Arent Fox is located in the Washington Square building in the District of Columbia. The worst summer I had in that building was the summer of the bomb threats. I am not sure what year it was. I think it was 1995 or 96.
Concerned with my journalistic professionalism (assuming there is such a thing), I really tried to go back and find the year. No luck with the Washington Post or Google. If you put in Washington Square, all you get from the search engines is Washington Square Park in New York. That is where 74 year old Stella Maychick drove her 87 Delta 88 Oldsmobile into a crowd in the Park, killing five and injuring 26. You know what everyone does when that happens? Sue General Motors!
I can tell you the year that Stella drove into the crowd, but I can’t nail down the summer of the bomb threats. I checked with my secretary and other friends. They all remember it, but not the year.
Anyway, things were going well at the firm. I had made partner and had enough clients to feel good about myself. Then, at about 12:50 PM, the horns in the building went off. Usually that meant that a fire had been reported in the building and we had to evacuate. It was usually a 30 minute drill. But, this time, after the blaring stopped, the voice said, “Let me have your attention. Let me have your attention. There has been a phone report that there is a bomb in the building. Please evacuate the building immediately.” Then, there was the obligatory comment about not using the elevators. I thought, I am really going to be upset if the bomb is in the stairwell.
Everybody got out of the building quickly. Then, we realized this wasn’t going to be a 30 minute drill. It took the police two and a half to three hours to go through the building with their bomb-sniffing dogs. It really disrupted the day. Then, two days later, it happened again, and then, the next day. It started happening almost every day.
It got to the place where the first thing I did each morning was to pack my briefcase with things I could work on during the bomb scare. The wailing of the alarm would make me immediately despondent. When the notification was given, I would pick up my briefcase and head across the street to the Mayflower Hotel. They had a number of comfortable seats on the front balcony, but you had to move quickly to get one. The Mayflower never complained, but I am sure that they were not happy to have hundreds of people filling up their lobby.
During this period, I was working quite a bit with Jerry Curry, the former Administrator for the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. He was being retained to testify as an expert witness in certain automobile liability cases. I was retained to prepare him. He would show up early (we were both retired military) and we would finish our work around 11:00. Then, we would go down to Morton’s Restaurant, which was located in our building, and have an early lunch.
If you thought the bomb threat was taking its toll on the office personnel, you can imagine how it was impacting on the restaurant personnel. The bomb threats would usually come in between 12:30 and 1:15. You have heard the expression “screwing up a free lunch.” Well these bomb threats were creating free lunches. People would be in the middle of their lunch and the restaurant would have to be evacuated.
Jerry and I used to get in and out before the evacuation. The maitre d’ became our friend. We may have been their only paying customers. I called Jerry to see if he could remember the infamous year. He remembered the events, but not the year. Jerry is running for President of the United States right now. No, I am not kidding. He wasn’t happy with any of the Republican candidates, so he decided to run. You still don’t believe me? OK, just Google “Jerry Curry for President,” and see what you get. You will be impressed.
Everybody knew the bomb threats were a hoax, but it was a Catch 22. The building administrator could not tell the police, “No, don’t come.” And, the police insisted the building be evacuated. You can’t ignore the threat and then expect your insurance to pick up the pieces.
There were probably 15 to 25 bomb threats. It seemed like three times that number. At the conclusion, Jerry and I went down to Morton’s. The maitre d’ greeted us like a brand new daddy. While he couldn’t discuss the matter, he said that he didn’t expect any more bomb threats.
It turned out that the police had traced the bogus calls to pay phones in a certain area of town. So, having a good idea as to what time the call would be made, they put a pair of eyes on all the public pay phones in that area. When the call came in, they alerted on the phone and picked up the culprit. He turned out to be a disgruntled former employee from (surprise) Morton’s, who had been fired. He also flipped on a present employee, who was still working there. They were trying to screw up Morton’s lunch business and had done a pretty good job.
The best thing I can say about that summer is that I got through it. And, that is important. If you can get through adversity, then you have that banked away. When something else disruptive happens, you can say, “Hey, this in not as bad as the bomb threat in whatever year that was.”
Monthly Archives: February 2008
Internet, Passwords and Foolishness
Isn’t the internet great? If you have a question, with very little effort, you can probably find the answer on the internet. I am so glad Al Gore discovered it. Or, did he invent it? I get confused about just what he did. Well, to prove my point, I went on the internet and found out that while Al didn’t discover or invent the internet, he was one of the Congressional technogeeks who helped fund military projects which led to the internet. That counts for something.
