Bluebonnets

Two weeks ago I flew to Austin for David Hamburger's wedding. The last time I was in Austin was about 18 years ago when my sister lived there. I spent about a year there building swimming pools with my then brother-in-law. It was great to go back and see the place, and especially for such a wonderful occasion. There was something special about this wedding, maybe it was the people, maybe it was the place, maybe it was the timing, maybe it was the bluebonnets...

I was met at the airport by my old pals Kevin and Rob -- we were all in men's group with Dave back in New York. We adopted Texas nicknames for the weekend: Bubba, Hoss and Slim. I was Hoss.
We hung out around the hotel that afternoon, eyeing babes by the rooftop pool and resting up for the rehearsal dinner. As you can well imagine, three pale/balding/paunchy forty-year-olds made quite a hit with the ladies.

At the rehearsal dinner we got split up, being singletons. The best man took it quite well when I suggested he seat me next to his sexy Cuban wife. I ended up sitting across the room.

During the toasts, the bride's younger sister got up and read a letter written by the bride several years ago, listing all of the qualities a man would need to have before she would consider marrying him. It sounded like she had written it coming off of a bad relationship and was trying to conjure up the perfect mate by way of contrast. It was pretty funny and probably pretty embarrassing, except the weird thing was, Dave really was the guy she described -- her perfect man.

After dinner we had drinks on the balcony of the Stephen F. Austin Hotel and flirted with the best man's sexy Cuban wife, who turned out to be a lawyer from Cornell. By the end of the evening we were all smitten and/or drunk. Fortunately it was a short walk back to the hotel.

The next day I hooked up with Bob Sweeney who was my roommate in San Diego before I went to Austin and in D.C., before I went to Brooklyn. Bob is a lawyer also, who works for the state of Texas defending shrimp. He is married with two boys and looks like he could beat me in a roadrace without even trying. We had lunch with another old roomie, Johnny Goodman, who is also married and a father and living in Austin.

In case you hadn't noticed, there seems to be a pattern emerging here: Everyone's married.

The wedding of David Hamburger to Catherine Berry took place at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center just south of Austin. The setting was incredible. The ceremony took place outside, surrounded by fields of blooming wildflowers. The reception was in a Spanish-style courtyard with fountains and more flowers and some really excellent music. It felt like we had been transported out of the present to a timeless place where all the things you hope are true really are true and all of the things you worry about don't exist.

It was all a little too much for me, so after dinner I went and sat on a bench outside the courtyard and looked out at the wildflowers.
The bluebonnet is the state flower of Texas. The legend says that many years ago, before the white man came, the hill country was home to the Comanche Nation.

One year there was a great drought that brought famine to the Comanche. Many died that year. The people prayed and prayed to the Great Spirit, but there was no relief. The medicine man went up into the hills seeking a vision to tell them what to do. When he returned, he told the people that they must build a great bonfire and cast into it their most cherished possessions as a sacrifice to the Great Spirit.

The bonfire was lit, but when it came time for the people to give up their possessions, they hesitated. Their possessions meant too much to them, they did not want to give them up.

One young girl watched as the others turned away from the fire, unable to make the sacrifice. She was thinking of her own most cherished possession. It was a cornhusk doll made by her mother and decorated with a headdress made from bluejay feathers collected by her father. The doll meant the world to the little girl because it was all she had left of her family. Both her parents had died in the famine. But they had always taught her to think of others and not be selfish. She knew that the drought must end before others lost their loved ones.

She went back to the tent to get the doll and waited until everyone else had left the bonfire. The she walked over the fire and with a final look the beautiful blue feathers, she flung it into the fire.

That night the rains came, and they kept up for days. When they finally ended and the sun came out, the people came out of their tents and were amazed to see all around them the fields were covered with thousands and thousands of azure flowers. When the little girls saw the flowers, she knew that the Great Spirit had accepted her sacrifice and given this gift in return.

And each spring the beautiful blue flowers bloom again in remembrance of the little girl who gave life to her people.

