Only Love

Only love sails straight from the harbor
Only love will lead us to the other shore
Out of all the flags I've flown
One flies high and stands alone
Only love

We buried Bill Baker yesterday – a fisherman, a Citadel cadet, Marnie’s boyfriend for 70 years, a World War II Veteran, our Uncle Bill Baker.

In a time when men were “manly” – were expected to fight wars and protect, my Uncle Bill was growing up in a tribe of sorts – the Baker Clan:



Daddy Bill with his children:  Sissy, Bill, Maine, Clarke, Broughton and Nancy 

The Baker clan was comprised of 4 Baker Men:  Bill, Clarke, Maine and Broughton . . . and their baby sisters:  Sarah “Sissy” and Nancy.

These men loved heartily.  As Aunt Nancy mentioned yesterday, these men kissed their father hello and hugged their children.  They laughed loudly, drove quickly, and tickled.

My Grandfather, Broughton Baker, tickling my grandmother Margaret.

These men loved their mother so much, each welcomed an opportunity to name a child after her.  There are two “Jennies” by these Baker boys.  Here’s one of them:

Jennie Baker Smith

This tradition has continued, as I have a cousin named Jennie and a cousin named Jennie Margaret (both beauties by the way, the Bakers don’t do ugly):

Jennie Odom

 

The pretty blond is Jennie Margaret

I have sailed a boat or two
Out on the wild blue
Yonder to dreams that rarely come true

One of the lowest points in Uncle Bill’s life was the time he boarded a ship in San Francisco, headed for war.

Once aboard that ship, a young officer greeted him.  This officer was from the South – from Savannah – this officer had heard of the famous Baker boys from Estill.  A soothing presence, this voice from home – Uncle Bill’s fears were calmed.  He felt at peace.  But he never saw this officer again – not on the boat, not anywhere. 

Years later, Uncle Bill remained convinced this young officer was an angel, sent to ease his mind.  And after the war, he returned to his Marnie.

Yesterday an American flag draped Uncle Bill’s coffin, in honor of his service to our country.  The flag was carefully folded in front of Marnie, his bride of 70 years.  And Marnie’s glorious grandson, Baker Odom, dressed in full regalia, stood at attention and saluted in the aisle as his grandfather’s flag was folded. 

And Baker Odom placed that flag in his grandmother’s lap.

Baker Odom

I have never seen anything so magnificent. 

If God soothed Bill Baker on that boat off the coast of San Francisco, God would soothe him again. Days before his passing, Uncle Bill spoke of his baby brother, my grandfather Broughton. 

Broughton died decades ago, while Peggy was engaged.  Broughton was naughty.  Broughton once rounded up all the cats in the neighborhood and put them in someone’s car.  He asked my grandmother to marry him on their first date, and on every date thereafter until she agreed. 

I have never met him, but my son Houston Samuel is named for him.

Houston Samuel Jones in front of the marker for Samuel Broughton Baker

Broughton was only 42 when he passed. 

Just days ago, Bill spoke twice of Broughton “coming to get him.”

The preacher said they were likely all fishing up there in heaven. 

But this was a Baptist preacher, and if I hear right about my grandfather (a Presbyterian), they are probably having a cocktail and playing cards instead.

Peaceful waters, raging sea
It’s all the same to me
I can close my eyes and still be free

When Dad and I visited Uncle Bill a few weeks ago, he wanted to return to his water-home, in Bluffton.  Fishing was on his mind. 

Aunt Nancy mentioned yesterday that it felt like we had lost our anchor.  It is how we felt.  A patriarch has left us.

But everywhere I looked, I saw new anchors swiftly sinking.  There were promises made by the younger Bakers – and the youngest Bakers bonded over a game of Simon Says:

And I see evidence everywhere that the silliness that is Baker, carries on.

Creighton at his USC graduation, wearing his Cocky mascot shoes.

When the waves come crashing down
And the thunder rolls around
I can feel my feet on solid ground

Uncle Bill’s son Bill, we call him Little Bill.

