Everyone Should Be So Lucky

What a week this has been.

It was spent wrapping up the last remnants of my active participation in my 42 year occupation, several last minute investments had to be made. Ironically, my last actual appointment turned out to be a Zoom call, an unimaginable concept when I started four decades ago.

Our office Christmas party was held on Thursday night. As usual it was great fun as we all ate delicious food as the insults and jibes flew around the room. We held our gift exchange. I got a bag of full of candy, the kind that few people over the age of 12 like, which seemed appropriate somehow. I make no apologies for my love of Nerds and Airheads. You find a good thing you stick with it, right?

Then something amazing happened. A wonderful lady at my office presented me with a gift that astonished me to the point where I couldn’t form words to properly thank her. She had spent no telling how long making me a quilt filled with all the things I love—scenes from Maine, writing, and my dog Lucy.

The ironic thing about this lavish and beautiful gift was the giver. When she first came to work for us she seemed like the kind of person who might not get along well with my particular brand of hijinks. Of course that didn’t stop me from introducing her to my shtick the first day she arrived. To put it mildly, it was a hard sell. She wasn’t a morning person and that’s my favorite time to pester my victims. After a while I finally was able to coax a stray smile out of her with one of my Dad Jokes which only made me double down on my pestering. I do love a challenge. Then she suffered the sudden and unexpected loss of her husband. Through her grief she soldiered on at work, and although I probably should have lightened up on her—I didn’t. Every morning I was over at her office trying in my clumsy ham-fisted way to cheer her up. Some days were better than others. So…for her of all people to make this quilt for me seemed like some kind of miracle. You just never know.

The next day, as fate would have it, was the day that I had promised the girls that I would clear out my office. There’s a lot of shuffling offices to come after my exit and they wanted to get to it before the end of the year. I had not been looking forward to this part of the deal. But, I made it through without incident. I threw away lots of junk, but held on to other things that I really won’t need in the future, but didn’t have the heart to discard. At one point it became painfully obvious to me just how childlike and immature I can be. One would think that a man who survived and prospered for over 40 years in such a grown up and deadly serious business would have collected more adult memorabilia…

Unfortunately, Cluck my beloved rubber chicken who I used to randomly stuff in people’s filing cabinets, didn’t survive my entire career, having disintegrated from overuse during COVID. I might have observed a moment of silence…

Then Saturday morning came. I had asked a friend with a pickup truck to help me move some furniture out. When I arrived at the office there was a letter folded on the top of my empty desk. I sat down and read through it and for the second time in three days I had tears in my eyes and was again speechless. One of the sisters who are buying my business had typed the most heartfelt letter I have ever read. Reading such an emotional letter alone in your empty office might have been an occasion for great sadness. But for me it felt different. I was overcome with a wave of gratitude that I have been surrounded by so great a universe of people, people who understood me, people who got me, and somehow loved me too.

Everyone should be so lucky.

Advertising is the Worst

One of my favorite television shows over the past ten years or so was Mad Men. One of the reasons I liked it was because it confirmed something I had always believed—that the advertising business is a giant con filled with the worse people on the planet. This time of year is filled with tons of examples of the absolute worst of the worst. I am bombarded with them every time I open my computer, use my cellphone or go to the mailbox. Here’s one of my all-time favorites…

What in the name of Estée Lauder is going on here? I mean what the actual hell am I looking at?! No freaking wonder this stuff keeps selling out! This 50-something year old woman on the left apparently has been transformed into a 21 year old by rubbing some miracle wrinkle cream on her face, if this advertisement is to be believed. And it has to be true, right? They wouldn’t be able to claim this if it weren’t true, right? The inventor of this wrinkle cream must have won a Nobel prize for this, so how come I’m just now discovering this miracle?

With the obvious exception of political advertisements, this is probably the most audaciously dishonest ad I’ve seen in years. Now that a significant percentage of Americans seem to have endorsed the assassination of CEO’s of unpopular companies, I wonder how long it will be before some violently disappointed 60 year old Karen turns up on Madison Avenue waving a Glock around?

The Murder of a CEO

I saw the story first when opening the Drudge Report the other day. There was a grainy video surveillance camera photo of someone in a hoodie firing a handgun at another man in front of a swanky Manhattan hotel. The assassin then ran off and hasn’t been found as of this hour. The dead man was the CEO of a big company who is under investigation for insider trading of his own company stock . My first thought upon seeing the story was —Why is this the lead story on Drudge? I mean so far this year over 12,000 people have been killed via guns in the United States alone. What made this guy so special? Over the past few days my question has been answered.

I’ve learned some things about the deceased, a well compensated (10 million in 2023) Executive Officer of a particular company which is part of perhaps the most despised business in America—health insurance. While the murdered executive was only 52 years old with a wife and kids, the internet blew up as soon as word got out that he had been gunned down in cold blood. The vast majority of people were positively giddy with joy at the prospect that the top executive at a health insurance company was taken out so violently. One of the most popular posts was—“Sorry, but my sympathy is out of network.” Stories began pouring in of families being denied coverage for their dying parents, the tediousness of the claims process itself and how its very design has the purpose of making the claimant eventually give up in exasperation. There were many comments about the billions of dollars in profit made by his company and the perverse incentives inherent in a for-profit health care system. There were even videos of joyous public gatherings celebrating his death and the promotion of the as of yet still unnamed assassin to hero status. The public reaction seems to be overwhelmingly pro-killer at this point, helped along by the only other photograph we have of him, smiling coyly from underneath his hoodie at Starbucks before the attack. More than one internet observer has made much of his striking good looks—for what that’s worth. So, what to make of all this?

