What can I say? We love Disney World. I think it opened in 1971 and we took our kids in 1973. Since then, we have gone over a dozen times. We have taken our children and parents. We have had family reunions involving four generations and lately, it’s been just me and Carole.
It’s nice to go someplace that is clean and everyone is friendly and helpful. Think about that. It’s the Disney philosophy. No arrogant clerks. You never get the feeling that someone wants to pass you on just to get rid of you. Sweet. I find myself smiling a lot. Even when I see young parents with three worn out, cranky kids, I smile and say to myself, thank goodness they’re not ours.
The last two times we have gone down, we have combined Disney World with a two-day golf school at David Leadbetter’s Champion Gate. It’s only about four miles down I-4. While at golf school, we stay at Shades of Green, the military recreation center at Disney World. And Missy, our daughter who lives in Jacksonville, came down to keep Carole company.
One of the neat things about the Leadbetter Academy is they let me pick the dates for my instruction. Then, they post the dates on their website and fill up the class (four students per instructor). Maybe this was the one time that the economic downturn helped me. It turned out that I was the only student who signed up. The class only took about five hours each day, rather than eight, but I was receiving one-on-one instruction. Not bad.
Andrew Park, my instructor, video taped everything I did. We spent quite a bit of the first day reminding me of what I had learned and forgotten two years before. That’s a hell of a note. I won’t forget again. We also spent a lot of time in the classroom looking at the videos. Andrew would set up a split screen with me on one side and Tiger Woods or Ernie Ells on the other. Now, I ask you, is that fair? Once you got past the fact that we were all swinging from the right side, the similarities vanished. Oh yes, the ball looked about the same.
The split screen is an excellent way to observe what Tiger was doing wrong. Oh, I’m sorry, I was referring to Tiger Rice. Andrew wanted me to be tall like Ernie and Tiger. So did I. So did my football coaches. It just ain’t going to happen. When I was growing up, my Mom told me that if I ate my salad, I would grow tall. What a crock. I finally figured out that Andrew wanted me to stand taller over the ball. “Stand tall like Tiger.” I got it, but it took me much too long.
I do love the game. The Washington Post, for Valentine’s Day, asked people to express love in six words. All I could think of was, “It’s curling, curling. It dropped in!”
The down side of a golf school is it will take me two or three months to be hitting the ball as well as I was before I went to school. But the thought of hitting the ball farther, straighter and stopping the ball on the green like a “dropped cat” keeps me going. Oh, I forgot to mention. I finished first in my class.
For the last five or six trips, we have obtained a Disney package that included everything. Room, meals, recreation (spelled GOLF- I played twice), transportation and entry to all the parks. We also have been staying in the concierge building which provides breakfast, late morning and early afternoon snacks and appetizers between five and seven o’clock. We seem to be paying for a lot of duplication and we plan to take a look at how to be more frugal. Disney World has great restaurants. We particularly like Narcoossee’s, located at the boat house at the Grand Floridian. But let’s face it. You can only eat so much and with everything free, it becomes a task. Eating should never become a task.
Because all the help is so polite, it’s fun to watch them struggle with stupid questions. Stating, “That’s really dumb” is not an option. For example, there is a launch that takes passengers from the Magic Kingdom to the Grand Floridian and then, on to the Polynesian Village. We always stay at the Polynesian Village. As the launch was pulling into the Grand Floridian, I asked the captain if the boat was going to take me to Fort Wilderness. I could just see the captain mentally racing through his etiquette book. Just saying, “Didn’t you read the signs before you got on the boat?” wasn’t acceptable. Also, after having one of the concierges change a few reservations for us, she asked for our room number. I told her we weren’t staying in the concierge building. The look on her face was priceless. Then, Carole gave her the room number. The concierge later told me that she would have handled the matter politely because that was what was expected of her.
