Update: Born to run

This year's Houston Marathon didn't quite go as planned. My day ended after just a  mile-and-a-half with a bum knee. I knew my knee was a bit sketchy beforehand but I had hoped to muddle my though 26.2 miles this morning and deal with the consequences later.

Unfortunately, the pain got to be too much going over the viaduct and once I stopped at the first water station there was no hope of getting back up to speed.

I did see some behind-the-scenes things at the race this morning that I've never had the opportunity to see before (and hope I never see again).

I'd like to thank the officer on Hardy just past the first water stop for his help. He called back to race control to let them know there was an injured runner who needed a ride back to the GRB. I never did get his name, but, thanks.

Thanks also to the crew in the "sag wagon" who took me back downtown. I had to wait until the entire field had passed before they picked me up so I saw crews cleaning up the water cups from the street and picking up discarded clothing.

On the way back we saw crews taking down the banners and gates around the various start lines.

I also want to send a special shout out to the medical crew at the GRB. It sucked having to abandon the race but they were all chipper and upbeat. Since it was so early they also weren't very busy so I was treated like royalty. I must have had at least two doctors a couple of aides and a few other support folks helping me out.

It certainly wasn't the way I had envisioned today going but, it certainly could have been worse. At least I'm physically able to run a marathon and I'm fortunate enough to live in a city that has a thriving running culture and the resources to put on a great race.

Born to run

As y'all read this drinking your morning coffee and holding your doughnut, I'll be taking my annual tour of Houston by foot with some 20,000 of my closest friends and neighbors. So, enjoy your relaxing morning - and save some doughnuts for me.

Marathon Course Map

Another season has ended

We've been here before.

Once again we've come to the end of another soccer season. What began back in late July with recruiting coaches, organizing registration, forming teams and laying out soccer fields, is over for the year. No more striping fields on Friday nights. No more driving over to the church to unlock gates and put out signs on Saturday mornings. No more taking down flags and moving goals on Saturday evenings.

Until next fall, that is.

This was my fifth year coaching one of my daughters' teams. It also marked the last time I will ever coach a Pre-K soccer team.

There's something truly remarkable about watching a group of three-, four- and five-year olds learning how to dribble and control a soccer ball. It's so fun at that age. The kids, for the most part, have no idea who won or lost. They don't care. It's not important. Putting on a uniform, running around in front of their parents and grandparents and having a snack afterward - that's important.

There was great joy in watching a group of kids come together to learn the game. There is a sense of accomplishment seeing how they have improved over the course of two months. And there is a sense of sadness that, once again, it's over for the year.

On the other hand, now the girls and I will get to do our little projects at Lowe's and Home Depot on Saturday mornings. We can do a craft at Lakeshore Learning. In the spring time we can go back out to Zube Park and ride the mini-steam trains.

And, come next September, we can put on our uniforms and head out to play ball.

Like father, like son

Sometimes things happen and you can't even begin to get your head around them. Sunday was one of those days.

Sunday afternoon my wife, daughters and I attended a birthday party of one of my youngest's good friends (the mother was a very good friend of my wife's). While we are sitting around the house waiting for the party to begin, my wife's friend's father-in-law gives me this really nasty look. A few minutes later I took a loaf of bread over to the table where he was sitting so he could make a sandwich.

Then it was Twilight Zone time.

He wanted to go outside and talk. So he, his sons and I went outside and then he launched into a nasty, hate-filled diatribe about why he didn't like my wife or I. It went on forever. He cursed, pointed his finger in my face and called me every name he could think of. It was the most bizarre thing I've ever witnessed.

His son (my wife's friend's husband) told his father to calm down but never told him that his diatribe was inappropriate. It was like he was scared to stop his father from making a fool of himself.

Then what really set him off even more was when I told him in a calm voice that I hadn't raised my voice, I hadn't made any threats and I hadn't cursed at him. The fact that I wouldn't lower myself to his level just ate at him. And then, when I had listened to his vile tantrum he refused to apologize for his behavior and refused to shake my hand.

I was born in Texas and I supposed I will die here as well. I was raised to treat women with respect. I was raised not to insult another man's wife or girlfriend. I was raised to shake another man's hand when it was extended. I was also raised that the ignorant resort to threats of violence because they can't make a logical argument to support their point.

I couldn't believe what I had just been a part of. I was angry. But, as I thought about, I was no longer mad at the man - instead, I pitied him. I felt pity for a man who has allowed hate and bitterness to consume him. I felt pity for a man who embarrassed himself in front of his own son the way that he had just done. I felt pity for a man whose own son was scared to prevent him from making a fool out of himself.

