Reese

Reese

When I joined the firm in 1982 I don’t think Reese Mansfield thought much of me, either as a lawyer or a fisherman. We first met for a lunch interview at the one pretty nice restaurant in our little town. I knew enough about him to be awed. He had graduated from law school in 1935 in the same class as Scoop Jackson and other New Deal movers and shakers. In practice since 1936 in the county, he had earned a reputation as a champion of the farmer and the little guy. He was involved in the public power movement and was a great trial lawyer. He was co-counsel with Bill Dwyer in the famous Goldmark trial of the early 60’s, giving the last of the McCarthyites and anti-commie witch hunters a good kick in the pants.

A slight man, balding and grey, and then just seventy, Reese sipped his soup without comment and occasionally peered at me sharply through thick glasses as I recounted my legal training and general background. My legal experience had been detoured into public defender, governmental work and legal services for the poor. I had no history as a fee-generator or rainmaker and no real experience with bread-and-butter civil law. He made a grunting noise, and continued with his soup.

Later, when he inquired directly, he was notably disturbed to learn I was primarily a spin caster with only a little flyfishing in my past. He left no doubt that he considered this a serious character defect, though he did reckon that with his stern and unwavering tutelage I might still be saved. This with a quick, broad smile and a glint in his eye. After that our lunch went pretty well. I relaxed a good deal and even made him laugh a few times.

A partner, Jim Thomas, had just been appointed to be the one and only Superior Court Judge in the County, and the “Firm”, at this point Reese and Rodney Reinbold, needed help picking up the slack, so I was hired.

Following our lunch, we went to the office where the other partner, Rod Reinbold, introduced me to the office staff and the secretary they had hired for me, and showed me to the recently vacated office, now mine. So now I had the trappings of a lawyer. Over close to fifty years of practice Reese had amassed an amazing law library and useful form files so maybe I could even learn to be one.

In short order Reese had presented me to his whiskey-drinking brethren at the local flyfishing club monthly meeting as an uncivilized but worthy foundling in the sport, and overseen the acquisition of proper equipment. Thus prepared, I set out to learn country lawyering and flyfishing.

I worked with Reese on some of his cases and he helped me with many of mine. He had lost his taste for trial work, but he still organized his work with subtle strategies in place from early stages to assure when need arose, at trial or otherwise, that every issue of logic or law, of evidence or of procedure, had long since been dutifully pursued and compelling argument prepared. This often required late hours at the office. He wasted little time, was annoyed particularly by small talk, yet maintained a graceful, familiar relationship with many clients. His organizational process, practiced and matter-of-fact, flowed naturally, almost casually, and early many afternoons, his day’s work done, he slipped away to a quiet little lake or mountain stream. I learned a lot about the work of law from Reese, and over the years, with his blessing, I took over work for many of his cherished old clients.

Some of those autumn afternoons I was able to get away with Reese to check out a storied lake in the Cascade foothills, or to try for steelhead on the Methow or the Okanogan. Over time I saw his methodology here, as well, showed the same practiced economy, the same commitment to proper process, and the same undeniable results.

A purist, Reese used nothing but home-tied flies on barbless swedish steel hooks. His flies were tiny marvels of feather and animal hair. Despite his poor eyesight and advancing arthritis, he tied fly after fly with quick deft manuvers in his basement workshop. He made his own rods. He inspected streamside fauna, the air, and the stomachs of fish he caught to determine the proper fly, size and color. And trip after trip his rods worked flawlessly and his flies caught wonderful fish while I struggled, thrashing the water, trying to mimick his long graceful casts. Many an evening in those early years of my association with Reese I stood thigh deep in a cold stream, my leader in knots in the near-darkness, watching in awe as he laid out cast after noiseless cast, his glittering line streaking above the dark water, and his fly, with the last iota of available energy, gently nestling into a fold of murky current. Patient, methodical, perseverant, a flowing dance not unlike his daily pas de’ deux with the law. Soon I was disdaining other forms of fishing, tying my own flies, and trying my hand at rod-building. Over the several years since I have become a more experienced small town lawyer and fly fisher.

Reese retired one day in 1995, sixty years after he hung out his shingle. That was pretty much it. He had been tailing his practice down for a while, and he just decided the hell with it. We helped him move his desk and office stuff up to a room in his house and a few days later I moved in to his larger office. His fishing memorabilia has now been replaced with mine. A few days after I had moved in he came into the office and looked around at my fishing stuff and pictures, and smiled at me and gave me a laugh. He gestured toward a picture of me holding a big salmon and said, “Is that you? Did you catch that?”

“Yep, that’s me. On the Kenai, Kasilof River. Made the rod and tied the fly.”

“Well I’ll be go to hell.” said Reese. He gave me a big smile, waved, and left.