A few years back, I was at my desk working away, when I received a phone call from Smitty, a high school buddy. He told me that he was spending the winter in Florida and there was a contest going around the pool. He wanted to know if I could help him with one of the questions. The question was, how many spikes are there in the Statue of Liberty’s crown and what do they represent. I got on the internet and, in no time, found out there are seven spikes and that they represent the seven seas and the seven continents. I called Smitty back and gave him the answer. Then, I realized that Smitty wasn’t as interested in the answer as he was in letting me know that he was retired and enjoying life in Florida, while I was sitting at my desk looking at the snow falling and wondering about the slippery trip home.
Most of the websites that sell stuff (and a lot that don’t) want you to register first. It is usually painless, unless you failed to notice that they just signed you up for every solicitation they send out. They want a user name or an email address and, also, a password. I gave one company George Washington as my user name. They came back and told me that it was already taken. Bummer. I found out that ricequips works. What a break. As for passwords, I think most people use their pet’s name. If your dog is named Spot, you will probably be informed that your password needs at least seven characters. “Spotspot” will work. If your cat is named Gertrude, you are in great shape.
My voice mail at work requires a four number code. I used the last four of my social security number. How original is that? After about eight years, somebody decided that we needed to change the code. So, I switched to the pin number on my ATM. Then a year later, they want me to change again. I gave them the last four of my SSN. But, the automated lady told me I had already used that number. It doesn’t do any good to scream at her. So, being a resourceful guy, I punched in the month and day of my birthday. She came back and told me I could not use my birthday. That was really creepy. The automated lady in the phone knows my birthday. I hung up. I wasn’t prepared to go further. But, she knew that I would eventually need to listen to my messages. She planned on waiting me out. I decided to see if she knew on what day I was married. She didn’t. That solves the problem for another year. I wonder if she knows my wife’s birthday?
The password on my computer at work has to be changed more often than my voice mail. It seems like it is every three months, but it is probably more like six or seven. I started out with my dog’s name, Holly. Then, I just started through the alphabet changing the first letter to the next consonant. I started with Bolly, then Colly and Dolly. Of course, when I needed some technical assistance from our IT department and the guy asked for my password, it was Folly. What a great password for a serious minded attorney. When he came back a few months later, my password was Golly. Some while later, when I needed assistance, I had to stare the guy down and tell him my password was Jolly. What’s in a password anyway?
If you forget your password, most companies make it rather painless to recover it. It is like anything else, the first time you have to do it, it’s a little confusing. I have forgotten passwords so often that I am what you would call a password recovery expert.
The Clausen Anniversary
I worked for Hugh Clausen in the Pentagon, and then, of course, when he became The Judge Advocate General, we all worked for him. He was a lay-back, easy going guy, but when you are that smart, you can act any way you want.
My previous boss in the Pentagon, Brigadier General Tenhet, had been all business and when you were called into his office you knew it was time to get busy. There was no doubt that a sensitive issue needed to be addressed (most tasks did not require a visit to his office). I probably never had a meeting with him that lasted much over three minutes. “Come in, sit down.” Then he would lay out the facts and the legal issue and what he needed us to do. Then he would say, “Any questions?” And, out I would go.
When General Tenhet announced his retirement, I went over to his office to wish him good luck. He said, “Come in, sit down.” I said, “Sir, this is more of a social visit.” He paused, and then said, “Oh, would you like a cup of coffee?”
General Tenhet’s direct approach did not prepare me for General Clausen. The first time General Clausen tasked me on an important issue, he wandered into my office, put his feet on my desk and started telling me about having a conversation with his old buddy, the Director of the Army Staff. He said that something had been mentioned and that if I had a chance, I might want to check into it. The bad news was that I had been tasked by my boss and because of his casual manner in telling me, I had missed it! Needless to say, the matter was not handled as it should have been and I just barely survived. But, like with my earlier writing on “Whoa, Fool me Once,” I never made that mistake again. We could be having drinks at the club or playing golf, but if he said I might want to look into something, I was all over it.
After General Clausen retired from the Army, Clemson University hired him to be the Vice President for Administration and Executive Secretary to the Board of Trustees. They hired him, even though he told them he was a grad from the University of Alabama and didn’t care much for tigers.
Well, after they had been at Clemson for a number of years, the University cared so much for Hugh and Betty that they gave them a 50th wedding anniversary party. While Carole and I could not attend, we sent the following poem.
