This June marked a year of my “grand” experiment. It began with a return to living in the mountains after 22 years back in my native Midwest. My practice is largely the same, but the role includes an opportunity to pay forward the wonderful training I received last century at the beginning of what has proved to be an interesting and occasionally challenging career to date.
As detailed in my last column, the year had “mountain top moments” (literally and figuratively), all worth celebrating. It also included a handful of curveballs that might have driven a younger version of me to places where the shortcut to stress relief would have been unhealthy coping mechanisms. These could range from reprehensible eating habits, to abandoning exercise, to fulfilling too much of my caloric intake via cold malt beverages.
As humans, are we imperfect beings? Of course. We lawyers sometimes, whether through ego, force of will, or simple competitiveness, attempt to deny that imperfection. In the process of keeping our outward armor shiny, we sometimes permit the engine under the hood to “run hot,” risking that the whole thing will lock up.
An Early Lesson in Humanity
My first year in practice was largely split between two massive cases. Both were over $20 million at issue. In both, I was little more than an overpaid “document jockey.” The only thing more unremarkable than these disputes between corporate giants was probably the impact of my two years of legal work on them. What was remarkable, however, were some life lessons and perspective I gained in the process.
On the one case, my supervisor was the last attorney at the firm to have made full partner on the “seven-year track.” The two of us could not have been more different in background or outlook. Andrea came from a prominent East Coast family, and her marriage was announced in the New York Times society pages. She loved art and culture and had no interest in sports. Her husband was the chief operating officer of a large publicly traded Chicago business. The backyard of their Evanston home had 180 feet of Lake Michigan shoreline. I was a blue-collar city kid. I spent my newfound "wealth" on Bulls and Cubs season tickets. I played hoops two to three times per week at lunch and went out for (sometimes too many) beers after my softball and basketball games.
What we had in common—initially—was that we were neighbors. My condo was two stops north (maybe two miles) on the Northwestern train line. While their home had a fax machine, the technology sucked. As a result, I often received the “request” to “drop off the next copy of the brief on your way home.” That meant riding the train to my place, then jumping in my car for the five-minute drive to hers. At least it got me out of staying until 9:00 p.m. reviewing and summarizing documents.
I was a bachelor at the time, and every time I dropped off a draft brief, I was invited (instructed?) to come into the house and eat some dinner. Sometimes her daughters, who ranged from about four to eight, joined us. I was always sent home with leftovers. I even house-sat their two large dogs (all my meals prepared in advance by Andrea) when they went on vacation.
A couple of years later, she left the firm and moved to Geneva, a small river town west of Chicago, to spend more time with her daughters. She continued to practice, albeit on a much less hectic schedule. Kate (my wife) and I would go out each summer for her town’s “Swedish Day” festival, and we otherwise stayed in touch. When I was considering a move to Montana for a similarly “slower” lifestyle, Andrea was a fierce advocate and an amazing resource.