hudson and Laurie Stirratt were married, then divorced, so it was unlikely the band would stay together indefinitely.  Also, in some form or fashion, Blue Mountain played together for more than two decades.

I felt the same way when Kelsey Kopecky - whom I had met a time or two in passing through one of our early nannies (and a professional violinist), Laura Mustan - and her band, Kopecky Family Band (later, Kopecky), broke up without any explanation that I could find.  

Similar to Escondido, the Kopecky Family Band had a fairly brief run, starting in 2007, that included the release of single, Heartbeat, that charted in the top 10 - the video for the song was filmed at Sevier Park, on the tennis courts, no less - and appearances on Kimmel and Leno, and an NPR tiny desk concert.  The bank released albums in 2013 and 2015.  

Seemingly on the edge of sustained success, the band broke up and Kelsey Kopecky embarked on a solo career that, to my knowledge, has not really resulted in any sustained success by music industry standards.

Still, whenever I hear Cold October by Escondido, I recall those mornings with Joe, six or seven years ago, on the way to school at Children's House, singing along with Jessica Maros.  That song always will remind me of Joe, at three or four years of age, and our innocent, uncomplicated mornings together before school and work.  

I'll also always wonder about what might have been, for Escondido, and about what's to come, too.  And maybe that's the point.

What It Means to be a Friend

Eight days before Christmas and I'm comfortably ensconced - if only for a few minutes - on a couch at The Factory, coffee from Honest Coffee Roasters in hand.  I'm surrounded by Christmas trees decorated by various merchants, all of them brightly lit this morning with white or colored lights.  My happy place at my favorite time of the year.  Sometimes I wish it could be mid-December forever.

Lately, I've been thinking about friendship.  What it means to be a friend.  What it means to have a friend.  A true friend.

Like most people, I have more acquaintances than friends.  Acquaintances, to me, are a type of friend, and they're a necessary part of my life.  My personality alone - the way I am wired - requires that I know a lot of people.  What I mean is that, as a classic extrovert, some part of me needs the daily interaction I get at places like Honest Coffee Roasters, Portland Brew, Burger Up, etc. w/people that work there or other regulars.  

Those are people I know and am friendly with but that aren't necessarily my friends.  Depending, I guess, on my definition of friendship.

Friends, to me, are people I share something with.  A cup of coffee or a drink.  A telephone call.  A conversation about our children or our parents.  Someone with whom I discuss what I call matters of the heart.  The good stuff.  The things that matter.

Perhaps because it's the end of the year and a time to reflect and take stock, I've been troubled, recently, by friendships that seem to be slipping away or, at the very least, lying dormant for now.  I'm thinking, in particular, of Doug, of Hal and Kim.  Longtime friends that I've lost my close connection to because of the distance between us - literally and figuratively - and where we are in our lives at the moment.  

A downside to having children late in life is that so many of my peers have raised their children and are no to the next thing.  While I wouldn't trade where Jude and I are with J.P. and Joe for anything and I love our busy life, most of my longtime friends have children in college or out of college.  In truth, we have little in common when it comes to our children.  They have been where I am but I haven't been where they are now.  It's strange but true.

The tradeoff, of course, is that I have made close, new friends that have children the same age as J.P. and Joe, mostly through sports.  Later today, for example, J.P. and I are driving to Georgia, to Serenbe, a resort community outside of Atlanta.  We're going to stay for a few days with my friends, Russ and Susanna, and they're children, Cooper and Ella.  

Just the other day, J.P., Joe and I met my friend, Will, and his son, Benton, at D-bats, so the boys could get a pitching lesson and hit in the cage.  With us was Joe's friend, Preston, from Joe's baseball team.  Preston's dad, Oliver, and I coach together.  I had coffee with Glen earlier this week, who has become a friend.  I coach his stepson, Elijah, in baseball.  

All of those people, and many more, have become my close friends over the past decade, as our boys have grown up together.  And they're all very, very important to me.  We have so much in common.  We've supported each other, in raising our boys and, really, in life.  These people are a constant presence in my life and I am better for that, for sure.

I worry, though, that my connection with, for example, Doug, and Hal and Kim, has weakened.  Doug, in Atlanta, is not the best at returning calls, and that's completely on him.  It's hard for me to stay in touch with him.