Little Bill told me something about those last days with his father.   He told me of a day when he was holding his father’s hand – the decision was made to never leave him alone, and it was Little Bill’s turn to stay with him.  As Little Bill held Uncle Bill’s hand, little Bill heard sounds from the living room – the sound of Marnie playing the piano, and of World War II era songs.  Chicken was cooking in the kitchen, and memory-pictures were all around.   The combination of touch, sight, sound and smell was overwhelming for him.  This moment was forever captured in his mind and heart.

I do not know what this moment sounded like for Little Bill.  If I had to guess, I would think it sounded like peace.  Maybe like the sound of wind hitting a sail, or water lapping the side of a boat on the Maye River. 

I don’t know how this moment felt for Little Bill either.  But I suspect he drifted a bit.  When Little Bill is ready, and when Jennie and Mary are ready, we’ll all set sail again. 

And we can all take turns being the anchor.

 

Only love sails straight from the harbor
Only love will lead us to the other shore
Out of all the flags I've flown
One flies high and stands alone
Only love

Fifteen

On our first date (October 1991), Bret Houston Jones, age 20, told me that he got a speeding ticket once.  He was driving his late 1980s Yellow T-Top Firebird and listening to a “cool song” – Rod Stewart’s Forever Young.  The song was really cool, so he sped up and he got a speeding ticket.

Ever observant, I concluded:

            1.         This boy thinks Forever Young is a cool song.

            2.         This boy does not care whether I think Forever Young is a cool song, because he has decided that it is.

In the Spring of 1992, I took an interest in basketball.  A mild interest, because Bret Jones played basketball at our college.  And he started (I had asked him, before our first date “Do you start?”).  He was the MVP (I had asked him that too).  I had been to a few basketball games, I was a cheerleader afterall.  Turns out there is more to it than one team scoring more points than the other.  Who knew?



Kind Of Interested in Basketball



I met his parents after an away game.  His Dad, Houston Jones, was wearing cowboy boots.  His Dad told me:  “With a name like Houston, you have to have cowboy boots, right?” 

            3.         I am going to need to learn a little bit about basketball.

            4.         This Houston name, this is kind of a cool name.

A year later, I was taking an aerobics class with about 20 other college ladies.  We were sweating and swearing and pounding our feet on these makeshift steps.  I had my ADPI t-shirt on a gray stretchy shorts. 

Bret Jones appeared in the corner of the gym.  And he looked mad.  It was a face I had not yet seen:  MadFace.  MadFace was so very different from CuteFace, DefenseFace, OffenseFace, or LoveFace.  (The first time he told me he loved me, he really just whispered “Olive Juice.”  He thought that was funny).

Turns out, my gossiping had caught up with me, again.  I had run my mouth, trying to fit in and BE SOMEBODY, and Bret Jones had found out about it.  This time, I had gone too far.  He withdrew me from my aerobics class, marched me to the boys’ dorm (all sweaty!) and made me apologize.

            5.         Hmm.  This boy is not afraid of me.

            6.         This boy tells me I am wrong when I am wrong.

Months later, in that same gym, I was asked to give a Big Speech.  A Big Speech to prospective students.  Only the special students and their special parents were invited.  And I, so so important, sat up on the stage with the President of the College.  The only student on the stage!  I had a little suit on, and some index cards with some words written down.  Got up to give my speech, and noticed something.  Upstairs, on the walkway surrounding the top floor of the gym.  Yes, that’s it, right by the doorway.  I saw a hand.  It was a Bret Jones hand.  Bret Jones had sneaked into this luncheon and hidden at the top of the stairs to hear my speech.  I paused.  He stuck his head out and smiled.

                7.         This boy will support me without me asking.

8.         This Bret Jones, he appreciates skills that are not his skills. 

                And he doesn’t care if I have his skills or even understand his skills, so long as I appreciate the skills he has that are not my skills.

1995.  I had convinced Bret Jones to marry me.  Well, I had whined a lot about it and he had told me to settle down awhile and I might get what I wanted.  So I was quiet about a week.  And one night, he sighed and said “let’s go somewhere good to dinner tomorrow night.”  And I KNEW it!  Except he didn’t ask me at the nice restaurant even though I left the table to potty several times!  To give him an opportunity to put my diamond in my wine glass, or in a special dessert that he had ordered in advance.  And that us-not-having-a-reservation thing – had to be a ploy. 