This is the first year that I can remember when I didn’t buy a Disney T-shirt, golf shirt or tie. You can only wear so many and I never dispose of any of them. Also, I received a Leadbetter pullover and cap (part of the goodie bag). The “free” goodie bag comes with the not-so-free lessons. I did buy an Uncle Sam stove pipe hat. When I wore it I “stood taller.” I was almost as tall as Tiger. Andrew would have been proud of me.
Nutty Tom Mongan
Tom Mongan and I were both born and raised in East St. Louis, Illinois. Even though we were the same age and in the same grade (and from the same neighborhood), we never met until we went off to college. He went to Assumption High School and I went to East Side High. Never the twain shall meet.
Anyway, both being from the same town and away from home, we became good friends. By the second semester, we were sharing a dorm room. Tom was the smart one. In English composition class, he wrote a great paper on his/our home town. For economy of effort, I used his paper in my English composition class. He got an A and I got a C! I went to my teacher, Miss Hodges, and told her I really wanted to do better and could she explain to me what was wrong with “my” paper. I knew the paper deserved better that a C. She never did explain to me what was wrong with the paper, but she decided that it was easier to give me a B, than to put up with my constant inquiries.
Nutty Tom and I only lasted one semester together. We got caught spraying shaving soap down the hallway. I came up with the conclusion that they couldn’t prove it was us. We were going to stonewall. Then, one of the monitors produced an envelope addressed to me covered with shaving soap. I accused Nutty Tom of looking at my mail, but it didn’t work. Our punishment was to be separated the next year into distant buildings.
The next year, I found myself living way South and a half-mile to the North was Nutty Tom. Those who controlled the dorm assignments had kept their promise. That first day, one of the assistant coaches called me in and told me I needed to be assigned to a room designated for athletes. Guess who ended up being my next door neighbor? Nutty.
We were both conscientious students. We just had strange work habits. We generally didn’t do any homework until after 11 o’clock at night. Then, we would work until we got done (usually 1:30 to 2:00 AM). Nutty’s roommate, Luke, would go to bed at a reasonable hour and sleep through our antics. Some time after 1:00 AM, we would find everything we said was funny. It was a riot. We called it “giddy hour.” One of our favorite games was feeding Luke. We would slip over and put a cookie on his chest. Luke would find it and eat it without ever waking up. This was great sport. The only time I remember Luke waking up was when some of our group (including Mike “the animal” Magac) misappropriated a cooked turkey from a frat house and we put a drumstick on Luke’s chest.
Just to let you know, Luke did not choke to death. Lowell Lukas ended up with his Masters in Physical Education and became a very successful golf coach at Central Connecticut State University. In fact, Luke was elected to the Golf Coaches Association of America’s Hall of Fame. In his acceptance speech, neither Nutty nor I received any credit for nourishing him during his formative years. Come to think of it, I guess he never knew.
One late night, when Nutty and I were cutting across campus, a campus security guard tried to stop us to see our IDs. I just kept walking. We had done nothing wrong and I was sure he had no authority. I told Nutty Tom to keep walking, but he stopped. He took out his wallet and showed the guard a one dollar bill and said, “I’m George Washington.”
Carole, my future wife, didn’t want me hanging around with Nutty Tom. And, Gay, a sweet Suzie Stephens, who became Nutty’s wife didn’t want him hanging out with me. That was because when anything went wrong, we were always together and each told our future bride that it was the other one’s idea. Everyone called me PJ and I was smug in my knowledge that PJ didn’t sound as guilty as Nutty Tom.
Well, that was a long time ago and our wives now are willing to let us get together. In fact, they join us. Nutty Tom became a banker in Houston specializing in trusts, investments and financial services. I guess his title at “Nutty Tom” had to disappear after he left school.
He has a website entitled Securityimpressions.com which is quite impressive. If you want to know financially what is going on, what went wrong and what to do about it, check out Nutty Tom’s blog site. There is nothing on the blog site which would make you think he was once known at “Nutty Tom,” or “Nutty” for short.