Hal and Kim, though, live walking distance from me and still, I rarely see them, and that makes me sad.  They're two of the most talented, interesting people I've ever known.  My life is richer - so much richer - because they have been in it.  The challenge, though, is they don't have children, and I do.  As a result, on occasions too numerous to count, Hal has called about getting a drink or stopping by, and I'm on the way to baseball practice, basketball practice, or fighting traffic to get home for dinner.  They're at their place on the Buffalo River a lot - I'm jealous - which makes it more challenging to get together, too.

The answer, I guess, is that I've got to plan time, monthly, or semi-monthly, to see people like Hal and Kim.  Coffee.  A bottle of wine in their back yard.  Something.  Anything.  Doug.  Hal and Kim.  Others.  

I've got more to say about this, later, and more to think about, as well.  For now, thought, The Factory is filling up with people, which is my signal it's time to get going, time to move on.  

Clients to call before I head out of town.  Loose ends to tie up.  Errands to run.  

    

At Last, A Return to St. Patrick

This morning, after an absence of almost 21 months, we're returning to church at St. Patrick. 

The four of us, fully vaccinated, and Jude and I fully boostered, plan to be in our regular spot - near the front on the right side - for the 11 a.m. Sunday morning service.  Soon to be 150 years old, St. Patrick Catholic Church hold a special place in our lives for more than 15 years.  

I've sung my favorite hymns, tears of happiness in my eyes, while I watched Jude take communion, looking radiant to me eight plus months pregnant with J.P. and later, Joe.  

I've sat in the crying room, upstairs, and watched J.P. stand on his tiptoes to peak over the lower edge of the window to see Father David (Perkin) delivery his homily.  

Countless times at the end of a church service, I've watched Father David pause at our row as he walked toward the narthex to greet parishioners, and shake hands with J.P. and Joe (standing at the end of the church pew).  As Father David smiled down at Joe, shook his hand, then walked on, Joe always scampered along the pew back to Jude, who enveloped him in a hug).  That might be my favorite, and most enduring, memory of St. Patrick.

I've shaken hands and given peace, and watched my boys do the same, to fellow parishioners, near and dear to our hearts.  Some have moved away, like Ann Kuklinski.  Some are no longer of this earth, like Dennis Donovan.

I've watched both of my boys baptized in the Catholic Church, J.P. by Father Eric (Fowlkes) and Joe by Father David, as our extended family shared our joy.

I've watched my boys hunt Easter eggs with other children in the front and back of our venerable old church.  

I've patrolled the parking lot during with my father-in-law, Jim, in the early days, before the neighborhood changed, to make sure parishioners' cars were not broken into during the Sunday morning service.

I've attended many, many Finance Committee meetings in the Rectory, my favorite being the December meetings with Father David when, at my suggestion, the members of the Committee shared wine, cheese, and other snacks, in our last meeting of the year.

I've received communion, with my family, what seems like a thousand times, and felt closer to God - even for a moment, every time.

I've watched with pride as J.P. received communion for the first time at St. Patrick, after his official First Communion at Cathedral of the Incarnation.  Today, I'll watch Joe receive communion for the first time at St. Patrick.

The boys and I have brought donuts from Krispy Kreme and set them up in the cafeteria for a little fellowship after church, too many times to count.  It was our family tradition.

I've grown to know, and love, three priests.  Father Eric, Father David, and Father (John) Hammond.

I've lit candles and prayed to our Lord for peace, health, and strength.  First, for my mother, as she was ravaged by Alzheimer's disease, and later, for me, as I grappled with the emotional reality of her death.

I could go on and on.  St. Patrick has been everything to me.  My North Star.  My compass.  It's centered me, weekly, in good times and in troubled times.  

Today, my family and I will return, masked up, to the place we belong on Sunday mornings and missed so badly.  St. Patrick.  Our church home.

JP's First Exam and the Passage of Time

As I drove J.P. to school at MBA this morning, we reminisced a bit about the passage of time.  

He has his first exam this morning - English Literature - the first of many exams he will take in middle school, high school, and college.  He admitted to being a little nervous.  Understandable.

My advice?  "Approach the exam with confidence.  Just like playing basketball or pitching in a baseball game.  With confidence.  You've put in the work.  You're ready."

I added, "If you make a 98 or an 82, are you any different of a person?  I know the kind of kid you are and you know the kind of kid you are.  That's what matters.  Nothing changes because of the grade you make."

Good advice or bad advice?  I don't know, but it's what I had for him.

I asked him how it felt to know that his first semester at MBA is almost behind him.  "Strange," he replied.  "Now, it seems like it went by so fast," he continued.  "But it seemed to go really slow while I was in it."