No diamond at the restaurant. 

Not until he returned me to my apartment, and had an opportunity to create “mood lighting” while I went to the potty (lamps on, that’s mood lighting), not until he had the thing carefully timed so that when he was done he could watch the World Series game, did he propose.  And I was so, so relieved.  Because those law school boys were cute, but they were not Bret Jones.

            9.         This Bret Jones, he likes to do things on his own time. 

            10.       I get to marry Bret Jones!!



Opening Wedding Presents!



Summer of 2000.  After bedrest and puking and 50 pounds, Margaret Holly Jones was born.  She has her Daddy’s long legs and sweet spirit.  And she’s my Maggie, after my grandmother (Margaret Baker).  Months prior, Bret Jones, with his poor funeral behavior, commented – right after I laid a red rose on my grandmother’s coffin – “I guess this Maggie name is a done deal huh?”

            11.       Bret Jones says weird things at funerals – like the time he said to his childhood friend, who had just buried his mother – “tough loss, man.”

            12.       I have a girlbaby with Bret Jones!



My grandmother always said bald babies are better.



Winter of 2003.  After puking at work, and in the car, and in front of the car, and once in a courtroom trashcan, Dr. Eve prayed with me on the operating room table, and then she delivered my boybaby – “it’s a boy and he’s PISSED OFF!!”

            13.       Bret Jones gave me a boybaby!

            14.       Houston is still a really a cool name, especially for my boy.

            15.       I had two babies with Bret Jones! 

My little  Houston

And I love this man.

Happy 15^th Anniversary baby.

Olive Juice.

It has been a hard week.

There are days when I can’t absorb any more.  Sometimes the clients actually radiate pain.  I see it all over them (it’s red).  If I’m paying close attention, and have the phone on “Do Not Disturb.”  If the office doors are shut and I’m holding one of the good pens.  If the notepad is located just so and the office is quiet. 

I  can hear their pain.  Not with my ears, with my skin. 

Not every time or all the time.  Just sometimes, when there’s pen and paper and quiet.  Their story has ended.  The scary thing has happened.  It is worse than they could have imagined.  Or, even worse for me, it is a complete surprise to them.

Then they leave, and I am just done.  It’s time to switch gears, pick up something else, or return a phone call.  I should be signing my daughter up for dance.  I should be making a grocery list because our fridge looks like a college boy lives in our house, not a family of 4.  I really should be rescheduling that dentist appointment, because I don’t want my sweet dentist to have to prepare a “Subpoena” demanding my presence at his office . . . like last time.

But I can’t do all that shit.  Because I’m done.  My soul hurts.

I take a break to smoke some crack.  Not really, I just look at Facebook, again.  And all over, people are praying for things, and celebrating things, and vacationing at great places.  People are taking pictures in their bikinis.  What the hell is this?  Don’t they know we got old?  Some of them are having babies and naming them weird names and some of them are naming their babies the same names as everybody else's baby.   I do not know which is worse – weirdname or commonname.

Not sufficiently distracted, I scan the news headlines.  And I see it.  The story about the Brooklyn boy.  Someone’s boy baby.  Someone’s 9 year old baby who got lost and needed help.  A boy who ended up in pieces.  In a man’s apartment nearby. 

My heart goes straight to his mother.  Did she push her nose into his hair in the morning and smell the love-smell of him?  Did he let her touch his eyelashes?  Did she swoon when she applied sunscreen to his back, because the sweet miracle of this boy was too much to endure?  And because he stayed still long enough to let her touch him?

My skin hurts this week.

Sorry.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.  Psalm 34:18

 

An Open Letter to First Year Law Students Concerning the Practice and Profession of Law

"An Open Letter to First Year Law Students Concerning the Practice and Profession of Law"

This was the title of the letter I received the summer of 1995.  In this letter, a future law school professor took it upon himself to prepare us all about what we were about to experience.  Some tidbits are below.  This is long, because I have pared down what was a 6 ½ page single-spaced letter.

Intelligence

The substance of legal data is complex . . . what you will be required to read and comprehend is difficult . . . making sense out of this vast array of data and learning how to do something with it requires the fact sensitivity of a historian, the deductive logic of a philosopher, the inductive reasoning processes of a scientist, the intuition of a mystic, the predictive abilities of a fortune teller, and the common sense of a West Texas cowboy.