The Anniversary
Listen to the noise, hear all the cheers,
Betty and Hugh together for, yes, 50 years.
A day long remembered, a day of blue skies,
Full of fond memories, shining in their eyes.
So many memories of early days in green,
Traveling round the world, so much to be seen.
Hugh in the Army, of building his career,
Betty with the family, skinned knees and wiping tears.
Hugh rose through the ranks, destined to be a star,
But he still had time for golf, chasing after par.
As the T(ee)JAG, he ran the show, in charge of all but a few,
Betty remained her wonderful self, in charge of only Hugh.
With adieu to the Army and a new life unfurled,
Say hello to Clemson and the academic world.
He helped pick his boss and she picked out the flooring,
For a beautiful house on Hermitage Mooring.
He looks like a Tiger with the orange jacket he sports,
but, if you dig deeper, you’ll find roll-Tide red shorts.
The special day has arrived and friends gather near,
With love in their hearts for two people so dear.
Not everyone can be there, but all understand,
Their thoughts are with them across the land.
So with glasses raised high, we hope you can hear,
Here’s a toast to you both for each and every year.
Stupid Statements
When I was in high school back in East St. Louis, we were all taken to the auditorium to listen to what I guess was a motivational speaker. We probably had a lot of speakers, but this is the only one I remember. His message was, whatever you do, be the best. If that was all he said, I probably wouldn’t have remembered. But to reinforce his thesis, he said, “I would rather be the best cab driver in East St. Louis, than the second best President of the United States.
I was just a teenager, but that got me to thinking. I figured that the second best President was either Washington, Jefferson or Lincoln, depending on whom you put first. I figured our speaker hadn’t really thought this thing through. He sure got my attention. As I said, I don’t remember anything else a speaker said to my high school class. Maybe things that are really, really stupid are memorable. Maybe that is why Ann Coulter said she prefers Clinton to McCain. Maybe she would also like to be the best cab driver in East St. Louis.
When I attended the Army War College, one of the things a faculty member said to us was, “Remember, the things that got you here will not make you successful from here on out.” I’m a little slow, so it took me a while to figure out what he meant. What I think he meant was that as a junior officer it was important to be uncompromising in the pursuit of military matters. The mission was decided at a higher level and we were to carry it out. Now, as senior leaders dealing with other services and political leaders, it was important to find the best common ground. It may not be the absolute best course of action, but it is better than doing nothing. The word compromise seemed to be finding its way into our thoughts.
I suspect political leaders are faced with this problem all the time. Their ideology may have to give a little to get things done. And, it is important for our country to get things done. If you are a talk show host or a commentator, you can stick to your ideology and forget about getting anything done. And, I guess that’s OK, too. It is just that somewhere down the line, these people need to show some common sense.
I respect Newt Gingrich as an extremely smart guy. I don’t always agree with him, but I think he always has a well thought out justification for his position. And, I probably wouldn’t pass too many litmus tests for these people. I suspect Newt’s views on most political issues are not too dissimilar to that of Coulter or Limbaugh. But, I don’t expect to see him attacking Senator McCain. The Senator may not have been Newt’s choice, but Newt can figure out that McCain is a lot better for our country than Clinton or Obama. I will be surprised if Newt Gingrich doesn’t endorse McCain and work for his election.
Rush Limbaugh used to start out his show (show is the appropriate word) by announcing how many days the country had been held hostage by the Clinton Administration. And now, with Hillary or a more liberal Obama scratching for the presidency, he goes chilly on the soon to be selected Republican candidate. He would probably say that I just don’t get it. Well, with the outcome of the war and the make up of the Court at stake, I guess he’s right. I just don’t get it.
Mom’s 90th Birthday
For my mother’s 90th birthday, we gathered at our house in Springfield, Virginia. Bill, my older brother and his wife, Jeanette, came up from Hendersonville, North Carolina and Mom and Karen, my younger sister, flew in from Phoenix. We spent the entire weekend celebrating.
I mentioned Mom’s older brother, Leslie, in the poem. Whenever he got mad at Mom, he would tell her he was going out to the garage to sharpen the ax. As for as we know, he never used it on anyone.
Between Bill and me, we played baseball four nights a week. It conflicted with the dinner meal, but Mom just made sure we all got fed. Back then, I didn’t think much about the imposition. Kids just play and expect to eat.
Karen, Jeanette and my wife, Carole, were all selected as Football Queens for our high school. It was a big thing at East Side High.