Ode to a Mench – Larry Henneberger
Larry Henneberger is a special person in my life. We met in 1962 at Fort Knox, Kentucky, while attending the basic armor officers course. We were both JAG lieutenants, but the JAG Corps wanted us to have some training in a combat branch. We spent eight weeks at Fort Knox and 11 weeks in Charlottesville, Virginia at the JAG School. In January 1963, he departed for Fort Story, Virginia and I headed for Fort Hood, Texas. Thanks to Larry, we kept in contact through the years.
Larry spent three years in the Army and then joined Arent Fox. Thirty years after our departure from C’Ville, he was instrumental in bringing me on board at the Fox.
So Larry has now retired from the Fox and tonight we will have a small retirement gathering for him at the Fahrenheit Restaurant in Georgetown. I was not in favor of driving into the District on Inauguration weekend, but no one else seemed concerned enough to relocate.
The Fahrenheit is located in the Ritz Carlton of Georgetown. I heard on TV that Tim McGraw and Faith Hill are staying there this weekend. I’ve already decided what I am going to say if I see them. I’ll say, “Hey Faith, Hey Tim, How’s it going?” Pretty cool, huh?
Anyway, here is my tribute to Larry
Ode to a Mench
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 little Larry, a fine little son,
The doctor was startled, he heard, “let’s go for a run.”
Already a fine athlete, skills not a sparsity,
Coaches took one look and put him on the 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, and 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.
Award from a client, he’s held on high,
For lifetime achievement, from TSEI.
A loving husband and father, a religious man,
Speaks ill of no one, and a Cardinal fan
He lives his life right up to the brim,
And wouldn’t it be great to be more like him?
Now it’s time to retire, step back from the race,
Avoid the DC hassle, enjoy a change of pace.
We gather together, our friendship you hold,
For when God made you, he broke the mold.
I Really, Really Hate Losing
I was some kid when I was growing up. I had a lot of things figured out. For example, in the 7th grade, I wrote a history paper explaining that when the Republicans were in power, we had depressions and financial crises. When the Democrats were in power we would end up in a war. I concluded by explaining that it was up to the American people to decide whether they wanted war or depression. I was amazed by the fact that I was the first person to figure that out. I was really annoyed when I got a C- on my paper. So much for originality of thought!
Another thing I figured out was if you approached every game like it’s a “life or death struggle,” you lose less often. And, I did lose less often. I was a really bad loser and, come to think of it, a really bad winner. Kids didn’t like me, but, hey, in a life or death struggle, where does friendship come in?
My Dad was an excellent checker player. I wasn’t happy when he beat me, but I had removed checkers (with him) from a life or death struggle. When I was ten, we went on a vacation in the Ozarks and I played checkers with my Uncle Bob. I could tell from his moves that he was no match for me. I jumped one of his checkers and the next thing I knew, he made a triple jump into my king row. The checkers were made of Bakelite, an early plastic, and before I realized what I was doing, I crushed four of the checkers in my hand. I wanted to play him again, but he refused to play with broken checkers.
Not much changed through high school. I think I seemed like a normal kid until I got on an athletic field and then the adrenaline and the old philosophy took over. When I reflect back, I’m surprised someone didn’t throw a net over me. Then again, there was reinforcement for my philosophy. We never lost a football game the entire time I was in high school.
Football is a sport that requires its players to be emotionally “up” for the game. Senator John Culver, one of my partners at Arent Fox and a friend, was a star fullback at Harvard College. He told me one day while we were on the topic, “Jack, it’s not the kind of sport where you get up in the morning and while putting on your socks, say to yourself, ‘Well, I guess I’ll go out there today and throw my body into people with the distinct possibility that either they or I will be injured.’ ” I guess I never figured out how to get “up” for a game without being in a frenzy.