Years ago, when I was a kid, I was in a group called the Indian Guides. One summer night we had a big bonfire and we were supposed to bring our favorite toy and throw it into the fire. I didn't want to do it. I cheated. I picked out a toy that I didn't really care about and pretended it was my favorite. To this day I still remember the toy I threw into the fire, but I'll be damned if I can remember the one I kept -- even though it was my favorite. I wish I could remember it, because I think it's about time I threw it away.

When I got back to the party, I went up to this lovely young woman named Sam and asked her to dance. We ended up dancing the rest of the night. I never even got her last name. Slim disappeared with a blond psychologist from L.A. and we didn't see him until much later. Bubba and I helped the bride's family pack up the presents. I collected a bunch of roses and gave them to Sam. Bubba and I were about the last ones to leave.

Thank you Catherine and David for reminding me of how sometimes things can be the way I hope they are. I wish you all the best.

Love, HWD

Guilty

A couple of weeks ago I finished up a month-long stint on jury duty. I was pleased to fulfill my civic duty, and tried to do my best to uphold the principles of our slow-grinding yet fair-minded system of justice, ever mindful of the tremendous responsibility I faced, deciding the ultimate fate of another human being. Plus it beats working for a living.

One of the reasons I was picked for this case was because my employer pays my salary no matter how long my jury duty lasts. It's kind of a goodwill thing that some law firms do. Since this case was scheduled for three weeks, they had trouble finding people who could afford to serve. A friend of mine at work considers jury duty part of her benefits package.

As an added bonus, the case was fascinating: The defendant, Jim, was accused of assaulting his hooker/drug-addict girlfriend, Joy, with a toilet plunger and threatening to inject her with hydrochloric acid. Jim thought Joy was sleeping with a cop named Todd and that she was ratting on him. Fortunately, Joy had called 911 and the cops arrived before he was able to follow through on his threat. Jim was tossed in jail, where he became acquainted with a fellow inmate called "Clown."

Clown is a member of the notorious 18th Street gang where he was a fairly successful hit-man, having racked up 15-20 contract killings in his day. He has never been arrested for any of those killings, however and was in jail on a rape charge. He was just the kind of guy Jim was looking for.

Jim asked Clown to get in touch with Topo, the head of the Mexican Mafia, to arrange to have Joy and Todd "taken care of." Jim passed Clown handwritten notes with information and instructions on how to carry out the murders. They used notes because they (rightfully) feared that the jail cells were bugged. Clown, however, wasn't too sure if he could trust Jim. And besides, being a family man, Clown had decided to try and turn his life around and maybe get away from the whole murder and rape thing. He decided to pass the notes to a deputy and then agreed to continue to play along to help the police nab Jim in the act.

Jim, meanwhile, got in touch with a drug-addled, dimwitted single mom named Renee to act as his liaison on the outside. Clown was supposed to get the hit man to call Renee, who would then pass along information and take care of the "fee." Only the guy who called Renee wasn't a real hit man, he was an undercover cop who called himself "Silent," and all the calls were being taped. Apparently, Renee found Silent's voice overwhelmingly appealing and could barely keep her mind on the job at hand as she flagrantly offered her sexual services to this complete stranger who professed to be a hired killer and who was in fact gathering evidence that could put her away for many years.

Do you start to get the feeling that these lowlife losers are lowlife losers for a reason?

To her credit, when they played the tapes back in open court, Renee did at least appear somewhat embarrassed.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting there listening to all of this with fourteen other people (three alternates) and I'm just dying to tell someone -- anyone! But you're NOT ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT IT. Not even with the other jurors, the people you see every day, have lunch with, sit next to, walk to the parking garage with, and who are practically the only other people in the world who would not only understand you, but would be able to talk about it too. Who came up with this ridiculous system? It's unhealthy. Don't they know what can happen to a person when they have a really great story to tell and they aren't allowed to tell anyone? That's how people develop personality disorders and imaginary friends. Believe me it took all my resolve and discipline to last a whole month.

Finally the case ended and they put us into the jury room for deliberation. We had all of the evidence in front of us, including the handwritten notes and the taped phone calls. But what it came down to was, whom did we believe.

