Awaiting Another Voice

We have reached the final day on the calendar for 2022.   

However, wherever, and with whomever you spend it, make it a good one.  Be safe.  Be smart.  Be careful. 

-AK 

Speaking Words of Wisdom

We have reached the final “work” day of 2022.  The day before the day before NewYear’s Day.    On the cusp of the utterances of lies masquerading as affirmations so plentiful that you may find it hard to resist the temptation of walking the streets where you live throat-punching the allegedly resolute, an offer of advice you can actually use is sort of like the gift you did not realize was hidden behind the Christmas tree…

Be careful out there.

-AK

Odds, Ends, and Chop Suey

The year's final week.  As good a time as any to do a bit of cleaning.  As good a time as any to straighten up various odds and ends. 

Franco Harris died last week.  An all-time great player and, by all accounts, an even better person, Franco Harris died on December 20, 2022, three days before the Pittsburgh Steelers were set to retire his number AND on the same night that they were set to honor the fiftieth anniversary of the Immaculate Reception.  Franco Harris played his final game for the Steelers forty years ago.  He retired from the NFL in 1984.  He was enshrined into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1990.   So why in the hell had the Pittsburgh Steelers not yet retired his number?  What in the name of Frenchy Fuqua were they waiting for - the fiftieth anniversary of his retirement?  

Ashton Brewing is gearing up for its third anniversary.   Steve and Donna Ashton opened their doors in Middlesex Borough at the end of March, 2020, a couple of weeks after Covid-19 shut down the world.  Their beer is excellent.  Their hats are beautiful, comfortable, and cozy warm.

Ashton Brewing - Santa's Favorite Brewery

Steve and Donna are extraordinary people, who employ other extraordinary people, and who have been a boon to our little town since Ashton Brewing opened its doors.  Ashton Brewing is an integral part of New Jersey's excellent craft brewing industry.  All over the State of Concrete Gardens are top-notch craft breweries, including some of my favorites such as Carton, Icarus, Kane, Source, and South 40.  Most - if not all of them - are owned and operated by folks like the Ashtons, who are passionate about their craft and who have (to the benefit of a lot of us) turned their passion into a business.  

The State of New Jersey has regulations and rules that make life very, very difficult for this state's craft breweries.  Among the restrictions that craft brewers oppose are limits on the number of events a brewery can host, with just 25 special events such as live music or trivia nights; a maximum of 52 private events such as weddings or private parties; no collaboration with food truck or vendors to sell food for consumption at the brewery; and just 12 permits per year to participate in events such as community parades and festivals.  They also are not allowed to sell coffee or soda on the premises, under the special ruling. 

Brew Jersey is a cooperative effort organized by Icarus Brewing and the Brewers Guild of New Jersey.  Its purpose is to give the State's craft breweries a puncher's chance in dealing with the State and trying to level the playing field - at least a little bit - on which they compete against other establishments, such as restaurants.   If you are - as I am - a craft beer fan (Ashton Brewing's Jersey Dreamin' Pilsner is my favorite beer) then you can support Brew Jersey's efforts in a variety of ways, including contacting your State Senator or Assemblyperson, and continuing to support your favorite local brewery.

-AK 

 

Circular Motion

Thought for the Day (Boxing Day Edition)…

Be careful out there.

-AK

Merry Christmas

Wherever, however, and with whomever you shall spend it, it is my sincere hope that you have a Merry Christmas.   If you are fortunate to share a bit of your day with a child who believes in Santa's Christmas magic, then embrace it.   Nana and Pop Pop will see our trio of Jersey grandkids face-to-face and our pair of Colorado princesses via Face Time.  Every minute I spend with a single one of my five grandkids reminds me that this gig is - without doubt - the best job I have ever had. 

Children do many extraordinary things for us adults.  Among them is reminding us what is truly important, such as the Present and not a present.  For those of us on the back nine of our life, a child is as real-life WABAC Machine, harkening us back to a time in our life where, hopefully, we felt as loved and as cherished as we make them feel right now.  

Merry Christmas to you.  May the magic of Christmas visit you today.  May it bring you peace.  May it allow you to be the richest person in town. 

-AK 

It's Christmas Eve

Thought for the Day...

May we, today, be the people that we always hoped we would be.  

-AK 

a hero

Christopher Reeve was right, of course.  FF William Moon, FDNY, embodied what Reeve meant, first in life and, now, in death...