East St. Louis Senior High School played teams from as far away as Chicago and Indianapolis just to fill out our schedule. In October, 1954, we traveled to Warren Central High School in Indianapolis. I was the second string quarterback. My parents went to the game. They watched our game on Friday night and then drove up to Purdue to see my brother Bill play for the Missouri Tigers on Saturday. We beat Warren Central 19-0 and I got to play in the 4th quarter. I threw a long pass to one of our ends. He was ten yards behind everyone and I hit him right in the hands. He dropped the ball. I went crazy. I was storming on the field. I was storming on the sideline. How could he do that to me when I threw such a perfect pass?
On Sunday, my Dad sat me down and told me that Bill had not gotten into the game against Purdue. But, he was much prouder of Bill than he was of me. He read me the riot act regarding my antics on the field (and on the sideline). And so the process began. I began to realize that I had to be accountable for my actions. At a minimum, that meant not showing up my team mates.
My rehab has never been completely successful. But I do have an additional philosophy that I live by and recommend to you. It is, “If what has you upset won’t be bothering you in three days, then it’s not worth getting upset over.” If you break a plate – clean it up – move on. Even if you have a fender bender – get over it.
This won’t come as a shock. Even though I have been playing many sports for many years, I have never received a Sportsmanship award (never even been nominated). But then, any committee who knew me, might think I would find the nomination insulting.
The Long Awaited Christmas Poem
I’m not sure how many Christmas poems I have written. All the ones I have been able to find have been posted now on Ricequips.com. This is number 20. The first one I could find was 1989.
Anyway, I wish I would have taken a look at last years title before I titled this one. Last year was entitled, “Christmas in Transition – 2007.” This year, it is entitled, “Year of Transition – 2008.” Now, there is a clear distinction between the two, but I am afraid it is too subtle for most of my friends.
To all who read this, I wish you a very Merry Christmas.
Year of Transition – 2008
The pace is easier, deadlines are few,
Jack’s fully retired, now there’s your clue.
Being home everyday makes an adjustment crunch,
Carole married him for love, but not for lunch.
January brought surgery on Carole’s bad knees,
Partial replacements on both if you please.
Carole suffered a plenty, but for Jack it was worse,
He slipped from a hot shot attorney to a practical nurse.
With the arthritis gone and physical therapy complete,
Carole buzzes around and doesn’t miss a beat.
RAJA in May, in Atlanta downtown,
Seeing dear friends, never a frown.
Saw the Coke Museum, saw Olympic Park,
Put a blog on Ricequips, it really was a lark.
We toured California, a long time “want to do,”
We started in Frisco, ended at San Diego’s Zoo.
From Golden Gate to Yosemite, Hearst Castle to Monterey pier,
Scary fog at Big Sur, but LA was bright and clear.
June was a disaster, we flooded the house,
A water hose busted, it’s no use to grouse.
Gone for three hours and the damage was done,
Hard wood and ceilings, you talk about fun.
But with our contractor Steve, and a month in jail,
The house came together, we survived the travail.
We count among our blessings, our Moms who bring us glee,
Blanche is ninety-one and Mary is ninety-three!
They won’t win any races, the years have taken their toll,
But their minds are really sharp, and the humor, yes, it’s droll.
The kids are all busy with their lives and stuff,
The problem we have is we don’t see them enough.
Paul and Sandy are close, just four hours away,
We get to see them come a holiday.
Missy helped Carole, at the first of the year,
Now Missy is hurting, a truck hit them in the rear.
She continues to work and deals with the pain,
With doctor’s support, they’ll remove the strain.
Becky and Eddie are now empty nest,
The boys are in college, giving their best.
Grant and Brandon in college, soon there’ll be more,
With Tyler and Josh, next year there’ll be four.
That means Kristin and Jack will soon get a boost,
They’ll be the only kids home and they’ll rule the roost.
Nikki’s a year and a half, she’s a precious creature,
She minds remarkably well, she listens to her teacher.
So we’re letting her sign off, she’s doing in right now,
Merry Christmas to everyone and a special bow-wow.
Northwestern University – A Year of Dissent
What a year for an Army lawyer to attend civilian schooling. It was June 1969, in the middle of the Vietnam War, and I was delighted with my decision to go to Northwestern to get a masters degree in criminal law.* It turned out my delight was short lived.
