Asshole Attorney: Musings, Memories, and Missteps in a 40 Year Career

family

chapter 1

My Early Hopes Shattered

I’m an army brat. What that means is that growing up for me meant moving from army base to army base every three years. By the time I was ten, I’d lived in Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Hawaii, and Japan. With all the moves, we lived in eight different houses.

My dad retired when I was in fifth grade. At the time he retired, he was stationed in Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, and we lived about three blocks from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I played and swam there every day. In September 1960, we moved to Rutherford, New Jersey. Rutherford is about two hours from the Jersey shore and next to the Meadowlands, a misnomer at the time since it was actually a dumping ground and future Superfund site due to chemical contamination. The green water in the Passaic River was no comparison to the gin clear waters of Oahu. And I can’t begin to describe how the Passaic smelled.

To my new classmates, I was an oddity. Most of them had no idea where Hawaii was, let alone how there could be this white kid who had a better tan than anyone in school, and who also wore pretty weird shirts. Back in the ’60s, guys like me were way ahead of Tommy Bahama. And I didn’t even wear shoes when I went to school in Hawaii’s paradise. Barefoot was the rule. Now I had to wear long pants, plain shirts, socks, and shoes.

I was not happy.

If that weren’t bad enough, I had never seen snow or at least never remembered seeing any of the stuff. So on the first day it snowed, I got excited, bundled up, and rushed outside to experience what everyone was telling me was terrific fun. I looked like Kenny from the series South Park. It took me less than a minute to realize I hated—and I mean really hated—snow and everything it represented.

That’s when I was told the cold truth, no pun intended. I said to my mom, Mom, we can’t live here any more. We have to go back to Hawaii.

She responded, Honey, that’s not a decision for you to make. We live here now. Get over it. Or something like that.

I was crushed and resolved to dedicate my life to getting out and going back to paradise. I noticed that my neighbor was a lawyer, although I had no idea what that meant. None of my friends had parents who were lawyers. But our neighbor always seemed to be dapper and happy, carried a big, important-looking briefcase, and always said hello. So from what I observed, becoming a lawyer seemed as good a career as any to fund my escape from New Jersey. And when you’re eleven years old, such impressions hold.

chapter 2

My Birth Family

My mom and dad—Rhoda and Gilbert Wood—were from that tough, World War II generation that saw working hard and being loyal as the two most important things one can do. But they were a lot of bark and very little bite. In fact, my dad, even though he was a hardened officer and Korean War veteran, never raised his hand to me and I cannot even remember him yelling at me. Discipline was left to my mom, and she wasn’t very good at it. If my brother or I did something wrong, we were told to go outside and find a switch from a bush. When we brought it back, she’d whip us on our thighs. Trust me, the psychological terror of finding the switch was a lot worse than the swatting. I suppose if a parent did that today they’d be arrested for child abuse, but those were different times.

Both of my parents went out of their way to help me and give me advice. It was different for Gil, my older brother. He was the first-born son of a genuine war hero and a nurse who tended to the wounded in Pearl Harbor after the Japanese attack. So most of the pressure of following in my dad’s footsteps fell on him. That was a lot of pressure that I was spared. Looking back, I only admire Gil more for what he experienced.

My sister, Martha, was always, as some daughters are, my dad’s princess. Their relationship could not have been closer.

As the third and final child, seven years younger than my brother and five years younger than my sister, I of course wondered if I was an afterthought, one of those mistakes parents make in the heat of an amorous moment. At least that’s what my brother and sister loved to tell me over the objections of my mom. I used to fantasize that I was actually a prince left on the family stoop in a basket, one day reclaiming my kingdom. Right.

As is true with so many thirds, I got away with murder. Other than the very rare occasion I was disciplined by Mom, I was barely noticed. And that drove my brother and sister mad. I can still hear their complaints: How come Doug gets to do [fill in the blank]? My ability to get away with mischief was the only source of revenge I had for all the innocent sibling harassment I got from them as the third child. And I loved getting away with it.

Growing up, I worshipped my brother, although I never let him know. He was the coolest guy I knew. Smart, handsome, great haircut, and sharp clothes. Pretty girlfriends. But he barely noticed me. We shared a room. He took glee in trying to scare me in the middle of the night. I always slept on my side of the room with my eyes toward him.

My sister was terrific, but I had no use for her as a kid. She was a girl. And she got a lot more attention from my dad and was never disciplined by Mom. She was just too perfect for me.