I am very much anti-death. I generally am against going to war. I’m not a fan of murder. I’m even against capital punishment since I trust no one with ultimate power over life and death. We reluctantly give the police a limited power to use deadly force, but no one else. However, are there exceptions? For example, if I were transported back in time and given a chance to put a bullet through Adolph Hitler’s melon back in 1938 knowing what I know now, would I have done it? The answer is Yes. So, I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. But very few rules in life are exception-free. If someone broke into my home and was set upon doing violence to me or my family, I wouldn’t hesitate to defend my family—even if it meant killing the intruder. So, every rule has exceptions. The question is—should an exception be granted for the public assassination of CEO’s of unpopular and even villainous companies? And if so, which businesses would be on the exception list? The murdered executive’s company raked in several billion dollars worth of premiums last year. I have no doubt in my mind that they unfairly denied a lot of claims, causing many of their customers untold suffering and grief. But a quick review of the public record also shows that the company paid out billions of dollars worth of claims as well. If it turns out that he was guilty of trading his 120 million dollars worth of company stock on news not made public at the time of his trades he would have gone .to jail. But did he deserve a public execution and were those celebrating his death no more that lawless vigilantes? We hear a lot about how fragile our democracy is these days. Nothing would spell the end of democracy more than an angry public who anoints themselves judge, jury and executioner of any public official they think “deserves” it. Who’s next?

But, I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think that all of a sudden people have turned cold of heart. I think that we are at a fraught time in history. People are angry, restless, and disappointed in how life works out sometimes. Nothing is more upsetting than watching a loved one die for lack of medicines or treatment by an insurance company whose CEO makes more money in one week than his average policy-holder makes in a year of back-breaking work. For many people like that, news that a 52 year old multi-millionaire big shot at the insurance company got popped brings a sliver of satisfaction, a temporary balancing of the far too lopsided scale of justice. And while I can have sympathy for that sentiment I universally denounce it for the very simple reason that I have no desire to live in a country where vigilante justice becomes the norm. History tells us what happens next…(see Revolution, French…Revolution Cultural, China).

Having said that, I’m not sure I would want to be a fat cat working in the health insurance business about now…

They Had a Party For Me Today

My work family threw a retirement celebration/open house for me today at the office. It was one of those three hour deals where people stopped by to congratulate me and say thanks. There was delicious food and desserts and lots of wonderful conversations and fond memories—and I had been dreading it from the day they told me to put it on my calendar. Let me attempt an explanation.

The people who came to the open house are all dear to me. These are men and women who I have worked with for decades. They have worked hard all their lives and when they became clients they took a leap of faith and trusted me with their life savings. I have watched many of them go through very difficult times over the years. Some have lost a husband or a wife. Others have endured health problems of their own. Many years ago these folks were transformed from being mere clients. Long ago they became friends, which changes the dynamic, not only of our business relationship, but also of a retirement open house gathering. They all told me how much they were going to miss me. They have no idea how much I will miss them.

One of the strange things about this event was seeing so many of my clients in one place at the same time. Normally when I meet with my clients it’s a set appointment for which I have prepared. For the previous couple of days I had looked over their accounts and checked my notes from the previous year’s meeting. I had pictured them in my mind. This was different. I had no idea who would show up at this open house. I would look up and there they would be at the door, one of them after another. A couple of times a wave of panic would come over me as I would look up and see a familiar face of a dear client and momentarily—forget their name!! Readers of a certain age will sympathize with this embarrassing predicament, commonly referred to as a senior moment. Now I’m worried that they may think I’m retiring because of cognitive decline!! 

Through the years these people trusted me through times of great uncertainty. Trust so dearly earned is hard to walk away from. A 40 year career is hard to leave. But to everything there is a season…and this season for me is over and a new one is about to begin. I’m just terrible at saying goodbye.

It Was a Good Day

Thanksgiving is over and it was a good one. We hosted Pam’s family here at our house. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. The food was delicious and the conversation agreeable. Once again our dining room table was beautiful…

The day after finds Pam and Kaitlin out shopping and having a three hour lunch with Paula at The Daily. Jon is off birding and I am at home taking care of two very exhausted dogs…

Last night the four of us went to Regal Cinema to see Wicked. It was our first trip to a movie theatre in forever and the experience reminded me of why we watch movies at home now. (One bucket of popcorn and two large bottled waters for $26) Geez!!

Now I’m drinking a cup of coffee in my library looking out the window at the giant burnt orange oak trees across the street as they cast more leaves all over my yard. I currently have five separate piles of the already gathered leaves in the corners of my back yard that all look like this one…

Tomorrow I will add to each pile.