Afterward, my wife's friend apologized to me for what had happened. Interestingly enough, her husband, never said a word. Somehow, it didn't surprise me.

What makes a man allow himself to be consumed by hate and bitterness? I don't know the answer. My view  is that life is too damn short to walk around angry. You can choose to be consumed by all of the perceived slights you face day after day -- or you can left them roll off your back like water off a duck. The only lasting image I will have of the incident is his son, a grown man, standing off to the side, too scared to stop his father from humiliating himself. The best he could do was tell his father to calm down -- not to stop, not that his behavior was beyond inappropriate, but to calm down.

And that was the most telling thing of all.

A life well lived

My wife lost her father this week. He had been sick for a while so his death wasn't entirely unexpected. Three months ago he suffered when the doctor called a spinal stroke - a blood clot pinched off his spinal cord and left him paralyzed from the chest down.

My father-in-law was an active man. He drove in Houston traffic. He walked on the treadmill every day. He helped babysit our daughters.

Robert Van Fossen grew up in the Great White North. In 1941 he enlisted in the Canadian Air Force. He traveled from Saskatchewan to the east coast of Canada for training. He was scheduled to be deployed as a navigator flying over Europe.

My wife's future mother hopped on a train and rode halfway across Canada to marry him before he shipped out to Europe. As it turned out, the plane they were supposed to fly across the Atlantic crashed before they left. So, instead of flying to Europe, my father-in-law patrolled Canada's Atlantic coast during the war. I can't help but think that his wife was quite pleased about the change in plans.

Robert Van Fossen was a very smart man. He was detail-oriented. If he was telling you a story, it was a good idea to make sure you had someplace to sit - because you were going to be there for a while. He was also a man who was very dedicated to his family.

The last three months have been rough on everyone. There's no joy in watching a loved one deteriorate before your eyes knowing there's nothing you can do. While there is an air of sadness, there is also a sense of relief that his suffering is over.

Farewell, Robert Van Fossen. You will be missed.

Life can be a circus at times

Life in and around the courthouse can be a real circus at times. So why not go to the real thing?

That's just what my wife, daughters and I did on Saturday.

I love both the opening and closing ceremonies. The close was spectacular.

It ain't a circus unless someone's crazy enough to get inside a cage full of tigers.

Oh look. The GOP convention's in town. No Palin sightings.

Screw Carmeggedon. I'll take a bunch of maniacs on motorcycles in the Steel Ball of Death any day.

Another dirty job

This past Thursday I had to appear in Montgomery County to enter my grandmother's will into probate. Since I also had to appear for a colleague in a justice of the peace court in Magnolia, I decided to spend the time in between at my parents' place.

A few months back a storm blew down an oak tree in my parents' backyard. My dad, knowing my love of smoking meat, asked me if I wanted any of the wood for my pit. Of course I said "Yes." He told me I could come up anytime to get what I needed.

So Thursday was the day.

Now I've never probated a will before - and, had there been anything screwy about this one I wouldn't have touched it. When we got into the courtroom we sat down. I'd read the State Bar's probate book and was familiar with the questions I was supposed to ask - but I wrote some of them down as a cheat sheet. Not knowing the local customs in these matters I turned a keen ear to every proceeding. Our little hearing didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, but we got out of it in one piece with the mission of the morning accomplished.

Then it was off to my parents' house and that oak tree. It had already been sectioned so all I had to do was split how ever many sections I wanted. I took one chisel and seeded it and then I took the other chisel and did the same thing. Then I lifted the sledge hammer and pounded each chisel - first one and then the other. After a couple of strikes the most amazing thing happened.

As the wood began to split I could hear the sound of the wood splitting long after striking the chisel. It was a steady sound as the force of the blow was carried deep into the section of wood.

It was hard work. I was sweaty and dusty. My hands blistered. My back and shoulders sore. But I had a trunk load of oak for my pit. It was another "dirty job." There was a starting point. There was an ending point. And there was evidence that I had actually accomplished something in the meantime.

It was a nice change of pace from the law - where you're never really sure at the end of the day just what, if anything, you did accomplish that day.

So long, cowboy nuns

This is a real bummer. The Monastery of St. Claire, located just outside of Brenham, Texas, is closing its gates for good this weekend. Why's that a big deal, you ask?

Because of these little guys. The nuns at St. Claire ran a horse farm and raised miniature horses that grew up to 36 inches tall.