Today, my relationship with both is fantastic. My brother and I talk every week even though he lives in Romania. My sister and I speak less often, but it’s always a great conversation.

chapter 3

The Crips and Bloods

In sixth grade, I joined a gang. It was called the RCH, for Rutherford Club House. We were also known as the Boys. While not quite the Crips or Bloods, it was a real brotherhood and mutual protection pact. If you messed with any one of us, you messed with all of us. Kind of a neighborhood NATO. And while we rarely instigated anything, we had respect even from the Hoods, the guys in school who were selling car parts before they had licenses to drive.

Founded by John Frat Frattarola, aka The King, the RCH had a clubhouse in Frat’s backyard. The gang included some official members: Frat, Deve, Arnie, Mers, Fred, Stein, Mute, Reit, Kell, John, Harv, Pop, Bruce, Burd, Beck, and me, and some unofficial members: Bennie, Rob, and Jarvis. I don’t remember why the three unofficial members were never voted in, but they were a part of the RCH all the same. The other members had been close friends since kindergarten.

While three of our brothers—Mute, Bennie, and Burd—have passed away, and one (Jarvis) can’t be found, the rest of us keep in touch. A small contingency comprised of Frat, Deve, Arnie, Stein, Harv, Pop, Fred, Mers, and Rob get together two or three times a year. Over the years, the Boys have taken three amazing private tours.

When we turned fifty-five, seven of us went on the 55 and Still Alive Booze, Blues, and Barbeque Tour through Tennessee, Mississippi, and Arkansas, visiting the historical sites where the blues and rock ’n’ roll were born, including Graceland, Stax Records, Sun Records, the Grand Ole Opry, Clarksdale, and more. Our bus driver, Jimmy, was an Elvis impersonator, and our bodyguard, K, was from Egypt, packing some serious protection. Let’s just say we went into some pretty seedy neighborhoods and K turned out to be a much-appreciated companion.

When we turned sixty, five of us went on the 60 and Still Nifty Orlando to Key West Margarita Tour. We took that trip in the campaign bus used by Barack Obama in his 2012 presidential campaign.

And when we turned sixty-five, six of us went on the 65 and Ready to Thrive Scotch, Shots, and Serenity Tour through the Highlands of Scotland.

All these trips were just the Boys, no wives. And while it drove some wives up a tree that we went on such extravagant holidays without them, the wives of the Boys who went on the trips grudgingly put up with it. Other wives didn’t, and the stay-at-homes missed out on memories that we still cherish to this day.

There were some magic moments on the tours.

When we finished our visit at Graceland, Arnie walked down from Elvis’s grave and jokingly announced in his baritone voice, Hey, I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s just another dead drug addict. Needless to say, the devoted fans there to pay homage to the King of rock ’n’ roll didn’t appreciate Arnie’s joke. We had to get out of Graceland fast.

On the same trip, we visited Reds, a very famous blues club in Clarksdale, Mississippi. I was the first to enter the club, at about 2:00 a.m. It was a scene out of Animal House. I was the only white guy in the room. Everyone, including the band, stopped and stared. So I walked up to the bar and asked, What beer do you have? The bartender answered, Budweiser. I responded, Great. I’ll have a Bud. Mind if my friends come in? He stared at me and said, Sure. As long as they like Budweiser.

As if on cue, our Elvis impersonator walked in with the Boys in tow. K stayed with the bus. The place went wild. We were greeted as if we were long-lost friends. The band, led by blues greats T-Model Ford, Robert Balfour, Big T Williams and his sons, Mississippi Joe and Mississippi June Bug, rocked until dawn. And when Jimmy got on stage and did a set of Elvis tunes with them, it was something out of this world. In the end, we were all given new names: Mississippi Grease Plate Beck, Bigass Burd, Juke Joint Lawner, Short (Harv), Mojo Marcus (Stein), Blackcat Bone (Deve), Sticky Fingers Frat, and Cotton Seed Wood.

On our Orlando to Key West Tour we stayed at the Everglades Rod & Gun Club, where several U.S. presidents, Ernest Hemingway, and Mick Jagger once stayed. When they closed the bar, we reopened it, poured ourselves drinks, and evened up with the owners the next day. That was fine.

While in Scotland, we went to seven distilleries, three golf courses, castles, and medieval sites. A highlight was our visit to the Macallan distillery, where we drank eighteen-year-old scotch straight from a cask they rolled out of the barn. Deve gathered some in his hands and splashed it on like cologne. He loved it. Not sure if the rest of us did. We also saw the home on Trump’s golf course that Trump surrounded with tall pines in order to block the owner’s view when he refused to sell Trump the property. No wonder they hate Trump in Scotland.