-AK 

A Short Day's Journey Towards Summer

Today is the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere.  It is the first day of winter.  It is the shortest day of the year - in terms of daylight.  It is also the first step on the journey towards summer.  From today to  the Summer Solstice six months from now a minute or two of daylight shall get added to every day.   A minute or two of daylight.  An elixir for the soul. 

I wrote what follows here on this date two years ago.   All hail the Winter Solstice - the first step on the road to summer.  I shall defer to Wilma, the Keeper of All Things Righteous at the Shore, to calculate how many days it is until Memorial Day.  After all, I went to law school in significant part to stay away from hard math.  

Enjoy your Solstice...

-AK 

Monday, December 21, 2020

I Shall Not Ever Forget

 And those you are with

In the presence of miracles,

You never forget.

- Bruce Springsteen

"Born to Run"

I spent the back half of 2017 processing the death of my mother.  Everyone grieves in his own way. On what proved to be the final day of Mom's life, I wailed and bawled uncontrollably for several minutes - sitting as I was in my living room - after saying good-bye to her for the last time.  A few hours later, Jill and I were on our way to Florida, in Delaware if memory serves, when Kara telephoned to tell us Mom had died. There were additional tears shed in Florida. Of that much I am certain.  

Once we returned home though, the trajectory of my grief had changed.  I am my father's son in certain respects, including the internalization of bad, terrible, and truly horrible things.  Unlike my father, my method for expelling the demons that get pent up inside me is running.  I spent a considerable amount of time that summer and fall running.  It turned out that the training required to run the Marine Corps Marathon in mid-October and, thereafter, the New York City Marathon on November's first Sunday, both of which I had committed to months prior to Mom's death, proved to be therapeutic. 

In the weeks following the New York City Marathon, I ran more often than typically did following a long race.  I found comfort in the repetition of the sound of my footsteps as I ran.  I also found humor in the words of my great friend, Dave Lackland, who buried first his father and then his mother, in less than two years' time with his mom's death preceding Mom's by less than six months. When I talked to Dave for the first time after Mom died, he noted that he and I were now both orphans.  As if recognizing that "orphan" is an odd word to use to describe a fifty-year-old man he quickly added, "Not like Orphan Annie or anything. Not the cute kind." I laughed when he had said it and, thereafter, any time I thought about it it made me laugh (including writing it right here). 

The Winter Solstice 2017 occurred on a morning that I had to be in the Ocean County Courthouse for a Settlement Conference at either 9:00 am or 10:00 am.  I spent the night before in Lake Como, which shaved 2/3 of the time off of my drive to Toms River. That morning, before sunrise, I set off for a run. 

I ran south through Spring Lake and then headed north to home running on the boards in Spring Lake. As I ran, lost in thought, I was taken by the number of people running towards the boards and the beach in a southeasterly direction.  It was just about sunrise.  

Being a bit slow on the uptake and more than a bit stubborn I broke neither my stride nor my north-fixed gaze until the twelfth person or so ran across my vision field. When I turned my head to look out towards the water, I saw what each of them had hastened to the beach to see... 

Winter Solstice 2017 

Spring Lake, New Jersey

Winter Solstice 2017

Spring Lake, New Jersey

Standing on the beach in Spring Lake, looking upon the splendor of that sunrise, I was by myself but I was not alone.  At that moment and at that point in time, I felt Mom.  She loved the ocean and made certain that she lived the final two decades of her life 1/10 of a mile from it in Jupiter, Florida. I stood there and realized she was right beside me.  

Same as she had always been.  Same as she shall always be. 

I shall never forget. Neither shall she. 

-AK 

At Century’s End

Today is my father’s birthday.  Had he lived, today he would be ninety-nine.  He did not of course.  In fact he fell far short.   Forty-one and a half years short to be exact.  

I wish he had lived long enough to see whether he and I could have ever come out on the other side of the war we relentlessly waged against each other the final year of his life.  Mostly I wish he and I had ever learned how to communicate.  

I spent most of the past forty years not understanding what fueled his rage. It took longer than it should have but I finally figured it out.   

Sorry, Dad, for being such a slow learner.  Inexcusable for a teacher’s son, I know.  

Happy Birthday, Dad.  

-AK

Cruise Control

 Thought for the final Sunday before Christmas…

Indeed there must.   Enjoy your Sunday.   

-AK

Godspeed, Ollie

I was saddened to learn last night that Ollie Hawkins died.  I first met Ollie way back when at Frost, Rhodes & DeVito when I was clerking there as a third-year law student at Seton Hall.  For about a minute and a half the firm was known as Frost, Rhodes, DeVito & Hawkins.   Fortunately for Ollie right about the time he finished unpacking, his Spidey senses tingled and he got the hell out of there. 