The monastery and horse farm were a great stop on a one-day road trip to Brenham. We'd start off at the restaurant at the Brenham municipal airport (a 50's style diner), then head over to the Blue Bell creamery for a tour and a bowl of the world's greatest ice cream before ending our adventure at the monastery looking at the miniature horses.

But now that there are only two nuns left at the monastery (something that tends to happen to celibate societies who don't attract new members), the farm and horses have been sold. The last day to see these wonderful little critters is this Saturday.

In the meantime, I'm trying to fit a drive out to Brenham into my schedule on Friday afternoon.

A change in perspective

My grandmother died last week. We buried her on Saturday. It was a lovely spring day - a day she would have enjoyed, I think.

September 25, 1982 was the worst day of my life. That was the day we laid my grandfather to rest. He was the first family member that I was close to who had died. It was the first funeral I attended. I was devastated by the entire thing.

My grandfather suffered from Alzheimer's Disease. In the last year of his life he didn't recognize anyone except for my grandmother and my mom. I was at their house the day they took him to the hospital because he was beyond my grandmother's ability to control. I never saw him again until the day of the funeral. I never had the chance to say goodbye.

My grandmother had a good life. Over the last couple of weeks she was in the hospital after have an operation. Her body was old and tired. In the end she wasn't strong enough to overcome the trauma of the operation. When I saw her in the ICU at the hospital she was hooked up to wires and tubes going every which way. She was in pain, she had lost weight and her skin color. It was only a matter of time.

I got a call from my dad last Wednesday. I knew they were looking to put her in hospice by the end of the week. He told me she wasn't doing well and suggested I drive up to Conroe to see her. I left my office that afternoon and made the drive. My grandmother was asleep - she never did wake up. But, although her breathing was labored, she didn't appear to be in any pain. I spent an hour in the room with my mom and dad talking. It was peaceful. She had put some weight back on and had regained the color in her skin.

I left Conroe and headed back home so my wife could go to work. After I put the girls down I was sitting in bed reading a book when my phone rang. It was my dad. I knew what he was calling about.

I was glad I had driven up that afternoon instead of waiting until the next afternoon. I was happy that my last image of my grandmother was of her sleeping in bed. It reminded me of walking into our girls' room and watching my daughters sleeping.

I always dreaded the thought of my grandmother dying. We were close. After she moved out of her townhouse, my wife and I would take our oldest daughter (she was a baby at the time) to her apartment at the retirement complex to have lunch or dinner once a week. She and I would talk about football or baseball. I knew she would die one day - but I hoped it would never come.

But I wasn't depressed on Saturday. My mom asked me to say a few words at the funeral. I didn't know if I could keep it together. But I did. The years have changed my perspective on life. As I've gotten older I realize that life is about making memories. As I've gotten older I've learned to appreciate life more and not to take people and things for granted.  As I stood in front of a room of family and friends, I told everyone that it wasn't a day to be sad - that day had already come. I told them it was a day to be enjoy the memories they had of my grandmother. The years have cha

And I guess that's how I made it through it. My grandmother led a long life and I cherish each memory I have of her.

Closure?

It is our realization that we are mortal that sets us apart from the rest of the animal kingdom. As we grow up we see those around us die. The older we get, the more we are faced with our inevitable demise.

My grandmother is dying. I've know for years that we would reach this day at some point. It doesn't make it any easier, though.

She's had a series of health issues over the last few years - some more serious than others. She had to undergo surgery this past week. The after effects of invasive surgery are not kind to 93-year-olds. She's in the hospital, in pain and fighting off an infection.

I think of the things my grandmother saw throughout the course of her life and it never ceases to amaze me. Today we take the internet, satellite television, cell phones, air conditioning, indoor plumbing and air travel for granted. We sometimes forget that there once was a day when these things didn't exist. My grandmother witnessed World War II. She was around when the Soviets launched Sputnik and when Neil Armstrong landed on the moon.

My grandmother also got to see all four of her grandchildren grow up. She's had the pleasure of seeing her four great-grandchildren on a regular basis. She's lived a good life.

I received a call from my dad the other day. He wasn't optimistic and suggested I come up to Conroe because he wasn't sure how much longer she'd be around. I cleared my schedule, called my wife and we loaded the girls into the car and drove to the hospital. My grandmother was in pain from the surgery. She was being fed with a tube. Will that be the last time I see her alive? I don't know. Maybe she'll pull herself out of it and maybe she won't.

I love you, Grandmother.