And, yes, we vacationed at Sammy Lane Resort in Branson, Missouri, when the downtown area consisted of one block. Sammy Lane’s swimming pool was drained every Monday and refilled with spring water. It was Wednesday or Thursday before you could actually swim in the icy water.
On that weekend, we sat and told the stories that had become legend in the Rice household. There’s the one where I was talking to Bill and threw my arms up gesturing backwards. The window screen gave way and I fell out of our first floor bedroom window. I ran around the house crying and came in the kitchen door. Mom asked me what happened and I told her and then, pointed at Bill. I said, “He was there when I fell out the window.” Bill said, “I noticed he stopped talking.” It’s tough being a middle child.
Mom will be 93 in July. A couple of years back, she had a mild stroke, and has made an excellent recovery. She is back exercising on her treadmill.
CELEBRATION
We’re having a gathering, a significant event,
It’s Mother’s birthday, it’s time well spent.
She is ninety and counting and spry as could be,
Working mind and body, she’s fit A to Z.
She lived through the Depression and the Japanese attacks,
Got along with her siblings, except Leslie with the ax.
Married as a teen and a child when she was 20,
Bill and Jack and Karen Ann and boy that was plenty.
Devoted to her family, of chores we will not speak,
Except juggling the meals, around four ball games a week.
With only one daughter, as mysterious as it seems,
Before it was over, she had three football queens.
Vacation in the Ozarks, bees and wasps a humming,
Cabins weren’t much to look at, but at least they had indoor plumbing.
But the locations got better, and we did cavort,
In the icy cold pool, at Sammy Lane’s Resort.
She’s done her share of traveling, there’s not much fun in that,
It’s not easy with crying kids and tires that will go flat.
Airplanes are not her bag and ships make her shiver,
Yet, she’s rafted, yes, rafted down the Colorado River.
After years and years in Illinois, she moved out to the West,
Then Florida, to Illinois, but Arizona passed the test.
She’s living with Karen and keeps her conservative views,
She watches Fox Broadcasting for “fair and balanced” news.
Now with her children present, we look back through the years,
Seeing all the good times and noticing some tears.
We know that she is special, there really is no other,
The woman that we love, the woman we call Mother.
I Hate Surveys (and Questionnaires)
I hate surveys and questionnaires. I don’t care if they come in the mail or on the phone (or internet). I keep promising myself that I will never respond to another one. Then, because of some weakness, I find myself in the middle of another miserable experience.
If it is a questionnaire about work done on my car and my service representative needs my help to prove he is doing a good job, I am there for him. I will always report that he is the best thing since sliced bread. There is no reason to respond unless you are going to rate him tops. Not responding sends a signal to the dealership. I guess I could call them up and tell them I don’t do questionnaires and that they shouldn’t read anything negative into it. But, then they may ask me questions. By the time I hang up, I will have answered the questionnaire.
Then, there’s the Department of Defense asking about my medical care. Do I have a choice? I’m not sure they want to keep me happy (as they profess in their questionnaire), but I want to keep them happy. The funny thing is, I have had the same doctor for the past 15 years and DOD hasn’t asked about him. But, I had a bad cough a few months back and called in to be seen the same day. I saw a different doctor. Then the questionnaires started flowing. They were all on the doctor I saw for my cough. I filled out the first questionnaire and threw away the second figuring it was a duplicate. Then, a month later, the third shows up. Maybe DOD has it in for this particular doctor. Rest assured, as long as I keep getting free medical care, I will keep sending in that same questionnaire.
The reason I got started on this particular blog was a phone call I received over the weekend. It was an automated voice inquiring about whether I planned to vote in the Virginia primary. Then, whether I planned to vote Republican or Democrat; whether I planned to vote for Governor Huckabee; whether I planned to vote for Senator McCain. All I had to do was say yes or no, and I was on a roll. Then, the iron lady wanted to know in the area of immigration if I wanted an amnesty president or a president who would seal the borders and had the support of some minuteman organization that I had never heard of. This required more than a yes or no answer and it was such a loaded question. I hung up. You can’t hurt an iron lady’s feelings.
Later, after I decided to write on how I hate surveys, I wish I would have continued to listen so that I would better understand what was going on. I am now under the impression that what I was listening to was not a survey at all, but a political campaign call, dressed up like a survey. They were putting out the Huckabee message and calling it a survey. I now believe if I had said I was going to vote for Bugs Bunny the message would have continued. I hate surveys.