During the brief amount of time we worked there together, I did absolutely no work for Ollie.  None.  Yet, it did not stop him from taking a keen interest in my career and mentoring me.  Without Ollie, I would not have been introduced to John Libretti for whom I went to work as a young lawyer and from whom I have learned invaluable lessons for close to thirty years.  

But for Ollie I never would have had the opportunity to interview at Weiner Lesniak in late 1997.  My first day at Weiner Lesniak was January 5, 1998.  I made partner there in March 2004 and among my law partners was my mentor and friend, Ollie.  

He left Weiner Lesniak long before I did but even when we no longer worked together we kept in touch.  Every once in a while, we would get together at Darby Road in Scotch Plains.  We would catch up on each other’s lives, retell old stories we both knew by heart, and laugh ourselves silly.  

Throughout my career I have tried hard to always pay it forward.  I have held myself out to help young lawyers whenever I can, including matching them with job opportunities.   Whatever success I have attained in my professional life would never have happened had Ollie Hawkins done all that - and more - for me. 

My heart breaks for Ollie’s wife, Doris, his family, those he loved and those he loved most of all.  I am forever indebted to him.  I shall remember him forever and shall miss him for at least that long.   Thank you, Ollie, for absolutely everything.   

Safe journey home, my friend. 

-AK

Fragile

Perhaps this final act was meant

To clinch a lifetime’s argument

That nothing comes from violence

And nothing ever could

For all those born beneath an angry star

Lest we forget how fragile we are.

- “Fragile”

Sting

I rarely watched Ellen DeGeneres’ television talk show.   I have no anti-Ellen agenda.   I have a job.  My working hours conflicted with hers so watch I did not.  

That being said, I have seen enough clips of her show on-line that I know the role Stephen “tWitch” Boss played on it and what a talented gentleman he was.   I did not know, until I saw the tragic news earlier this week that at age forty he had taken his own life, he was a husband and he and his wife, Allison Holker Boss, were the parents of three children - the oldest of whom is just fourteen.  

Far too many families are ravaged by suicide.  This week, the Boss family added its name to that tragically sad roll.  

Remember always that you never can tell what someone else is going through, regardless of their demeanor.   Remember, too, how fragile we all are.   

-AK

Ten Plus One

 

It was ten years ago yesterday that twenty-six innocents were murdered by a feckless coward at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.  Twenty of the twenty-six were children.  The remaining six were adults who died trying to protect their young charges.  

In the decade since Sandy Hook, there have been 189 shootings at American schools that have resulted in at least one fatality; seventeen of which were categorized as "active shooter situations", which are defined as "when the shooter killed and /or wounded victims, either targeted or random, within the school campus during a continuous episode of violence."  

Last month, the Sandy Hook Memorial opened. 

Ten years.  A lifetime and a blink. 

  

-AK 

Fair Winds and Following Seas, Pirate

 

Mike Leach died Monday night.  He was just sixty-one years old.  If you are not a college football fan, then you might not be familiar with him.  For that, I feel badly - for you. 

Coach Leach never coached my beloved Alma mater.  He did, though, coach against the Buffaloes.  First, when he was the head coach at Texas Tech, Colorado still played in the Big XII Conference, and he led the Red Raiders to then-unreached and presumptively unreachable heights.  Thereafter, he coached Washington State in the PAC-12 and under his guidance, the Cougars became consistent winners.  At the time of his death, he had completed his third season coaching the Mississippi State Bulldogs and was preparing his team for its January 2, 2023 bowl matchup against Illinois, a game his Bulldogs will play in honor of their coach.  

Way back when, before he became a football coach, Mike Leach grew up a forester's son in Cody, Wyoming.  He went to and graduated from BYU but did not play football for the Cougars.  He played rugby.  After college, he earned his J.D. at Pepperdine University College School of Law, which shortly thereafter he parlayed...into a gig as the Head Coach of the Pori Bears in the American Football Association of Finland.    

Mike Leach was a unique, exquisitely interesting man.  His press conferences were not to be missed as he was capable of holding court on a variety of subjects, whether related to football or not.  In 2018, while he was the Head Coach at Wazzu, a reporter asked him for his opinion as to how the various mascots in the PAC-12 would fare against one another if they tussled.  His answer elevated him to perpetual favorite son status at CU.