Lunch At The Cariboo

Darlene’s raucous howl of laughter roils through the archway from the coffee shop, greeting me to yet again another lunch at the Cariboo. The chill north wind pushes me on into the shadowy lobby of the old hotel, slamming the glass door behind me. I unzip my jacket as I walk past the worn old desk, under the shabby mounted caribou head, with it’s enormous antlers, and through the archway. The coffee shop is nearly empty. Occasionally they have a busy day; Thursday, Sale Day at the Livestock Auction, is still usually pretty busy. But that’s about it anymore.

As I settle into my usual booth my presence is detected.

“It’s Bud! Hi Bud!” Darlene shouts, followed by another hoot and growl of that laugh of hers: “Hah – haaaaaaaaaaaa!”

It doesn’t take much to get a laugh out of Darlene. Another one of those amazing people who really makes the best of a shitty minimum wage job in a tired little town to the point of actually seeming to enjoy herself. She brings me two glasses of ice water, then grabs her towel, making a big deal of wiping the table. As usual she is genuinely cheerful, her short dark blond hair framing her wide smiling face. She’s only 35, but her smile is beginning to leave deep creases.

“Courthouse still there today?”

Ah, Darlene’s dark humor. A tax protester nearly burned our courthouse down last year. But this is about the 100^th time she’s asked that, so it’s not a new one.

“Yep. Still there.”

“BLT special? Wheat?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Salad with blue cheese?”

“Make it Italian.”

“Hah – haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! You’re just trying to screw me up!”

“Is there a PI on the counter?”

“I’ll bring it over.” As she disappears I down a glass of ice water. a habit of mine she has learned to accommodate: she brings me two glasses so she doesn’t have to come right back with the pitcher.

For many years following it’s opening in 1925 the Cariboo Hotel was the hub of what political, commercial and social activity there was in this town of 2400. The idiosyncratic spelling of the name remains an anomaly difficult to explain. A block and a half from the county courthouse and right down town, the coffeeshop and the bar were the gathering places for local politicians and officials, lawyers and businesspeople, farmers and ranchers, drummers and freighters, and celebrants and schemers of all ilk.

Darlene appears, slides the plate with my salad and sandwich in front of me, dramatically hands me the newspaper, salutes and cackles, “Service with a smile! Hah –haaaaaaaaaa!”

“Thanks,” I smile as she disappears back into the kitchen.

But times have really changed in the 23 years I’ve been here. The hotel itself has changed ownership 4 times in that period. A 77-year-old two-story brick building with all the problems and deficiencies you can expect in a building that age, it’s a nightmare to maintain. It’s hard to make a buck off a place like this in a town like this in times like these. With the newer motels out along the highway taking what trade there is it’s hard to fill the 14 rooms upstairs.

And folks don’t seem to come to town or go out for dinner and a few drinks like they used to. I know I don’t, but I’m not sure why. I guess what with my daily trade pretty much sucking it out of me, and the satellite TV and the Internet at home, I’m not feeling the need to get out and socialize like I used to. But I’m still here for lunch today, like I am most workdays, like I have been well over a thousand times I’m sure, over the years; getting my sandwich served up by the most recent of scores of waitresses, cooling their heels here in this backwater before venturing back into the mainstream.

In earlier years, when I was a young lawyer in town, I often sat at a long table in this room where Judges, lawyers, public officials gathered daily for lunch and with lots of humor and good natured banter mulled and digested the events of the day, local and national. Over the years there were arguments and confrontations, as there will be when public issues are afoot, but much more frequent at that smoky, friendly table were the explosions of delirious laughter when old Nick got in another good one on his fishing pal, the Assessor, or another of the locals wags took a Commissioner or two down a notch. But that’s been years ago now; and that long table disappeared two re-models back.

Now, occasionally, another lawyer or a client will join me for lunch. Most days I read the paper.

“Good, huh?” Darlene nods and smiles as she slips the check on the table and retrieves my empty plate and water glasses. She pauses; cocking her hip and knitting her brow she imposes a serious expression. “Say, you remember when I asked you about my ex- not making his support payments and you told me what to say in a letter and to date it and keep a copy?”

“Sure, I remember.”

“Well, I did it and guess what?” She pauses dramatically, as the smile forces it’s way back and spreads across her features. Turning toward the kitchen she hollers:

“He paid it all up! Hah – haaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Alright!”

I fold the paper and leave it on the table with the tab and tip. The damn wind’s in my face as I head back to the office. I zip my jacket tight and turn up the collar.

-January, 2003, published in BLACK LAMB, April, 2003

The Art of Pain

Driving up to Mike’s garage requires a very sharp turn into the narrow alley that runs beside his place so as to avoid hitting the low concrete wall along the edge of his small yard. Many of Mike’s most recent steel sculpture creations are set out on the wall, and some smaller pieces are on the porch steps. I slow to study his strange and wonderful art as my pickup bumps down the alley. There are several new ones since my last visit, and some of my personal favorites have apparently been sold or given away.

