This Was The Week That Was
The week of July 18, 2021 was, for me, a post-pandemic rollercoaster ride which left me flummoxed, disoriented and, nostalgic.
It all started on Sunday, July 18 when, because my vaccinated friend had contracted COVID – one of the too-many “breakout” statistics – I went for a COVID test. Concerned that I had to, upset for my friend, and dismayed about a virus or its variant that refuses to die, I was relieved with the result but disgruntled.
Monday was unhappy client day number one. A trip to the plexiglassed confines of a 235 Church Street courtroom, seeking extraordinary relief for a mentally troubled client who’d been detained for possessing a number of illegal weapons that made everybody uneasy. My pleas on his behalf, muffled by a mask and all but lost in the plexiglass echo chamber, were received by the Court, but, as Arthur Miller would say, not well received. Members of the client’s family were not shy about expressing their dismay with my inability to enlighten a judge on the solution to a problem their child had created, and they had monitored. A grin and bear it day.
Tuesday was a sad reminder. I attended a memorial service for a friend and judge, Roland Fasano, one of the good ones. Bright, humble, wry and professional. Roland was uncle to my eldest daughter’s best friend so this one had a special pang. About 200 people, the largest gathering I’d been in in more than a year and most I hadn’t seen in that time, gathered for a meaningful tribute at the Silver Sands Beach and Tennis Club presided over by his best friend and your editor. An unusual setting. A significant event and the reminder it was meant to be.
Wednesday was reserved for unhappy client number two. Charged with serious offenses; again, with a mental health component; again, a somewhat exaggerated request for relief; and, again, a presentation received, but not well received by the Court. Some relief granted but not everything that was desired. A post-hearing hallway discussion with the client which can best be described in the words of Strother Martin in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate”. Less grinning more bearing than Monday’s family chat.
But hey, tomorrow is another day. And so it was: the NHCBA Annual Outing at the Owenego. Always a last-minute question whether to go, I went. The pandemic answered the question affirmatively. People of all legal generations, each scratching and clawing for a return to normalcy, looking to talk to someone, anyone, about anything. Standing around. Talking. Bitching a little. Laughing a lot. Happy to be anywhere with each other. It was an upbeat event that might be the first step on the threshold to normalcy. Again, probably a big gathering in more than a one-year post COVID. A plus.
The best was Sunday. Mass at an unfamiliar parish. An enthusiastic priest. The Gospel of the Loaves and the Fishes. And the best was a post-mass baptism for a rambunctious daughter born to a mother of a same sex couple. Presiding was a deacon who was the kid’s grandfather. Not a precise fit within the current edicts of the Church. But no timbers were shivered. No lightning bolts. And, somewhere in this favored land on this same day, far away from this event but consistent with its spirit, despite the twisted pronouncements of some ignorant bishops who don’t understand their faith, Joe Biden received Holy Communion. You can never go wrong at a baptism.
And in the weeks that follow more Delta variant breakthroughs, a 180 degree turn on masks, a sputtering confusion about return to schools and a Court system that continues to seek to find a new rhythm that will allow us to find a sense of satisfaction in what we do. A continuation of self-centered, lawyerly handwringing and the doldrums continue.
I find myself bouncing between Rhett Butler’s “Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn” and Annie’s “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” on a daily basis. Thank God I don’t have any real problems.