I chuckled and agreed.  "That's kind of the way it works," I said. 

When I see a father walking in the neighborhood with a baby or toddler in a stroller, or when I see a father roll a stroller into Portland Brew, a wave of nostalgia stops me in my tracks momentarily.  I pause, smile, and for an instant, remember the stroller days with J.P. and Joe.  

Simpler times?  Unquestionably.  Better times?  I'm not so sure about that.  Happier times?  Maybe, if for no other reason than my mom and Carley Meade were still in my life, and the boys' lives.  That's a big part of it, I think.  I find myself missing both of them lately.

I told J.P. that it seemed like, forever, I could pick him up, hold him, or throw him over my shoulders as he laughed.  Now, that seems like forever ago.  At 13, soon to be 14, he can probably pick me up. 

Time and the passage of time are such strange concepts.  

And, now, I look up from my table in the back of Portland Brew, and see a father walk in with his infant daughter, carrying her breakfast and milk, and hand her off to what looks like her nanny.

Just like I used to meet Carley at Bongo Java a lifetime ago, and hand off J.P. then later, Joe, to her as I hurried off to work.  We'd spend a few minutes together and I'd buy Carley breakfast.  The joy in the boys' faces when they saw her and the joy in her face as she hugged them.  A memory I'll never forget.

So, as I return a wave from Dierks Bentley as he picks up his morning coffee, I'll sign off.       

Joe DeRozan

For most of the fall, Joe has been working with Coach Amos, the coach of MBA's 7th grade team, in individual workouts, with his buddy, Pike.  Coach Amos had been working with JP and Jack, Pike's older brother.  Normally, he doesn't work with boys as young as Joe and Pike - who are 9 - but he made an exception because, I think, he already was working with their older brother.  

As it turns out, Coach Amos has really enjoyed working with Joe and Pike, because they're so competitive, in general and with each other.  They're best friends at this point, have played sports together for years - basketball, soccer, and baseball - and they love to get after it.  They listen and they're coachable.  I think it's been refreshing, too, for Coach Amos to give lessons to younger boys.  Less baggage than with teenagers, I suspect.  

Right now, with J.P. playing middle school basketball, Joe is the only one with games on Saturdays.  Yesterday, for example, Joe had a game at Ensworth at 11 a.m. and at St. Paul's Christian School at 3 p.m. His team won both games against lesser opponents.  I almost skipped the afternoon game to watch Alabama - UGA in the SEC title game but, at the last minute, I decided to go.  

Had I stayed at home, I would have missed a play by Joe that I'll always remember.

Early in the second half, I was sitting in the nearly empty bleachers at St. Paul's, between Jude and Oliver Davis, in a cluster of parents of our team's players.  From the start, the game was a laugher.  Our boys were playing a type of half court trap, which really just meant they were picking up the other team's ball handler at half court and trying to double team him.  It worked and our boys jumped out to an early lead.

Going right to left, in front of us, Joe took an outlet pass, probably from Cole, and started a fast break by dribbling up the left side of the court, closest to us.  Near the left sideline, he angled a bit toward the middle of the court as he drew even with the top of the key.  He had a player open ahead of him, on the left side of the basket, which would have been the safer, and more obvious, pass to make.

Instead, Joe saw Pike streaking down the right side of the course ahead of him.  There was traffic in the lane, with two or three players running through, their backs to Joe.  Dribbling with his head up the entire time, Joe pulled up suddenly, and with his right hand, threw a long bounce pass through the lane.  Not a player saw it coming except for Pike, who caught it in stride and hit the layup.

In the bleachers, the parents on both teams paused, the collectively, gasped and said, "Whoa!"  We looked at each other, stunned, and Oliver, Allan, and I fist bumped, smiling from ear to ear, as Joe ran back up the court, grinning triumphantly and twirling his right index finger in the air.  

That one play spoke volumes about Joe as a basketball player and, really, as a kid.  Confident, creative, joyful, and enthusiastic.  And, most importantly, not afraid.  Never afraid.

I call him Joe DeRozan because he's developed a midrange game as knockdown shooter on 9 foot goals the 9 year olds play on.  In fact, he hit a nice turnaround jumper in the lane during the game that he was particularly proud of because he's been working on it.

But on that pass, the one I'll always remember, Joe looked like Magic Johnson, my all time favorite player.

Indeed, it was a little bit of magic, and I was there to see it.

Nothing Left to Give

I am not sure if it was coming back after time off for Thanksgiving or what, but this was an unusually tough week at work.