Senior year of college, not only was I accepted early to law school, but I was invited to compete in the academic scholarship competition!  This did not surprise me at all!  I was SO SMART.  I made almost all A’s.  And once, when Dr. Dupuy tried to give me a B, I simply passed my paper back to him and told him:  “I am an A student.”  Damn, I was so smart.

So I loaded up my Toyota Corolla, and I put on the suit I bought at Casual Corner.  I drove straight to Columbia, South Carolina to the parking lot assigned to me . . . and I promptly locked my keys in my car.  I didn’t want to be late for my interview, so I left my keys in my car and hiked (in heels, tight skirt, uphill) to the University of South Carolina School of Law!  My interview consisted of one question:

Professor:           What is your position on NAFTA?

Me:                        Um, we learned about NAFTA in my macroeconomics class.  I think it is a good thing for our global economy.  I think it will increase trade.  NAFTA is good.  NAFTA good.  ME LIKE NAFTA.

Professor:           Do you realize you have just pissed off the entire business community of South Carolina?

Me:                        Um, do I still get a scholarship?

I did.  I got a $500 scholarship.  Woot Woot!

After the locksmith left, I did as I was told and took Highway 378 to Lexington, where my boyfriend lived.  Except I went in the other direction, and found myself in Sumter, South Carolina.

So I got on with it and started law school.  And I read a bunch of stuff.  And took notes.  He was right, it was like reading Sanskrit at first.  But I got used to it.  And honestly, one of the hardest things was when I was elected to some office or another.  Because I had to work in the canteen in the mornings.  And this meant I had to make change.  And making change is HARD – my brain doesn’t work like that:



Um, do you need change?



Psychological “toughness”

You will often find clients to be unreasonable and demanding when you are attempting to prepare their case, abusive when you lose it, unappreciative even when you win it, and nearly always outraged when they get your bill.  . . .

He was absolutely correct about this.

The Socratic Method

You will initially find the so-called “Socratic Method” to be enormously frightening and unnecessarily confrontational.  That is not its primary purpose, but it is a desirable side effect because it begins to prepare you for the practice of law.  If you cannot learn to deal with the endless and incomprehensible questions and sometimes sarcastic retorts of your law professors, without “coming apart” intellectually and emotionally, then you have no business in this profession.

Once, my professor told my best friend she would not get anywhere in life with her “mouse voice.”  Oh, how this pissed me off.  Oh how I thought Professor R was a bitch.  Oh how unnecessary of her to pick on my dear friend.  

Well, I am really good at holding a grudge, especially when it is someone else’s battle and not my own, so I have never forgotten Professor R and how just downright awful she was.  So Darra just got this big deal recognition:



MyBestFriendDarra



And let’s just say I heard that someone cut out this big deal recognition from a magazine and ANONYMOUSLY mailed it to Professor R, with a well worded post it note stuck prominently on top.  I heard about that.  I have no idea who did that, but I heard it said “you told her she’d get nowhere with her mouse voice.”  And I heard it said some other things too.  Bitch.

Oh, this is a picture of me practicing my psychological toughness on my grandmother, after my first year of law school:

Many of you have never gotten a grade below B.  This is because most of you went to college competing with people who were there primarily because they had the necessary tuition money and the time to spend, rather than because of a sparkling intellect.  It is little wonder you excelled.

On the first day of law school, the speaker announced:  15 of you were Valedictorians, 5 of  you were student body Presidents, 4 of you can touch your tongue to your nose, 25 of you are in MENSA, 7 of you were breast fed until you were 3 years old, 2 of you will be dumb enough to get elected to the public office.  All of the people you scored better than in college?  Do you see them?  No.  That is because they are not here, they have JOBS.

Well, at least we didn’t have to worry about a JOB for a few years.  Or did we?  After first year was almost over, I was bitching and whining with a friend.  About how people who made Bs and even some C+’s couldn’t find a SUMMER job at a law firm.  About how hard it was to get that summer job unless you really knew someone or had straight A’s.  And how was I going to find a summer JOB???  So I said “Strom, Jr. are you having trouble finding a summer job?”