Update:

A few hours after I wrote this I got a call from my mother telling me that my grandmother had been transferred from the hospital to a rehab center. Apparently she is, as she likes to say, as mean and ornery as ever.

See ya' next season

And so it ends.

Another soccer season has come and gone. It seems like just yesterday we were gathered together laying out fields and putting together rosters. Now, as the chill of autumn pushes the warmth of summer away for a few months, I have more time on my hands.

No more soccer practice on Thursdays. No more prepping fields on Fridays. No more games on Saturdays. No more taking down flags and goals on Saturday nights. No more watching my three- and four- and five-year olds learning new skills and honing their old ones.

For four months out of the year I run the soccer program at my daughters' church. It's a lot of work - and a lot of headache. It's also a lot of fun.

The sight of soccer fields in the early morning hours, before the kids and SUV's arrive, is so calming to the soul. The sight of a youngster finally breaking through and scoring his first goal is inspiring. The sight of my daughters dressed in gold running and playing and smiling is precious.

My dad coached my soccer team the last year I played. He didn't know much about soccer. He had watched us play growing up and decided to be a coach. Looking back, it was pretty cool to play for my dad. He'd leave work early to get home and get us to practice. He did it because he knew playing soccer was something I loved to do.

Over the last four years I've had the opportunity to coach both of my daughters. My oldest played for another coach for the first time this year. To stand on the sideline and watch her play, not as a coach, but as a doting father, was a wonderful experience.

Like everyone else, my dad is getting older and his health isn't as good as it once was. I know that someday he'll be gone, but those memories will always live on -- baseball games, backyard barbecues and coaching.

A much needed respite

Last week was a rough one. After being in trial on Monday I was in a funk most of the rest of the week. Things began to pick up a bit on Thursday night leading my hearty band of 3, 4 and 5 year olds through practice. Prepping the fields on Friday night served as a calm reflective meditation on the week.

Then Saturday morning arrive - Game Day! My kids played hard, hustled and put in another great performance for the parents and grandparents in attendance. Yesterday I put in about 13 miles on the road.

It's all too easy to get burned out in this, or any other profession. There are times you just have to step away from it and enjoy life for what it is - a collection of snapshots that creates a story. I feel much better now.

That big white envelope

I recently received a large plain envelope from the State Bar of Texas that said personal and confidential on the front. I held it in my hand and looked at it. Did I want to open it up? It was the same feeling when you were told the principal wanted to see you.

I opened it up and there was a letter from the Office of the Chief Disciplinary Counsel informing me that a client in a civil matter had filed a grievance but that the office dismissed it. I looked up at the name of the complaining party and thought "that figures."

As I read through the grievance form my blood boiled as I read lie after lie -- and then I had to remind myself of what I tell countless clients -- "I know it's a lie and you know it's a lie; but there's nothing I can do to get that person to recant." She said that I had an odor of alcohol, seemed hungover and that I acted like I didn't know what I was doing.

Of course I guess we all need an excuse to fall back on when things don't go our way. In this particular case I was told from day one that my client had documents in their possession that would prove up everything that was claimed. And, believe it or not, those documents never materialized.

People come to a lawyer because they want something and they feel entitled to whatever that something is and some of them have a hard time understanding that if you don't have a legal basis for your claim, the best lawyer in the world isn't getting it for you.

Random thoughts driving back and forth to Livingston

There are a lot of flea markets alongside US59 between Cleveland and Livingston - and they're all on the west side of the highway.

Hello, Ford Explorer in front of me, you might want to consider moving to the right when faster traffic is approaching. Just a thought.

If you're appearing pro se in a divorce matter, you might want to wear something other than a worn out men's t-shirt with a black bra. The tattoo on the side of the neck was nice and I'm curious what the new one on the back of the neck is (it was still covered by paper).

Why does Polk County have better (and functioning) video equipment in the courtroom than Harris County?

Chewy pecan pralines are the best. I'm hoping our pecan tree puts out enough pecans for me to make a batch. And, by the way, it's pronounced prah-lean, not pray-lean.

Robert Earl Keen is great for a long drive up into the Piney Woods.

Why do I do what I do?

I was listening to one of my Johnny Cash CD's on the drive down to Jackson County this morning and couldn't help but push the back button to hear The Man in Black a second time. If you ever wondered why the legend always wore black on stage, just read the lyrics below:

Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black. 


Sounds like one of us, wouldn't you say?



He was a complex, tortured soul with an unforgettable voice who overcame his hatred of his father and the scourge of drugs to bring a bit of humanity to those warehoused in prison.