Many of Mike’s fantastic creations turn out to be birdlike, and I guess dragons and dinosaurs run a close second. Some of his creatures have nightmarish and contorted expressions; others display a certain irony, or bitter whimsy. To a degree Mike’s works seem to depend on what he sees in the pieces of old farm equipment and metal scraps he scrounges out of the hills around here to use for materials. For the most part, however, they seem to me an honest reflection of his state of mind at a given time.

Mike suffers from chronic pain throughout his body. Like so many of the people in this rural area, he grew up with hard physical work a daily foregone conclusion. He was a good old boy, and he did his share of drinking and carousing when he was younger, and for sport he raced stock cars. He can’t remember how many car wrecks he’s been in. His back is ruined and he has suffered many broken bones and sprains,

I met Mike nine years ago, when I helped him with his Social Security disability claim. At the time his pain was out of control, he was heavily medicated, and he was severely depressed. His pain is better managed now, but then this man’s man who used to always do about anything for himself needed help bathing and dressing and couldn’t even sit comfortably, much less walk down the block on his own. We got a good result, and though from my perspective his case was pretty easy, (though only in his 40’s he was obviously severely disabled), and even though I got paid just fine, he seemed to feel inordinately grateful. He started dropping by my office to chat and leave me little gifts he made out of junk. A cowboy strumming a banjo he made from horseshoes and old bolts and nuts and a crazy-looking bouncy thing he made from an old bedspring he called an “earthquake detector” now have places of honor among the memorabilia in my office. Though I usually pass in and out of my client’s lives with the problems that bring them to me, Mike has become a good friend.

Mike can’t sit still; not just from the pain, he just can’t bear not having something to do. He hardly sleeps, though he must lie down often to relieve the pain, so he fidgets and tinkers, off and on, almost all the time, and much to his surprise discovered in this process that he is something of an artist, at least with a welding torch. His rusted steel sculpture is grabbed up for yard and garden adornment, but he can’t really work at it enough for it to be a business, and he worries about compromising his social security, so lots of it he just gives away.

As I roll to a stop in front of Mike’s garage the wide door is up and Mike and his friend Frank are sitting in plastic lawn chairs in the middle of the scrupulously clean space, having a smoke and a pop.

Frank is a current disability client. He has terrible neck and back problems from a logging accident, and like Mike, is pretty crippled up and living with pain. Frank has discovered he’s an artist, too. With Mike’s encouragement, he started welding scrap and horseshoes into giant cheerful flowers to “plant” in your yard.

There is some self-mocking humor in their deliberate struggle as they rise to greet me. *Hi, Bud.”

“Hi, guys. So what’s the dangerous duo up to today?”

Mike walks over in a near-crouch to shake hands. Some days he can’t straighten up. Peering out from under his bill-cap he flashes that ironic smile. “I found an old harrow bed and a hay rake out toward Chesaw and Frank helped me pick ‘em up.”

“You guys? With your backs?”

“Oh screw you.” Frank extends his hand. “We may be fucked up but we aren’t stupid. We rigged up a hoist. No sweat. Except the drive ruined my back.”

“Mine, too” Mike backs his hips up against the garage door jamb and, hands on thighs, pushes his back up straight against the frame. “Ahh.”

For several minutes we chat there, and they both just carry on like normal folks in small towns do, trying to be nice and neighborly. But all that time, without even realizing it, both are moving constantly, trying to find a comfortable posture; now crouching, now stretching, now leaning. I start to feel uncomfortable.

“Hey, look,” I say, “I didn’t want to interfere with your day. I wanted to let you know my mother-in-law wants to buy one of your birds.”

“Oh, hell,” Mike shrugs and flips his hand, “She can just have one.”

“I figured you’d say that, but she’s happy to pay.”

“Whatever.”

Driving away it strikes me that this is a pretty nifty job I have, or at least let’s say sometimes it has it’s redeeming aspects. People come to me, often in desperation, and pay me lots of their hard-earned bucks to help with problems beyond their coping. Sometimes their problems test my coping as well, but guys like Mike have no idea how much I learn from them for free.

Bud Gardner - Country Lawyer

Getting Started

Hi there and happy holidays. I wasn't planning to start a blog, just look a few over, but then what the hell, doing in my experience usually works out to pretty good learning. So here goes nothing.

I've been a lawyer in Washington state since 1970,and after several years of criminal defense and related work in Seattle, escaped to rural Okanogan county in 1979. I've been here ever since. A few years back a dear old friend from my days in the undergraduate creative writing program at the U Dub convinced me I should write up some of my thoughts and experiences. The result was my "Country Lawyer" column in the same old friend's little magazine out of Portland, Black Lamb.

It's going to take me a few weeks to get this going, figure out what I'm doing, get a profile done and a picture up and whatnot, but I thought I might post a few of those little essays to see what kind of response might be generated. Too late for that tonight, though. Back Soon.