And Darra kicked me under the table and said “Don’t be stupid Ashby, there is a bust of Strom’s daddy in the lobby.”

Ashby on the Law – what my letter would say

Professor H forgot a few things in his letter.  I’d like to supplement it.  If he doesn’t like it, he can sue me (I’m insured).

Be Quiet

Sometimes clients just want to be heard.  They don’t want legal advice.  They don’t want any advice.  They want you to listen. 

Be Brave

Bantering with a law professor in front of 100 classmates is one kind of bravery.  Walking into the home of a client, who has called you for immediate response, because her son was just killed by a drunk driver 8 hours ago and she needs you . . . she does not know why, she just needs YOU.  This is another kind of bravery altogether.

Touch

Touch the clients.  Yes, I said it.  Touch them.  During the inflammatory divorce hearing, lean over and touch their shoulder.  Tell them “I’m here.”  Tell them “this will be over soon.”  Tell them “no matter what happens, I am not going anywhere.”

Hug the clients.  When they are happy.  When they are sad.  When they cry.  When you see them in the grocery store.  Touch their hands.  Hold their hands.   They are people.  You are their somebody.

They are in your office not because you are a genius, or you read briefs really well, or you made an A in your Torts class, or you are “tough.” 

They are paying you to help them with something upsetting, something humiliating, something painful.  You are being invited into a Life Event.  It is as important as the birth of their child, their marriage, their graduation.  It is something they will carry with them forever, they will never forget it . . . and they have asked YOU to join them.  It is an honor. A privilege.  A gift.

So don’t blow it.

My Tummy Tuck Tale

The best thing about having a tummy tuck is that when you are all better – like 16 weeks later – you can tuck your shirt in.

The ONLY good thing about having a tummy tuck is that when you are all better – like 16 weeks later – you can tuck your shirt in.

Pre-Op

To prepare for my tummy tuck 4 years ago, the first thing I did was get VERY fat.  While pregnant.  I was convinced I was birthing a linebacker, so I ate Double Cheeseburger combos from McDonald’s and fried ice cream for dessert at Monterrey’s (yes, I ordered DESSSERT at a Mexican restaurant). 

She weighed 7 pounds.  After I had her, there was some work to do:



The Object under the baby's head is not a pillow.



During my second pregnancy I did not blow up as grossly, but the damage was done.  Because fair skin like mine just can’t go-back-right after such mistreatment.  So I got skinny again, and made half-hearted attempts at exercise, but there was this little puddle of yuck skin that would not go away.  I’d already had two c-sections and I KNEW what pain was so why not just have this crap cut off?  How bad could it be? The decision was made.

I reached around in the sofa cushions and rounded up some quarters.  Then I emptied out my savings account and gave it to the doctor.  We scheduled the surgery.  Then I had to tell people.  I told my law partner (we have a two-lawyer firm, housed in a 100 year old house, it’s really cool).  Even though I’ve known him my whole adult life I was humiliated to tell him what I was doing to myself so I did what every grown up does - - I emailed him.

Then I had to get ORDERS OF PROTECTION.  For those of you who are not privileged enough to practice litigation law, an Order of Protection is an ORDER, from every court in which you practice, GIVING YOU PERMISSION TO NOT WORK.  Isn’t this awful?  If you go on vacation, you must get permission.  If you admit yourself in a loony bin, you must get permission.  And when you ask the Court (ie., every judge in every courthouse you appear) for permission, you must notify ALL THE LAWYERS IN ALL YOUR CASES.  Because these lawyers could object.  And if they object, you could be hauled into court for an emergency hearing of some sort even though you’ve just had your prescheduled frontal lobotomy.

But my tummy tuck is none of your business.  So after drafting and re-drafting my letter for protection, here is what I came up with:

                Dear Judge Judy:

On April 1^st I am having a “medical procedure.”  My doctor says I will not be able to work for 4 weeks.  I am a badass though, so I am only requesting that I be protected for 2 weeks.  If you agree that I am a badass, and you also agree that I can have a “medical procedure” and have 2 weeks to recover, please sign the order attached.  By copy of this letter, I am notifying 150 lawyers of this request.

Cc:  Every lawyer in 3 counties.