Twenty-six days until Christmas.

Hard Lessons

On two separate times in my life I have attended a function at the Country Club of Virginia, both of which were occasions of great discomfort. The first was a business meeting, the second a wedding. Twenty five years separated the two but the vibe was exactly the same. The source of my discomfort probably says more about me than it does the Country Club of Virginia. I will readily admit to a long held bias and prejudice against institutions like CCV and the sort of people who are most likely to be members there. I have always held firmly to the views best expressed by Groucho Marx who famously said that he would never become a member of any club that would have him as a member. Groucho needn’t have worried with regards to CCV.  He was Jewish.

The source of my CCV problem dates back to my time as a student at the University of Richmond. I was a townie who drove his 1966 Volkswagen Beetle all the way from Elmont to class every morning, each day passing by the beautiful homes on Three Chopt Road with their finely trimmed lawns and dazzling cars parked in curved driveways. Once I got on campus it was even worse. My beat up Beetle stood out amongst the BMW’s and MG’s of many of my fellow students who lived on campus in one of the gorgeous dorms that grew out of the grounds like so many mushrooms after a week of rain. UR’s campus screamed old money with its Gothic architecture and brick walkways. My money was always brand new, doled out to me every other Friday in the form of a paycheck I earned building pallets in a warehouse in Ashland while my classmates partied. I graduated from The University of Richmond…but I was never really a student there. The resentment that I felt was palpable and grew over time into something of an obsessive dislike and distrust of wealthy people. To this day I struggle with the same dislike and distrust.

The Country Club of Virginia is ground zero for my biases. Actually any country club will do, but CCV is the poster child for Virginia’s generational wealth. One becomes a member by invitation only through a mysterious process governed by some sort of star chamber of elites who up until the early 1990’s had never admitted a black member. The first Jewish member came just a couple years before that. When I turned off of Three Chopt road onto Westhampton Drive I felt like I was going behind enemy lines. This time I wasn’t driving an exhaust-belching clunker. My Cadillac would fit in nicely. There was a masterpiece of a sunset in the distance…

The reception was lovely, the view over the grounds from the elevated clubhouse was breathtaking. Men and women dressed in their finery stood huddled around propane heaters as the temperature dropped with the setting sun. The open bar yielded cocktails while tuxedoed men and women roamed the crowds offering us trays of bacon-wrapped scallops and spinach-stuffed mushrooms. It didn’t escape me that each of the attendants who waited on us were black and heavily accented, exactly the sort of people who didn’t stand a chance of ever becoming a member.

Eventually the crowd was ushered inside to a ballroom filled with beautifully decorated tables with linen table cloths and fine china. There was a seven piece band performing for our entertainment. Dinner was delicious. We were placed at a table with several people we had never met. They were all delightful. As is usually the case, I had a difficult time staying seated. Several times I excused myself from the table and wandered around the place. I smiled when I found several worn spots in the carpeting. You would think that for $75,000 down and $1500 a month the members could expect decent carpeting. Eventually I found the gentlemen’s bathroom. It was everything I was expecting it to be. No paper towels, just hundreds of neatly rolled cloth towelettes. The thought came to me that there was probably a 60 year old black man in the laundry room who had been rolling these towelettes 8 hours a day for the past 40 years. Then I thought of another wedding we had attended recently where we ate barbecue off of paper plates. We could have used some towelettes.

This was one of those weddings that husbands are asked to attend by their wives. The bride was her friend. I only knew a handful of people. But you go with her because you love her and she looks amazing in her dress. It gives you an excuse to wear a suit. When you discovered that the reception would be at CCV you sighed and prepared for the worst. That old ugly chip on your shoulder reappeared. You spent much of the evening looking for confirmation of every uncharitable thought you’ve ever had about country club people. But then the father of the bride stood up to make a speech. He was nervous, he said. He had written his remarks down so he wouldn’t ramble. He looked familiar. It dawned on me that they were members of my church. We had shared a table with them at a marriage class last year. His speech was an amazing tribute to his daughter and new son-in-law. He was a man of faith and his powerful words bore witness to that faith. He spoke of grace and answered prayers. It was a humbling moment. 

It’s funny how blind we are to our own sins. I have spent almost 50 years harboring class resentment, assigning a host of malignant intentions to people from money and inherited privilege. I stand in judgment of institutions like CCV for their racist, exclusionary past. I blithely belittle them with the accusation that they “woke up on third base thinking they’ve hit a triple.” Then suddenly I find myself a member of a church filled with the very people I have always resented. Some of them have vindicated every stereotype that exists for them. But many, like the father of the bride, have proven to be humble, grace-filled people. It has caused me to examine my resentments. I am learning things I never knew about people I’ve never liked. They are flawed, like me. They are insecure, like me. They struggle with the idea that salvation is a free gift and they wonder if they deserve it…like me. I am learning that we, all of us, have more in common than I ever thought possible.

The Letter

I was finally able to write that retirement letter I was struggling with a couple of weeks ago. It was mailed out several days ago. I like the way it turned out…I think. No letter as important as this one feels perfect. There’s always something else to say, something you wish you had worded differently. But it’s done now and I’m ok with it.