To this day, over fifty years since I met the Boys, most of us are still together. Having friends for that long is unusual. How many people can say they’re still close to a dozen childhood friends? And when we’re together, there is no BS between us. We work in different fields: law, engineering, sales, law enforcement, technology, government, and more. No one is allowed to brag except about their children, and now grandchildren.

We’re not sure what we’ll do when we all turn seventy in 2020. I guess we need to find something that rhymes with Social Security or retirement.

chapter 4

The Greatest Generation Redux

My mom passed away on February 6, 2005. I watched her die. Nine years earlier, I had watched my dad die.

I suppose it was good that I was there for both of them. They both went quietly, and I guess that’s a blessing. But I’ll never know what my dad or mom was thinking as they passed. Were they afraid? Were they at peace? Were they angry? Did they see me? Did they even know I was there? Did I give them any comfort in the end?

My mom was a quadriplegic. She fell walking the dog in 1970 and crushed her spine. She lay on the ground for hours before someone finally found her. She lived as a quad for thirty-five years and inspired everyone she ever met. Depression and self-pity were entirely foreign to her. And she had no tolerance for those who felt sorry for themselves.

My dad was a highly decorated army officer. After twenty years, he retired as a full colonel: the first full colonel from officer’s candidate school after World War II and the youngest full colonel in the army at the time. He enlisted as a buck private in 1941, just months before Pearl Harbor. He fought in Korea, one of the bloodiest wars of our time. A true war hero.

Tom Brokaw described their generation as the greatest we’ve ever known. While I’m not sure if that’s truth or hyperbole, I do know that my parents were the greatest duo I ever knew. They were a combination of George and Gracie, Ralph and Alice, and Ricky and Lucy. They were compassionate yet demanding. They pushed me to achieve. They had no patience for excuses. They insisted that I never look down on anyone. They taught me to respect God and authority. They let me grow. They made me laugh. They let me cry.

And they both battled their own private demons.

Dad was an alcoholic. He beat it after years of abusing himself. But despite all those years, the pain he gave is long forgotten, when measured against the love he gave. It’s easier to remember all the good he brought to the family and taught us.

My dad didn’t have a wake or funeral. I had him laid out in a funeral home, but only my brother and I bid him farewell. He was cremated and his ashes were scattered in a cemetery in New Jersey. Mom told me that’s how he wanted it. I was never quite sure if that was true, but I honored her wishes. To this day, I miss the opportunity to have said goodbye in the company of his friends.

We had a wake for Mom. She was cremated and her ashes were scattered where my Dad’s were scattered. I was overwhelmed by the number of people who came to Mom’s wake. A true tribute to the inspiration she brought to so many people. A fitting farewell. I was honored to deliver her eulogy.

I hope and pray my children will look upon my life as I have upon the life and love of my parents. If I can leave them with that legacy, I will have accomplished what my mom and dad would have wanted—indeed expected—from me.

May God rest their souls.

Here’s what I said at my Mom’s funeral:

There are a lot of clichés used at times like this. We’re here not to mourn, but to celebrate. Don’t have sorrow for the loss but rejoice in her life. We know them all. But if there were ever a time when all those clichés were valid, it’s tonight. Mom wouldn’t want it any other way. In fact, if she were here right now, she’d probably wonder why everyone is making such fuss about her latest setback. Because I’m sure that’s all it is to her. Just another challenge to overcome. And there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s dancing with my dad right now, finally freed from her wheelchair.

There are many people we need to thank for their many years of friendship and support for my mom and dad. Freda, Sandy, Rosa, and, of course, my sister from another mother, Louise. Louise was not only my mom’s nurse, friend, and family member for more than twenty years, but she also took care of my dad, and as I was reminded the other day, my grandmother.

Thank you to all of you.

Not many people know just how rich and challenging my mom’s life was. In many ways, it explains her tenacity and adventurous attitude. My No Holds Barred Mom.

When she was in her late teens, she was run over by a car in Rutherford, New Jersey, where she grew up. She fractured her skull and broke her back. Doctors doubted she’d survive. But they didn’t know that something as simple as fractured skull or broken back were a cakewalk for Mom.

She attacked rehab, recovered, and went on to become a registered nurse, and on November 8, 1941, at the age of 25, married my dad, then a newly recruited private in the Army, awaiting his duty station assignment.

And boy did their lives change just a month later on December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

Near the end of World War II, she accompanied my dad to a station assignment in Hawaii. Because she was a registered nurse, she and my then infant brother were allowed to accompany him. She volunteered as a nurse in the local hospitals and cared for the many wounded from the war. I can only imagine the horrors she saw in those years. Yet it never brought her down. No doubt she made many a soldier appreciate life even in their darkest moments.

Later, while my dad served in Korea, she stayed home in New Jersey with my brother,