The students, the faculty and probably the janitorial service were strongly opposed to the Vietnam War. I must say that a small group of faculty and graduate students that I worked with treated me well. I was the only one on campus with short hair and, ironically, one of the few students who wasn’t wearing an Army fatigue jacket. There was a Federal law prohibiting the unauthorized wearing of military uniforms or pieces thereof. I mentioned it to a student one day and a professor overheard me and wanted to know why I had this deep-seated anger. Wow! I thought I was on my best behavior. Ripping the jacket off and throwing the kid out in the snow might constitute deep-seated anger.
Most of the student body was involved in draft avoidance counseling. I have to admit, it was not a good time to be a 19 or 20 year-old male. A young female student came up to me bubbling with excitement. It seems her family had found a doctor who was willing to certify that her brother was medically disqualified to be drafted. I don’t think she selected me out. I think she was telling everyone she saw.
This was the era when young women didn’t wear bras. I’m very observant. But, dammed if they didn’t walk around with their notebooks or purses pressed to their chests. Now, what kind of statement does that make? I don’t think it’s very enlightened.
I was asked during my second semester to participate in a moot court trial. They needed someone to play the arresting officer in a drug sale trial. I agreed to do it. The moot court was held in a class room and when I entered to testify, the students in the back of the room started hissing and booing. Not very professional. The professor was playing the judge and he did nothing to stop the nonsense. The facts were bad for the government and when the “judge” ruled that it was a bad search and the evidence was suppressed, everyone in the classroom cheered.
Northwestern had a world class criminal law department. As a graduate student in that department, I knew all the criminal law professors. None was teaching this class. After I testified and while seated in the back of the room, I asked one of the hecklers what class it was. He said, “It’s Poverty Law.” I asked him why they were doing criminal law. He said, “Hey man, lots of poor people get busted on bogus drug charges.” So, I had my answer. They could study whatever they wanted, as long as it happened to poor people. I guess that ruled out Trusts and Estates.
On April 29, 1970, US Forces entered Cambodia where the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong had been stockpiling arsenals for their next offensive. Northwestern, along with most colleges shut down in protest. A lot of students were able to avoid final exams while the protests drug on. I was a direct beneficiary of the Cambodian Campaign because my next assignment was Vietnam and I wasn’t located that far from the border. Shame on the US for entering a “neutral” country and destroying tons and tons of ammunition which belonged to the peace loving North Vietnamese. If we hadn’t, I might not be writing this.
While I went to school on the downtown campus, we actually lived in Evanston, just a few blocks from the University. The street that ran along side the University was Sheridan Road. During the Cambodian protests, students tore down property and piled it in Sheridan Road blocking traffic. The police did nothing to remove the blockade. However, when an irate citizen stopped his car and tried to remove some of the blockade, he was arrested for creating a disturbance! It was not a good year.
Periodically, I receive a phone call from someone at Northwestern asking for money. After about 20 minutes of me telling them about my Northwestern experience, they just want to get off the phone.
* See “Long Distance Decision Making Before the Internet.”
Old Fuds and Older Fuds
I think it was last October when I wrote about the Old Fuds (retired Army JAGs) and the fact that we met for lunch twice a year. I also mentioned we had to climb to the third floor (no elevator) to get to the luncheon.
I am sure that the lack of an elevator violates the Americans with Disabilities Act, but if the Old Fuds complained and got the place shut down, then the Old Fuds would have to find somewhere else to eat. Most Old Fuds are happy with the food and that would wreck havoc with our carefully monitored empty agenda. The only vote we have had in the last six months was a voice vote to elect Howard Bushman assistant secretary. He was elected, but the vote was close. The request for a show of hands was summarily rejected by Don Deline, the self-appointed president-for-life.