The prosecution had plenty of witnesses: Joy the hooker who admitted that she was shooting up each day before court, that is until she O.D.'d and ended up in the hospital where she was promptly arrested on another charge and wound up in county jail. There was Joey the alcoholic stool-pigeon who used to show up at Renee's house completely wasted and waving a gun around in front of her kids. There was Jeff the burnout who picked up Joy one night and the next morning awoke to find her psychotic ex-boyfriend busting down his bathroom door and threatening to shoot her up with acid. We heard from Renee the horny speed-freak who testified that she was only coming on to Silent because she wanted him to do her a favor and kill Joey too. And there was Clown, who is now serving a life sentence for rape but apparently has gotten away with murder so many times he can't count them all. The prosecution also had several cops, a handwriting expert and a woman from the phone company.

The defense had one main witness: Jim. He had an explanation for everything and most of what he said was plausible. But there was something about his story -- it was too good. It reminded me of writing a screenplay, how you have to make sure everything fits together and all the loose ends are tied up and nothing comes out of nowhere. And he was masterful. But when we got into the jury room, everyone felt the same way I did: Jim was a lying sack of shit. We didn't believe a single word. The drugged-out morons and degenerate scum were far more convincing.

We deliberated for about a day and found Jim guilty on every count. According to the D.A. he should be looking at about twenty years. It felt pretty good to help get that scumbag off the streets. I was proud to have done my part. Now I'm back at the law firm helping big fat insurance companies keep their big fat reserves to themselves. It's not quite as satisfying as my experience on jury duty. But we do have a great dental plan.

Be good.

Love, HWD

Dad

Last month was my father's 70th birthday and my sisters and I went down to Florida to surprise him. Months of planning and preparation were required to pull off such a feat -- the logistics, the coordination, the split-second timing needed to snag half a dozen super-saver airline tickets, all required that we set aside our day-to-day concerns and focus on something more important. And we all rose to the occasion like a pennant-winning baseball team. But it was not always thus.

Several years ago, on the occasion of my Mom's 60th, my Dad planned a big party for her and asked us to come down and surprise her on the day of the party. The plan was to rent a van, load it up with me and my sisters and their families, and spend a leisurely two days getting there, arriving the evening of the party fresh and perky and ready for action.

However, due to some credit card problems, the van we thought had rented was suddenly unavailable hours before we were supposed to pick it up. After some twenty-four hours of frantic phone calls to every rental agency in Connecticut as well as several panic-stricken calls to Florida, last minute transportation was procured.

Without a minute to lose, we piled into the van and drove thirty hours straight through from Woodbury Conn. to Osprey Fla., arriving less than an hour before the party, bleary-eyed, burned out and bedraggled. But, we made it -- the party was a huge success, and Mom was completely surprised.

The fact that Dad was able to keep the secret from her, especially after our string of nervous calls the day before, was impressive, but not unexpected. Dad is the kind of guy who plays it close to the vest -- he's not known for sudden outbursts of unbridled emotion. Growing up, one of our favorite stories was the one about the (one) time when Dad laughed. Out loud. He's a pretty cool customer. Not so with Mom.

Several times during the month before Dad's 70th, I'd be on the phone with Mom, discussing the details of the upcoming covert operation (code name -- 'Dad's Birthday'), when all of a sudden her voice would get really loud and unnaturally formal -- Dad was passing through the room. "O.K.," she'd say "I'll take three boxes of the thin mints and two boxes of peanut butter." Good one, Mom (it's 11 p.m., her time). Dad of course, would be completely oblivious to the charade. In fact his only comment was: "Do they still have the ones with the coconut sprinkles?"

Miraculously, and thanks in no small part to my father's complete lack of awareness of virtually everything around him, Mom kept the secret and the airlines did not go on strike and the rental car we reserved was actually there. We all arrived fresh and perky and ready for a week of birthday fun, and Dad was totally surprised.

We did all of the typical 70th birthday stuff: mini-golf, go-cart racing, ski-ball, video games, lunch at McDonald's. Somehow Dad's favorite things to do were exactly the same things that his grandsons like to do.

In fact, for as long as I can remember, my Dad has spent his most of his time doing the things the rest of the family likes to do. He spent most of his money on us too. When it comes time to buy him a birthday present, I never know what to get him. He never seems to need or want anything for himself. But seeing him surrounded by his family, having a hot dog at the video arcade, I realized that he had all he ever wanted.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Love, Rich