The other day, the spring issue of Cooperative Living arrived in the mail. It’s published by Southside Electric, which is a group of cooperatives that provide electricity to rural areas throughout Virginia.
A little history lesson:
electric cooperatives came about because for-profit utilities did not
want to run electricity to rural areas. Rural
houses were located so far apart that the cost of running the lines outweighed
the potential revenue. As of the mid
1930’s, nine out of ten rural homes still had no electricity. In 1936, Congress passed the Rural Electrification
Act, which lent money to allow the creation of non-profit electric cooperatives. These cooperatives continue to provide
electricity to rural areas like Smith Mountain Lake, where we have a house,
which will probably be up for sale soon if anyone is interested. Because these cooperatives are non-profit
entities, every year they return their excess earnings to the cooperative
members such as myself. I get a check
for about $15 every December, which I usually forget to cash. Last year's check is still in my purse.
Anyway, as soon as the Cooperative
Living arrives, I always flip to the last page to read a column called “Rural
Living” by Margo Oxendine. Great name,
isn’t it? Margo is a plump, red-headed
woman who lives in Bath County in the western part of Virginia. She writes about her dog Brownie, her
neighbors, stuff like that. Her column
is always amusing so I read it first.
This month’s column was entitled “Paw-Paw, Brook and the
Blue Pajamas.” In it, Margo described an
experience by a four-year old girl named Brook.
Brook went into anaphylactic shock and had to be transported to the
hospital by helicopter with her mother.
When they arrived at the hospital, Brook’s mother asked her how she
liked flying in a helicopter with her mother.
Brook replied that Paw-Paw was there too. Paw-Paw was Brook’s grandfather and had died recently. Brook
and Paw-Paw had been the best of pals, according to Margo.
“Paw-Paw knew I was scared, so he came to sit beside me on
the bed,” Brook explained. “He was
wearing blue pajamas. He held my hand
the whole way.”
Was Brook just dreaming?
Maybe, but the article reminded me of a similar experience that happened
to me a few years ago . . .
The best job I ever had was working for Hunton and Williams,
which is a large and venerable law firm in Richmond. It is ironic that this was my best job,
because Hunton has the nickname “Hunton and Gruntin” since the lawyers work so
hard.
I had a “sweetheart” deal, however. I only had to bill 1800 hours per year,
instead of the usual 2000. This meant I
worked 50 hours a week instead of 80.
Hunton considered this part time.
I was hired specifically to work for a partner named Jim,
who was the head of the utilities team.
He also did commercial contract work for the company I eventually went
to work for.
Jim was a large, imposing and frankly scary-looking
man. He had dark hair and dark
features. When he wasn’t smiling, his
forehead would furrow and he would look angry.
He was intimidating at first. When
I first met him, I was not at all sure I was going to like working for him.
I found out he was from a small town in the Shenandoah
Valley—a country boy who remained down to earth even after he became a partner
and the head of a team at Hunton and Williams.
One of his favorite jokes:
“A Virginia state trooper pulled over a pickup on I-81. The trooper asked, “Got any ID?” The driver replied, “Bout whut?”
He was a brilliant man—he had been a nuclear engineer before
he went to law school-- and an extraordinary lawyer. Taylor Reveley, who used to be the managing partner
of the firm and is now the president of the College of William and Mary, said it
was because of his “giant throbbing brain.”
I had never done commercial contracts before I worked for
him. In fact, contracts was my worst
grade during my first year in law school!
I told him I had no experience with commercial contracts (I didn’t tell
him about my contracts grade.) He said, “don’t
worry, I’ll teach you.” And he did.
I learned more in the six years I worked for him than I had
learned in the previous 15. We would sit
side by side in a conference room as he meticulously went over each contract I
had written, pointing out where my language could be interpreted in a way other
than I had intended. He did this in
such a kind way, however, that I never felt stupid. He would critique my work, but he never
criticized. When I messed up with the
clients (which I did), he never blamed me and never let me look bad in front of
the clients.
He treated everyone with respect and courtesy—the other
lawyers on our team, the admins, the clients, and opposing counsel. He knew the meaning of collegiality because
he lived it every day. Every day at 10
minutes to 12, he would round up all the lawyers on our team, partners and associates, and we would go upstairs
to the dining room to eat lunch together.
He knew how to build and sustain a team. He was the glue that held our team together.
He was also generous.
For one thing, he was not afraid to give other people credit when they
deserved it. We found out later that he
was a member of the Seven Society, which is an ultra-secret club at the
University of Virginia. The Seven
Society gives large donations and gifts to the University. I was not surprised to learn that he was a
member, because he was a philanthropic man in many ways and yet quiet about it.
Taylor Reveley described him best: “Jim was that rare human to whom others look
for leadership during bad times as well as good. People willingly followed him because he was
so thoroughly decent. Ever reasonable,
ever balanced in his responses, never prone to carp or denigrate, Jim was a
bastion of integrity and fairness. ”
One day, I noticed that the whites of Jim’s eyes were
yellow. Jaundice. I mentioned this to one of the admins. It turns out everyone in the office had
noticed, as well as his wife, but he refused to go to the doctor.
Jim was what we call a “man’s man.” Every year he took off on the first day of
deer hunting season. He enjoyed deep sea
fishing off the coast of North Carolina.
He often took groups of guys (guys only) on his boat, which was a large
Grady White with twin diesel 250 hp engines.
I don’t know much about boats, but I understand this was a big-ass
boat. He was a big man who lived a big
life. He once drank two-thirds of a
fifth of Wild Turkey at my house and didn’t appear the least bit impaired. It was not surprising that he refused to go
to the doctor.
Jim had twin daughters who reminded me of Jenna and Barbara
Bush. They were blonde and pretty, but
rather flighty. I think he had trouble
relating to them, being as macho as he was. He adored his son Wade, however. Wade was a strapping young man, friendly and
charming and very good-looking. When Wade
came into the office, all the women would swoon, including me.
Wade swept into the office one day, said a quick hello to
Jim’s admin, went into Jim’s office and closed the door. Twenty minutes later, Wade left. Moments later, Jim emerged from his office
and gave his admin a piece of paper.
“Make an appointment with this doctor,” he told her quietly.
Jim had pancreatic cancer.
According to the American Cancer Society, the five year survival rate for
patients with pancreatic cancer ranges from 14% to 1%, depending on the cancer
stage. In short, it is a death sentence.
Jim lasted about 18 months.
While he was dying in the hospital, I went to visit him
once. He was lying in bed, breathing
slowly and deliberately. He had lost a
tremendous amount of weight. The skin on
his face sagged. He barely moved when he said hello to me. He couldn’t even turn his head. I got very emotional. The next day his wife called Jim’s admin and
told her to tell me not to visit him again.
I can understand that, but it
hurt. I never got to say good-bye.
On the day Jim died, I was helping to negotiate a case
settlement at the State Corporation Commission.
I received a call at about 4:30 from a colleague on our team, Eric. Eric told me that this was probably the end.
That night, I took an Ambien and went to bed early. It was just too sad to bear.
While I was sleeping, I could feel something at my ear,
saying something that I could not hear.
You know how your dog or cat will stare at you while you are sleeping
until you wake up? It felt like
that. I woke up, but there was no one
there. The dogs were fast asleep on the
other side of the bed.
I looked at the clock.
The time was 9:23.
About twenty minutes later, Eric called to tell me Jim had
died. I asked Eric what time Jim had
died.
He said it was about 9:20.
You can think what you want, but I think Jim was saying
good-bye to me.
I think so too.
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