Some of our elderly members had missed a couple of luncheons and Howard Bushman, assistant secretary (probably-for-life), came up with the idea of taking an Old Fuds luncheon to them. Four of the Old Fuds live at the Fairfax, which is an extremely nice retirement community located at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. So the luncheon was set up
Jim Macklin, Bill Fulton, Dave Bryant and Henry Cabell are the four Old Fuds who live at the Fairfax. A small group of Old Fuds met them yesterday at the Fairfax for a most delightful lunch and gathering. John Naughton, an Old Fud with some official capacity at the Fairfax, was handing out brochures. Later, I explained to them that I was originally from Illinois and if we could raise enough money, I might be the next senator for that great state. No takers.
The morning of the luncheon, I thought it might be nice to write a short poem to commemorate the occasion. It had to be short because I only had an hour. Below is my best effort under the time constraints.
Old Fuds and Older Fuds
We do it twice a year, we put on our clean duds,
We meet at Tony Cheng’s, a gathering of Old Fuds.
We’re retired Army JAGs, we’re ever so proud
When Old Fuds gather there’s always a crowd.
But to go downtown and climb stairs galore,
It’s a difficult task just to reach the floor.
So we’re doing it differently, to everyone’s elation,
We’re going to the Fairfax, we’ve moved the location.
A much smaller group, we’ll chat and we’ll smile,
Fond memories remembered, now that’s our style.
So Cheng’s and the Fairfax, two locations to cheer,
We’ve had a great time, can’t wait till next year.
Wayne and Marie Alley – Ode to a Bad Gift
Some time back, I believe when Wayne was a brigadier general in the Army JAG, he married Marie Dommer. Everyone who knew them was delighted for both of them.
Bill and Jeanie Suter had a party for them and everyone was supposed to bring a pound of something as a gift. Now, it is easy to think of a pound of coffee or even a pound of candy, but people had to be pretty imaginative to come up with other pound gifts. When we came up with a pound of potting soil, I figured I had better write a poem.
My favorite Marie story was when Wayne retired to become the Dean of the University of Oklahoma College of Law. They were moving into their new house and Barry Switzer, the OU football coach, came over to say hello. Marie introduced herself and mentioned that Wayne was the new dean of the law school. Barry then said, “I’m Barry Switzer.” Marie said, “Oh, are you also with the university?” I love it!
Ode to a Bad Gift
A pound of this, a pound of that,
What a great idea for the night.
We’ll play them a prank, to hell with his rank,
Maybe we’ll short circuit a light.
Well, we scratched and we fought for an original thought,
Long hours over this we did toil.
But, when nerves grew frail and Dart Drug had a sale,
We decided on potting soil.
While the present may sag and leak through the bag,
And the package becomes very light,
The advantage is clear, it’s quite cheap, my dear,
And that certainly counts when you’re tight.
I ask you, is a gift from the ground fundamentally sound?
It certainly is no panacea.
So to make the gift special, we slipped in the vessel,
A plant called a peperomia.
Now, the plant ain’t so great and its size and its fate,
May never cause people to remark.
But for Wayne and Marie, people shout wild with glee,
It’s a match that will glow in the dark.
So the effort was spent and our idea became bent,
Like a pipe cleaner wrapped to another.
Then it came like a zing, they don’t need anything,
Cause what they got is they got each other.
Long Distance Decision Making Before the Internet
I am always amazed when I reflect on the whimsical way that significant decisions have been made in my life. In late 1968, I was in the last year of a three-year tour in Germany. I figured I would be sent to the Career Course at the JAG School and then off to Vietnam. Someone in my office, I think John Naughton, showed me a little squib in a JAG monthly publication which said the JAG Corps intended to send a few officers to universities to obtain a masters degree. Anyone interested should let them know. I submitted my name and promptly forgot about it.
On February 10, 1969, I received a letter from the JAG Career Management Office in the Pentagon telling me I had been selected to go to graduate school to obtain an LL.M. in criminal law. The kicker was that I had to select the law school and be enrolled within the fiscal year (that meant enrolled before June 30, 1969!). Remember, this was before emails or fax machines. First Class postal service (snail mail) was the gold standard.
