Passion seems to be bestowed as a blessing on few people but
seeking it is a not inconsiderable chore conferred on the many.
I am not officially retired, but it seems that way. The clients call less and the work I did as a
trial lawyer has become less and less appetizing. Business has diminished, not only because I
am seventy-nine years of age, but because I have zero desire to market myself
like a snake oil salesman. I leave that particularly
odious practice to well-funded and battle stationed Morgan and Morgan and
others, whose legions of paralegals, investigators, paid experts and
well-staffed soldiers battle with insurance companies, and “fight for you,” its
overworked lawyers all the while complaining to their colleagues and family
that they hate what they do.
Fifty years at the bar, and I do not mean Flanagan’s, is
enough, so I leave the task of transferring wealth from one party to another
and taking a piece of the action the alleged passion of the many. I do still
consult with clients, if I can be of help them.
I wonder if I can achieve a modicum of mastery the piano, considering
that when I took violin lessons as a youth, the bandleader working at my dad’s
upstate New York hotel, a Catskill fiddler by the name of Billy Rogers (nee
Rosenberg) who, admittedly, was not a music teacher, told my father, that I was
the “dumbest, most tone-deaf child he had ever met.” But then again, he was no Isaac Stern nor even
a music teacher. Music teachers do not
scream at their beginning ten-year-old students. The sole reason Dad asked him
to teach me was because a guest had left a violin in one of his hotel
rooms. Before my dad’s discovered violin
aspirations for me, I had expressed neither the interest nor the inclination to
play the most difficult, annoying instrument, or torturing everyone within
hearing distance. “Press the strings until your fingers bleed and you develop
callouses,” said Billy. I do not recall what happened to the violin or Billy,
although he was aged in 1952. Dad either
sold the violin or most likely, gave it away.
Another serial disappointment from his son, I guess.
After becoming a lawyer, I decided I would learn to play
tennis. And I loved it. I was addicted. I became reasonably competent, starting
at the age of 35, and playing regularly until I hit 70 and had spine surgery
laying me up a few years. I was never
the best, but I was pretty good, had a good serve and tried to play again a few
years ago, losing to a younger fellow who had been playing just a few years. I
had beaten him soundly before. Never
fast on my feet, my molasses-like movements said, time to hang up the sneakers.
Life is a series of things being taken from you.
At 55 I had taken up golf.
I think I have a pretty good swing, but athletically, I needed time to learn,
( a nice way to say I am a slow learner) and time is running out. Although that would not stop me, if I had
some agreeable companions with whom to play.
Many of the friends whose company I enjoyed have died or fallen
away. There is nothing worse than
spending 18 holes with someone monumentally annoying. “Nice putt,” they said,
as my ball sped past the hole. Plus,
most golfers do not share my politics and, inevitably, an afternoon of
enjoyment turns into a dumpster fire. Most
players who are Republicans, cheat. The
shoe wedge or miscounting the score is a frequently insufferable habitude of
the right-wing selfish, individualist, “let them eat cake” crowd.
Now, when my days are not consumed by interminably long
doctor’s visits or some new ailment appears, I am seeking something to do with
my spare time. Going to the hospital or
delivering goodies to the ill and infirm is too depressing, since I already am
depressed about most people walking past me as though I did not exist. I have become irrelevant and invisible, both
not particularly enviable results of my wrinkles and weathered skin and
increasingly whitening hair. A grey ghost.
I suppose I should take comfort that a geezer like Joe Biden
could be president, gaining inspiration from him. But he seems so delicate, so frail now, that
a stiff breeze would blow him over or he might stumble coming down the stairs
of Air Force One. It is frightening to
behold.
Still, Joe beats the alternative--the orange-colored crook
who is still peddling the big lie.
The country is in the worst crisis since the great
depression, and Joe is not FDR.
Which brings me back to the piano. I asked a neighbor who is a music teacher at
an exclusive private school, “Is learning the piano at 79 doable?” He replied, “definitely, it will be good for
your mind. Always keep two hands on the keyboard and learn musical notation.” I replied that I had purchased a book that
said I will be able to play a Bach prelude within six weeks if I practiced 45
minutes per day. Encouraging. I guess I
will find out if it can be my new passion.
David Wieder Nov. 2021