I periodically look at survey questions in the newspaper. Sometimes the answer they want is so obvious from the way the question is presented. For example, “Do you think we should honor our commitment to the Iraqi people or do you believe we should cut and run?” Or, “Do you believe we should continue to support the senseless loss of American Soldiers’ lives or should we call the troops home and find a political solution?” I’ll admit my examples are pretty one sided, but when I look in the newspapers, some of their question are almost as bad. I hate surveys.
Shortly after I joined the United States Golf Association, I received a letter in the mail telling me that I had been selected to test golf products at no cost. All I had to do was fill out a questionnaire on what I thought of the product after I had used it. The letter was not from the USGA, but I figured that was how they had gotten my name. I called. The lady was very nice and told me they wanted me test a set of irons. What great luck. She asked a lot of questions, such as how tall I was and how old I was. She explained that these clubs would be custom made. I was impressed. I should have realized that something was wrong when she was impressed with my handicap.
I had spent about 45 minutes on the phone and was really excited. I had read in golf magazines about people testing different clubs. They had my address and would ship the clubs (along with the questionnaire) within two weeks. She told me to take my time in evaluating the clubs and at the end of three months, I could buy the clubs or return them. I told her I thought she told me she was giving me the clubs. She said, ‘We are, for three months.” When I explained the difference between a gift and a loan, she wasn’t interested. Things sort of went South from there. As I reflect back, I thought I had asked the right questions at the beginning of the call. Obviously, I didn’t. She probably had been her high school dodge ball champion. At least I didn’t have to fill out the questionnaire.
Oh, there’s a survey attached to this blog. I would appreciate it if you would fill it out. No, I am not serious. I don’t care about the survey. I wouldn’t mind if you subscribed to ricequips.com (see Subscribe Now!). It is free and I would know you are out there. You are out there, aren’t you?
My Last Undergrad Course at Mizzou
I mentioned in a previous blog that I went to college on a three and three program – three years undergraduate and three years of law school. That meant that I graduated from undergraduate school at the end of my first year of law school. The real trick was to make sure I got all my required courses completed during the first three years. Each year, every course had to take care of some requirement – so many hours of math and science, so many hours of English and a bundle of hours in my political science major. I really worked at it, because if I screwed up, I wouldn’t graduate.
It was tight, but it worked out. In fact, that last semester, I had three hours left with no requirement. I could take anything I wanted. This was kind of a treat. I sat down with the University of Missouri catalog of courses and just started in. As you will see, if you don’t know what you are doing, it is not a good idea. I found a course called, “Early Roman History.” The synopsis sounded like a fun course, so I took it.
It turned out that I enjoyed the course. The reading material wasn’t bad and the professor was a delight. I did notice that many of the students asked a lot of follow-up questions. I just assumed that they were enjoying the course as much as I was. The professor was Dean Thomas A. Brady whom I had never heard of. It turned out he was a legend among the faculty and in later years, the new student commons was renamed the Thomas A. Brady Commons (Brady Commons).
The course had two exams, a mid-term and a final. The mid-term turned out to be pretty straight forward and I thought I did OK. When the grades came out, I had gotten a “D.” I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t gotten a D in my entire life. The fellow who sat next to me noticed I was distressed and asked me what was the matter. Before we finished talking, I discovered that I was the only undergraduate participating in this graduate level History course. Everyone else in the class was pursuing a masters degree in History. Boy, did I feel dumb.
I shifted gears. I really started studying Early Roman History. I also checked out Dean Brady. It turned out that in the previous semester he had taught a course in Early Greek History. His final exam consisted of one question, “From whence cometh the Greek genius?” Egads! My one free course had turned into a nightmare.
The final exam was on Tuesday, June 2nd at 9:00 AM. You ask how I remember? Well, I was getting married on Saturday, June 6th. I should have been excited about the wedding, but I was focused on aqueducts and the Roman Senate. There I sat, hoping I was ready for the challenge. I felt ready. At 9 o’clock, the dean had not arrived. By 10 after, everyone was wondering what was going on. One female student mentioned that the dean’s office was in the same building and she would be glad to go over and check. She was told to sit down – that it was the professor’s responsibility to show up. I guess that’s stuff you learn in graduate school. They all agreed that we only had to wait 20 minutes and then, we could leave. I held my breath. The time expired and everyone scooted out of the room.