I started with a pair of difficult mediations that went late both nights, but ultimately settled.  Difficult facts, excellent but demanding attorneys - those things often go hand in hand - emotional clients, and late nights.  It was a satisfying feeling to help the lawyers settle both of the cases and I was happy Wednesday morning but I quickly ran out of gas as the rest of my week got crazier and crazier.

By 9:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, I was fighting with two attorneys already, and had three long meetings to get through at work.  Thursday was similar.  That, combined with staff issues and a couple of clients in real crisis, and by Friday morning, I didn't have anything else to give . . . to anyone.  Opposing counsel, staff, clients.  I even went for a 4 mile run at 10:15 p.m. Thursday night to clear my head.  

I should have taken Friday off - a mental health day, if you will - but I couldn't because there was too much to do.  I went in my office, closed my door, and interacted little, if at all, with anyone in the office.  Of course, an unplanned client meeting appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly I had to be "on" again, at least for a couple of hours.  I managed it, then thankfully, changed into my running gear at 4:00 p.m. and ran 6 miles to Harlinsdale Farm, on the grassy trails, then back to the office. 

Being a divorce lawyer is a demanding job, at least the way I do it.  

Part of it is the job itself.  People, good people, often come to see me at the lowest point of their lives.  I am someone - a divorce lawyer - they never thought they would need in their lives.  Someone they never wanted in their lives.  At our first meeting, the people are filled with regret, disbelief, anger, disappointment, incredible sadness, anxiety, fear, and uncertainty.  Quite literally, a maelstrom of emotions.  

I connect with these people on a personal level.  That's just the way I do it.  I always maintain my objectivity but I think I have been blessed, or cursed, with the natural ability to empathize with others.  That, of course, includes my clients.  I joke and tell them I am not Dr. Phil but, in a way, I guess I am.  Although I encourage almost all of my clients to see a therapist and I am careful not get out of my lane, sometimes I think the way I do what I do - with so much empathy - places me in a similar role as a therapist, with the added responsibility of guiding them through the legal quagmire of a contested divorce case.

Honestly, I had not given this much thought until this morning, over coffee at Portland Brew, but an "empath" is defined as "a person who is highly attuned the emotions and feelings of those around him."  Science is divided as to whether there are true empaths - those who can tap into and take on the emotions of those around them.  I do not think I do that, mostly because my job - my oath - requires me to be objective, but sometimes I wonder.

Apparently, empaths are vulnerable to developing depression, anxiety, emotional burnout, or addiction.  Emotional burnout?  That hits home, at least on occasion, particularly after a week like I just had. 

I give so much of myself to my clients.  I am not saying that's the right way to do what I do for a living, but it is the way I do it.  It is the only way I know how to do it.  I care deeply for my clients, every one of them.  When I meet with them, when I talk to them on the telephone, I have to be "on."  So often, I have to be the decider and assist them in making some of the more important decisions they have had to make in their lives.  That can be a lot, again, depending on what I have on my calendar in a given week.

On top of that, when I mediate family law cases, I work incredibly hard to connect with the parties over the course of the day, as we work toward the resolution of their case.  As I think about it, I try to find where they are emotionally and meet them there, so I can better understand their point of view, process it, and effectively communicate it to the other side.  I put a whole lot of myself - all of myself, really - into the mediation process over the course of a day.  That can be all consuming but I think it is part of what makes me good at mediation. 

I am supremely confident in my abilities to help parties, and attorneys, settle difficult cases.  I am convinced that there are not five other mediators in town who could have helped the parties settle one of the cases I mediated, for two days, earlier this week.  And, afterwards, to get a hug and a handshake from both parties, in different rooms.  Is that a bit arrogant?  Probably, but I work very, very hard to prepare for mediations and to settle cases when I mediate.  

What does all this mean?  I don't know.  I have to take care of myself in a profession that can and will consume me, if I let it.  In many ways, I love what I do.  But, sometimes, when I combine what I do with managing our staff at work and mentoring my younger attorneys, it is a lot.  In fact, it can be overwhelming.  

I guess - no, I know - that's why I need to get up on Saturday morning, like I did this morning, and go get coffee, by myself, to clear my head.  It's why I have run, alone, with a podcast or music.  It's why I have to read, every night, to lose myself in a novel, a memoir, or a biography.  I have to empty my vessel, emotionally, and recharge my batteries.  

Is there a lesson here?  Probably.  Do I know what it is?  No.  But it helps to think about it and to write about it.  

Monday is a new day, a new week.