He shall long be remembered.  He shall forever be missed.   

Farewell and Godspeed, Coach.  

-AK 

The Guardian of All Things

 

Saturday night the Missus and I spent some time with Suzanne, Ryan, and the kids at a winter festival in Warren Township, New Jersey.  As we were strolling around, I took my four-year-old grandson Cal with me to visit the September 11, 2001 Memorial that is located at the front of the Township's Municipal Complex.  As I was holding him, and the two of us looked at the Memorial, he asked me what it was and what it represented.  I told him.  

Given that he is just four years old, I provided him with what admittedly was an abbreviated recitation of that day's events.  Given that he is just four years old, he may or may not have understood much of what I told him.  It matters not.   What matters is that he asked the question and listened to the answer.  I have every confidence it is not the final conversation he and I shall have on this subject.  

Warren Township, New Jersey 

September 11, 2001 Memorial

On December 7, 2022, which was of course the 81st anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the September 11, 2001 terror attack claimed yet another victim.  Lt. Maureen Gill-Donohue of the NYPD, a twenty-year veteran who retired in 2012, succumbed to the 9/11-related cancer she contracted from months she spent working the pile at Ground Zero and, thereafter, at the Fresh Kills Landfill.  She is survived by her parents, Patricia and James Gill, her husband, NYPD Detective Thomas Donohue, her three children, and five grandchildren.  

Events echo and reverberate across time like ripples across the surface of a   Neither their impact nor their import can be permitted by those who bore witness to them to become attenuated.  Not simply for nostalgia's sake but because their effect on the day-to-day lives of far too many has not become attenuated.  As it continues to affect any one of us, it continues to affect all of us.  

-AK 

Questions, Rhetorical and Otherwise

Food for thought as I head to Passaic County this morning for the trial call on this mid-December Monday...

Photo Credit:  

Barred and Bearded @RilezTweetsEsq

He is not wrong.  This is the dream that I have lived for almost thirty years practicing law.  It is the dream lived by any lawyer whose practice is litigation-focused and one in which unresolvable cases are tried.  

A man much wiser (not to mention substantially wealthier and most likely healthier) than I asked the question forty-plus years ago: 

Your response, much like your car's actual gas mileage as opposed to what is written on its window sticker, shall vary.  

Be careful out there. 

-AK 

   

Plenteous In Mercy

A nickel's worth of wisdom for a mid-December Sunday, courtesy of the 30th President of these United States...

...with Christmas closing in.

Be careful out there.

-AK 

A Season of Hope

Two weeks out.  Time to get serious.  Time to stand in front of the mirror, look yourself squarely in the eye, and ask yourself to answer honestly the question of whether you have been naughty or nice this past year.  For me at least, it appears that this year Santa has graded on a generous curve.  

It was this time last week that my beloved Alma mater, hopelessly irrelevant in the world of big-time college football for the past twenty years, moved from Mountain Time to Prime Time.    Deion Sanders agreed to a five-year contract to become the Head Coach.   Candidly, I do not expect him to remain in Boulder for the length of his contract.  

If he resuscitates the Buffs, then better-heeled, more prestigious, and higher-paying coaching opportunities will rain down upon him and he will leave the Buffs for one of them.  If he is a disaster, then the CU Athletic Department will play a movie that Buff alums have seen multiple times in the past twenty years, fire him, and pay him copious amounts of money to go away.   

If history is any guide, then the Deion Sanders' era in CU football shall visit upon me more than a small amount of agita, anger, and heartbreak.   But right now, at this moment, it gives me hope.     

Folsom Field - December 3, 2022

A wise man once observed that hope is a good thing.  In fact, he said, it may just be the best of things...  

...may it never die.  

-AK 

 

Sixty-Six and Chilly

 Mothers never really die, 

They just keep the house up in the sky.

They polish the sun by day

And light the stars that shine at night,

Keep the moonbeams silvery bright

And in the heavenly home above

They wait to welcome home those they love. 

-Unknown

Today marks sixty-six months to the day since Mom died.  Sixty-six months.   I will spend a portion of it in New Brunswick.  Today is the 20th Annual Big Chill 5K, which does good for children in our area who otherwise would not know any semblance of “merry” at Christmas.   It is among my favorite events annually.  

The Big Chill 5K is also the race that started it all for me way back when in December 2008.  Wilma talked me into running with her.  Had she not been there I would have curled up in the fetal position while climbing up George Street and never would have finished.  I think she still laughs at the memory of me that morning.   I know I do.  

-AK