I took my last final on Thursday and then dropped by Dean Brady’s office to find out my fate. Dean Brady told me that he was sorry he had missed the final, but that something had come up. I wondered whether they would let a student get away with such a lame excuse. He continued by saying, “Mr. Rice, I have a grade for you. You can either take the grade or take the examination. If you take the exam, your grade may end up higher, the same or lower than the grade I have for you.” I asked what grade he had for me. He said, “It is a ‘C’.” I said, “I’ll take it.” I took it and ran (my Momma didn’t raise no fools).
Side by Side
Certain people shape our lives. There are parents, other family members, coaches and special friends. Larry Henneberger is one of those special friends. Our lives ran parallel to each other, even before we met. We were both jocks who went to college on athletic scholarships. I played football at Missouri and he played basketball at Loyola New Orleans. We both decided to complete our undergraduate studies in three years so we could go to law school our 4th year. We both completed law school three years later and became first lieutenants in the JAG Corps. We met at Fort Knox, Kentucky in the officers basic armor course.
Larry’s favorite story about Fort Knox was when a group of us were standing on the rear deck of the Army’s latest tank, the M48A1 Patton Medium Tank. A sergeant was telling us how powerful it was and that it was indestructible (he was a bit over the top). He told us how the armor protected us against the enemy and that our armor piercing 90mm shells could destroy any enemy tank. Do you see the problem? I began to wonder whether the enemy had any armor piercing shells. It made me feel good that I was a JAG Officer and just passing through. We were all standing on the rear deck looking down at its massive engine. Tanks are not rated miles per gallon, but gallons per mile (it weighed 52 tons and carried 200 gallons of gasoline to travel 70 miles. You do the math. It traveled at 28 mph).
Larry insists that I pointed at the air cooler with a clip board, and a ball point pen slipped off of the clip board and darted down inside the air cooler and further below. The wide-eyed sergeant announced that the (indestructible) tank had just been deadlined and it could not be moved until a maintenance crew came out and tore the engine apart and recovered the ball point pen. I clearly remember the incident and am positive it wasn’t me. The lesson I learned is that we need to keep ball point pens away from the enemy.
Larry and I can sit around for hours and tell about crazy things that happened at Fort Knox. My favorite story happened on the machine gun range. Back then, each tank had a coaxial machine gun and it was controlled by the same mechanism that fired the main gun. This way the tank gunner could decide whether he wanted to fire the main gun or the machine gun. All he had to do was flip a switch. If you had enemy infantry approaching, the machine gun would be the weapon of choice. Well, Larry and I had finished firing and were standing in the rear talking to a sergeant when we heard a main tank gun go “kaboom.” All the color drained out of the sergeant’s face. I think his entire career flashed in front of him. You have to do a number of things wrong to fire the main gun on the machine gun range, but one of our JAG tank crews had met the challenge.
First, someone has to mistakenly load the main gun. The command to fire is “fire,” not “shoot.” But one of our Puerto Rican JAGs yelled “shoot.” One of the 90mm tank shells is called “shot.” So, when the tank commander yelled “shoot,” the loader threw in a 90mm round of “shot.” How the main gun switch got turned on is anyone’s guess. Fortunately, the main gun wasn’t pointed at Louisville.
Larry spent three years in the Army and forty plus years at Arent Fox. I spent 28 years in the Army and 14 years at Arent Fox. Even when we weren’t working together, we would get together whenever I was assigned in the DC area. Maybe most amazing was that when I was selected to be the Chief Counsel at the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, it turned out that Larry had been practicing law in that area for 25 years. Then, when I came to Arent Fox, we practiced together.
Ten years ago on Larry’s 60th birthday, I wrote the following poem.
SIX ZERO
On April 13, 1938,
Another little Hoosier knocked on the gate.
Was the world really ready for this little guy?
You can hazard a guess, but don’t even try.
It was our own little Larry, a fine little son,
The doctor was startled, he heard, “let’s go for a run.”
Always a fine athlete, skills not a sparsity,
Coaches took one look and put him on varsity.
He was a college jock, but you won’t hear him brag,
A lawyer, a connoisseur and even a JAG.
And marathons, he ran marathons till it hurt,
He’s been there, done that, he’s got the T-shirt.
A key Arent Foxer and such a natty dresser,
A man for all seasons and yes – father confessor.
Advising on associations, antitrust till it smarts,
Blinker lights, hoses, other automotive parts.
He’s done everything one or twice, it really is funny,
But, he keeps going & going, like the Eveready Bunny.
He’s now a little gray, but it’s OK to stare,
Say what you want, he still has his hair.
He’s just hit a milestone, the big six zero,
But we love you Larry, you’re our hero.