I sent letters to Harvard, Michigan, Northwestern, Stanford and Texas University. The only things I attached were the letter from Career Management and a copy of my undergraduate and law school transcripts. Then, I just had to wait.
I just took a look at a copy of the letters I sent out. They were dated February 10! It was nice to be married to a legal stenographer. I wrote out the letters and Carole put them in perfect form that very day (did I mention that in law school, I got an A in the Drafting Legal Instruments course?).
Believe it or not, I received a response back from all five schools within two weeks. Both Harvard and Michigan sent me back my correspondence advising me that they did not have summer classes for graduate students and consequently, they could not meet my requirement of being enrolled by 30 June 1969. I always think fondly of those rejections. They could have rejected me for a hundred reasons, but they were kind enough to say they could not meet my requirements. If you’ve got to be rejected by Harvard and Michigan, that’s the way to go.
Northwestern University sent me back a two page letter telling me they had a graduate level criminal law program and that I would fit in nicely. It would include obtaining admission to the Illinois bar and carrying a case load down at the Cook County Jail. Did I mention that I was born and raised in downstate Illinois and really wanted to be a member of the Illinois bar? When I graduated from law school, I did not have time to take the Illinois bar, because of my military obligation.
The word from the University of Texas was also good. The had an experimental project on criminal justice funded by the Ford Foundation. The professor who wrote me said they envisioned using some graduate students and that they were quite interested in me. The problem was his title. He was “Chairman, Special Advisory Committee on Recruiting Law Students From Minority Groups.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it spooked me. I pictured myself being graded against some group under some experimental project. In reflecting back, I think I over reacted, but back then, I didn’t have time to check it out. Texas was out.
The letter from Stanford was the last to be received. It told me that if I had received a “form graduate letter” to please disregard it. It then said that because of the particular requirements of my situation, my request was “receiving special attention” and that I should hear something shortly from Dean Robinson. The letter was definitely positive and I really wanted to go back to California. While I was a Midwest boy, my tour prior to Germany had been in Monterey, California. While I only spent six months at the Presidio of Monterey studying German, California was etched in my mind. It would be easy to get hooked on California. So, again, I waited.
When this drill began, I had 141 days (Feb 10 to June 30) to select a graduate law school (that would accept me), get approval from the Army and move my family and worldly possessions from Germany back to somewhere in the US and be enrolled in the law school. Did I mention finding a place to live? And, I waited to hear from Stanford. Did I mention that I’m a Type A?
By Friday, March 7, I decided to call Dean Robinson. I waited till 5:00 PM, which would be 9:00 AM in California. Dean Robinson’s secretary told me he was on the East Coast and gave me the number. I ended up talking to Dean Robinson at noontime in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He apologized for not responding and told me I had been approved to come to Stanford. They didn’t have a graduate criminal law program, but they would set me up with a criminal law professor and we could put a program together. He assured me he would send a letter to me quickly. I thanked him and hung up. I looked at my wife, Carole, and said dejectedly, “Honey, we’re going to Northwestern.” I really wanted to go to Stanford, but in the area of a graduate level criminal law program, Northwestern won hands down. I would never become a California golden boy.
After reading through this blog, I realize the only thing whimsical was getting into the graduate program. My selection of Northwestern was probably the right choice for me and I took the necessary steps to get there. It gave me a chance to work with Professors Fred Inbau, Bill Martin and Jim Haddad. Today, with the internet, I could have done all my research on line and made a much more informed decision in one-tenth of the time. But in 1969, in Goeppingen, Germany, with the clock running, we did what we had to do. Auf Wiedersehen.
Respect for Our Military
Do you know what gives me a warm feeling right down to my toes? It is the way the American people today treat our service men and women. The American people may disagree on whether we should be in Iraq, but almost none blames the soldiers, marines, sailors or airmen who are serving there.