Here’s the problem with the letter.  Even though several times a week I want to pull out the nosehairs of another lawyer, even though we go in courtrooms and try to decapitate one another, even though I have told a few of them to back-the-fuck-off, or, a personal favorite, to call me when they are “capable of having a professional conversation”, even though they claim I am a bitch of monumental proportions and they would not piss on me if I were on fire . . . . these lawyers love me.

And I love them.

So I fired off the letter, and the stream of emails and phone calls and worried looks commenced.  Are you, uh, dying?  Are you, um, having electric shock therapy?  (Because you did mention you needed it).  Are you, um . . . ok??

So I just told them.  And I told them it wasn’t a secret.  Go ahead and tell everybody.  What the hell.

Post Op

I woke up in the recovery room.  My doctor, a giant man who played football somewhere.  A man with a loud voice and cold hands, was high-fiving the anesthesiologist.  He was fist pounding with nurses.  He was chesting thumping and singing his fraternity fight song.  The doc was proud, he had “cut so much off you young lady I had to sit you up on the operating room table to sew you back together.”

Ouch.

So they put my ass in my parents’ car and got me out of there and drove me home.  No cushy recovery in a Hollywood-style-spa-like-rehab facility.  No, I was headed home immediately to be deposited in the lazy boy recliner I had borrowed from my inlaws.  And, in addition to cutting off half my body, he had installed these nasty drains.  These nasty coils of plastic that emptied into these really super nasty plastic bottles.  God, it was so gross.  And it hurt worse than I could have possibly imagined.  It was pain so bad I wept. 

But I had some GOOD drugs.  Frat-boy-doc had hooked me up with pill-form-heroin, muscle relaxers, xanax, valium, medical marijuana, cocaine, crack, crystal meth, cans of stuff to spray fumes in the air for me to “huff” and little shards of aluminum foil so I could cook some stuff with my cigarette lighter and a spoon.  I was comfortable with all this because I watch Intervention.  He did tell me to lay off the Chardonnay however.

2 days into my drug induced coma, I learned my boy baby had broken his arm on the swing out back.  I learned my precious angel had to be put to sleep so the orthopedic surgeon (a REAL doctor) could put his arm back together.  I learned that when my baby boy woke up from surgery he asked his Daddy, “What is wrong with Mommy?  Why isn’t she here to be with me during this?  Why did she get this stupid plastic surgery?  Didn’t you tell her I love her even though she has a little pile of skin on her belly? Did you tell Mommy I believe her priorities are out of whack?  Does she know Aunt Ginny is so mad at her that she can’t look her in the eye?”



I did not feel AT ALL bad about this.



A week later I had had enough.  I weaned off the drugs (except the heroin, I still have some of that left for later).  I practiced standing up straight and walking.  I tried on my skull-knocking suits and heels.  I went to my follow up appointment and when Frat-Boy-Doc said he’d see me again soon to address “other areas” of my body, I told him to back-the-fuck-off.  I was clearly ready to go back to work.

Except for the nasty drain.  Frat Boy had removed two.  One was still there.  And even with a safety pin and some ill fitting pantsuits, I could not hide that sucker.  I noticed it wiggled a little bit.  Then I noticed it came out a just a little bit.  So I pulled on it.  And it came out some more.  And then it came out just a little bit more.  Then the tubing changed colors from white to red, which let me know it was almost out. 

It wasn’t almost out. 

And here is another reason I am not a doctor.  Because I nearly fainted with gross-outed-ness.  But I pulled that somebitch out and I went to work. 

With my shirt tucked in.

Two years later, I had a hysterectomy.  Here we go again.  This time I cut to the chase:

                Dear Judge Judy:

I am having a hysterectomy.  Yes, I am keeping my ovaries.  No, I will not go into menopause.  Yes, it is something called endometriosis.  No, that is not why I am a full-on bitch most of the time.  I will probably still be a bitch.  The doctor says I could need up to 6 weeks off, but I am a badass so I am taking 2.  If you agree I am a badass, and you agree I can have 2 weeks off, please sign the Order attached.  By copy of this letter, I am notifying 150 lawyers of my request.

Cc:  Every lawyer in 3 counties.



All better.