Except during the hours of ...

Apparently not this morning as the doors to the courtroom for the 212th Judicial District Court were locked at 11:30 am.

On the other hand, the quote on the right hand door is one that we should all vow to follow every day, not only in our practice, but in our lives.

"Do the right thing and risk the consequences." -- Sam Houston

The decompression chamber

After three days in trial last week I had a serious need for decompression. I stopped off at Onion Creek on White Oak Boulevard and had a Shiner Bock on draft. I then dashed home in time to put my girls to bed. Finally my wife and I sat down on the sofa and watched a movie -- pausing every now and then to finish up some household task. Not once was any mention made of the trial.

Friday night, after being down on the island most of the day, I took my girls to see an abridged version of Annie that the kids at their school put on.

Being in the crucible of the courtroom requires the utmost attention be paid to every word that is said, every inflection of voice and the nuances of every word. You stare at the trees, but it's easy to lose sight of the forest. Spending the next two nights with my wife and girls was great because I didn't have to peer intently into the trees -- I was able to enjoy the view of the forest.

A happy Christmas story

Earlier this year I represented a gentleman down in Galveston who had been arrested on a drug case and placed on probation back in 2005. Unfortunately for him, the driver of the car he was in was the target of a federal investigation and he ended up doing federal time for the same crime for which he was on state probation.

Fast forward to 2009 and my client is out on parole for the federal charge and in custody on a motion to revoke his probation in the state case. The initial offer from the prosecutor was five years in prison on the state drug case. I told her that he had already done 30 months of federal time for the same offense and that he was facing a motion to revoke his parole. I even gave the prosecutor copies of documents from the federal case.

With the help of my client's federal parole officer we were able to work out a deal by which he would receive state credit for his federal time.

Yesterday I received a phone call from my client telling me that he was out of prison and home with his family for the holidays. He thanked me and wished me a Merry Christmas.

There are times when we have to deal with a lot of crap as criminal defense attorneys. There are times we question whether we are doing anybody any good or if we're even making a difference. But then there are moments like yesterday's that give us a renewed sense of optimism.

Wherever you are this holiday weekend, I wish you a Merry Christmas.

My daughter and I

Last night my oldest daughter got sick. To be on the safe side, my wife and I decided not to send her to school today. That left us in a quandary because my wife teaches at the local community college on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and I had to be in court this morning.

So I made the executive decision to take my daughter to work with me. After we dropped off my youngest at school we headed out to the west side to the Justice of the Peace court on Clay Road for a traffic ticket case. This particular court is one of the busiest in the state -- and one of the slowest.

My daughter brought her Leapster and sat in a chair at the front of the courtroom that a very kind woman gave up for her (I didn't catch her name, but, if you're reading this, thank you) while I "worked" the case.

My client's case was dismissed a short time later because the officer forgot to appear (the ticket had been written 2 1/2 years before) and my daughter and I were on our way home after less than an hour.

Along the way she met some of my colleagues and got a little taste of what her daddy does for a living and I got to show off my daughter. I think I might start bringing her to court more often...

Powerlessness

As attorneys we are given a certain degree of control over other people's lives. This is true if you're a criminal defense attorney, an assistant district attorney, a personal injury attorney, a divorce attorney or a property attorney. Someone comes into your office, sits down across a table from you and grants you the power to make certain decisions on their behalf.

One of the hardest things for an attorney is to accept that there are some situations over which we have no control. Monday night was such an occasion for me.

We were in the process of moving and our garage was full of stuff that had not yet found its way inside our house. My oldest daughter had a shoe rack hung over the back of the door leading from the house to the garage and was putting her shoes in it.

I was in the other end of the house getting our internet connection up and running when I heard a shattering sound and the screams of my daughter. My wife couldn't see what happened because she couldn't open the door to the garage. When I ran into the garage I saw my daughter standing in a pile of broken glass from the table upon which she had been standing. I could also see the blood on the floor.

My wife and I cleaned her feet, wrapped them and drove off to the emergency room. By the time we got there my daughter had calmed down and I carried her inside in my arms. Everything was fine as the doctor examined her feet until she had to probe inside the cuts in search of glass shards. She told us she had to inject a local anesthetic into our daughter's feet.

I have never felt so powerless as I did that night holding my little girl tight while she screamed in pain as the doctor injected the anesthesia. There is nothing worse than looking into your child's eyes and telling them there is nothing you can do to stop the pain.

It's a very humbling experience and it reminds us of how little about our world we actually have control over.