It wasn’t that way 40 years ago when we were bogged down in Vietnam. For some reason, just seeing a military uniform set off a certain segment of our society. Of course, this same segment did not trust anything called the Establishment. I think the message was, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”
In the early years of the Vietnam War, I was protected from the impact of the dissent by being assigned in Germany (1966-69). We had all we could handle with the drug and racial problems. Our sources for information were Armed Forces Radio and the Stars and Stripes newspaper. Not a lot of anti-war stuff was getting through to us. We did know that President Johnson had decided not to run for re-election because of anti-war sentiment, but we truly were sheltered.
So in 1969, when I showed up at Northwestern University School of Law to obtain a masters degree in criminal law, I wasn’t prepared for the resentment to the military I encountered (was I really a baby killer?). I wasn’t in uniform, but I couldn’t hide. I was the only one on the downtown campus without a pony tail!
Having lived in a cocoon for three years, I wasn’t prepared for the intense anti-war, anti-military uproar that enveloped me in Chicago. I softened the impact by getting my news from the conservative Chicago Tribune and their TV station, WGN. In reflecting, I am satisfied that the Germans treated the US military better than our fellow country men. I knew we were in trouble when our graduate group’s sweet 50 year-old secretary told me she would be late coming back from lunch because she was attending an anti-war rally.
It was during this period, with me on orders to Vietnam, that Carole decided that she and the kids would be more comfortable in a waiting wives community (see blog on Shilling Manor under My Military Daze) than living among the demonstrators. It turned out to be a spectacular choice.
In 1973, our country eliminated the draft and went to a volunteer Army (VOLAR). Even though all JAG officers were volunteers, some of them may have volunteered rather than be drafted (“It was either the JAG Corps or Canada.”). The JAG Corps was given a certain number of “VOLAR” dollars to go out and recruit young law students to join us. I was teaching at the JAG School in Charlottesville, Virginia and was selected to visit 11 law schools in the Midwest.
My Commandant, Colonel John Jay Douglass, advised me that since it was already October, I needed to start my visits with North Dakota. The longer I waited the less likely I was to get there. Well, I put Grand Forks, ND at the top of my list and just barely got there. The plane I was on started to land in Grand Forks, but pulled back up and we landed in Winnipeg, Canada. They bussed us back to Grand Forks and promised our luggage would soon follow.
I set up my visit at Washington University School of Law in St. Louis with their placement office. They provided me with an office for interviews, but did not notify the student body that I was coming. The uniform was still a problem. One reservist who saw me stopped by to say hello.
My alma mater, the University of Missouri treated me much better. When my interviews were completed, I decided to step over to Jessie Hall and say hello to Dean Harris. He had been a friend and advisor throughout my six years at MU. He was my first counselor when I stepped onto campus. It was he that I talked out of sending me to remedial English Class (five hours a week for three hours credit). He also was instrumental in finding Carole a secretarial position in his office when I started to law school.
Dean Harris’ secretary told me he couldn’t be disturbed, because the entire afternoon was blocked out for interviews with medical school applicants. I told her I wouldn’t mind waiting so that I could say hello in between interviews. She said that was impossible. Just then, he came out of his office, saw me and pulled me into his office. I kept insisting that I didn’t want to get him off schedule. As he shut the door to his office, he said,”Jack, I am so sick of hearing these applicants tell me they want to become a doctor so that they can work in the inner-city and help the poor!”
We probably talked for 20 minutes with me continually reminding him that I shouldn’t stay. It was great seeing and chatting with an old friend. When I left the office, the secretary was waiting for me. She was furious. She said, “Major, by being so inconsiderate and interrupting the interview schedule, you may have cost some young student the opportunity to become a doctor.” I looked at her for a second and then said, “I think you are more upset about my uniform that your are with me.” There was a long reflective pause and she said, “Well, you may be right.”
Her comment was very telling of the time. Thank goodness things have changed. Today, under the same scenario, she would probably try to get me on the interview list. I love it!