G.H. Lawrence & Associates Blog

It’s been weeks now since the World Cup ended. Whether or not Americans finally began to embrace the game the way so many U.S. fans have hoped remains to be seen. I do know my son became further hooked on this really very special game.

My boy turns 9 this Saturday. He plays in a youth soccer league that operates a split season — spring and fall. We’re getting pretty close to the fall season. And while my son loves baseball and basketball — heck, he loves any kind of sport — he seems to be getting ready for the new soccer season with a more energy and excitement.

We were in London during much of the World Cup. We watched in a pub as England’s high expectations were dashed on the South African turf. The disappointment we saw on the faces of those around us was astonishing. Such anguish is hard to explain. I don’t have much to compare it to — with the possible exception of a beloved ACC basketball team losing in the final moments during a key NCAA Tournament game. But even that might not be quit the same.

While in London, my son spotted a shop along a busy street with all sorts of soccer shirts. He had to have one. After shopping around and trying on a bunch, he settled on a Messi jersey from the professional team he plays for in Barcelona. He attempted to wear it virtually every day of the rest of our trip. As his birthday approaches, I’ve been trying desperately to find another jersey, one like Ronaldo wears for Manchester United. Talk about a tough assignment. The web is loaded with these shirts, for sale through sites from Honk Kong to Rome to Tokyo to California — a genuinely international slate of offerings. But these things are wildly popular outside the U.S. and, thus, not cheap. They also can take a long time to get. If you want an inexpensive one, they’re available in China, but those take at least a week to arrive.

Then it hit me: Soccer may live in the United States after all, and maybe close to home. Something triggered a memory of what once was a tiny startup company in Orange County. EuroSport was its name. I went back online and, sure enough, there was the website (www.soccer.com/soccer_team.php), smack in the middle of all the top soccer sties the web has to offer — an international operation if there ever were one. Then I clicked the Contact button and found that, yes indeed, EuroSport is located right here in North Carolina, just up the road in Hillsborough. I found the number and called. A live person actually answered the phone. I explained my plight and, thankfully, they were delighted to help.

The lesson? Soccer may still be primarily an international sport. But here in North Carolina, you can also usually count on your neighbors for help. Thanks, EuroSport. I can’t wait to see my son’s reaction when he opens the box.

Playing hooky to watch the British Open golf championship is like the first few rounds of the NCAA basketball for golf fans. With the five-hour time difference, ESPN hits the air at 4:30 AM with its live coverage. Sheesh. I programmed my DVR to start recording then and started watching in earnest at about 9 AM. What a circus.

Now, anyone who keeps up with golf knows that the British Open is very different from the tournaments we watch routinely in the states. The conditions are SUPPOSED to be lousy. Players are supposed to be forced to hit shots they don’t typically hit in the United States. Here in the States, we play what Brits call ‘air golf,’ meaning we hit the ball from one spot, through the air, and hope to make it land near the desired spot, including the pin. The Brits, on the other hand, know about golf the way it was designed hundreds of years ago — bump and run, hit the ball about five feet off the ground and get it running a long way, hoping to have it settle near the hole. Hard to argue with that. They’ve been playing that style of golf at St. Andrews and other GB links courses for more than 600 years. And they say Pinehurst is the home of American golf — Donald Ross designed famed No. 2 some 75-80 years ago — but it can’t compare to the history and fundamental connection to the game that St. Andrews has.

Okay, after an hour or so of delay because of the wind, the players are back on the course. Phil Mickelson is playing poorly. An unknown South African is leading the field. John Daly, who won the won the Open in 1995, is in early contention. That’s what the Open is all about: Someone like John Daly, of all people, finding himself on the leader board.

I guess this is a lot like my life has been the past few years. Windy. A few delays. Some stellar plays. Some nasty hazards. In fact, it’s a lot like the way our state government has puttered along, as well. Up, down and all around. I can’t remember when the state Elections Board has been so busy.
With luck, the Open will stay on schedule and finish Sunday as planned. For the rest of us, we can take lessons from watching: Remain patient. Stay calm. Take your medicine when things go wrong. Grab the wheel and take full advantage when things are going well.

Cool, windy conditions coming off the North Atlantic Ocean at St. Andrews. As I discovered when I just went out for a bite of lunch, it’s still hot and very humid in North Carolina.

Which would you choose?

I lost a close friend the other day. Lee Richardson, one of the coolest, sweetest and most uncommonly decent people I’ve ever known, died while on a business trip in Ethiopia. In a way, it was fitting that he died in a faraway place. Lee had been trotting the globe for years, going back more than a decade to his days as a Vice President at SAS Institute. Lee was in Ethiopia on behalf of a new startup company he’d just joined. Ever the entrepreneur, Lee was always signing up with startups — or launching his own. Along with his adoring wife Val, Lee also had built a small real estate empire, including ownership of the Duke Towers Hotel and Condominiums, a hidden treasure in downtown Durham. He and Val worked hard to make the place homey and comfortable, which it certainly is. Val was always at Lee’s side. Lee made it clear to us all that he worshiped her. Together they were quite a pair, exceptional in every way.

It was a pulmonary embolism that killed Lee. There was no warning and we were all shocked. A pulmonary embolism? Lee Richardson? Part of the surprise came because he was an exercise freak. He ran, biked, swam, played tennis and played golf, all with passion and energy. He loved to garden and, with Val, had created an outdoor paradise in their back yard in Durham’s Forest Hills neighborhood, gorgeous plantings and trees surrounding their swimming pool. Lee loved that spot with all his heart. He told me so.

A lot of people say they speak several languages, but in my experience that’s sometimes an exaggeration. That wasn’t the case with Lee. He spoke fluent Japanese and was more than competent in Korean, Mandarin Chinese, French and Spanish. He loved to travel. He seemed to take pleasure in entertaining me with stories of his treks, especially his endless trips to Tokyo. I couldn’t get enough of his tales, which were somehow sophisticated and folksy at the same time.

Lee and I played golf together — and we both were avid walkers. Given the choice, we both would walk instead of riding a cart. For years, Lee and I played golf almost every Sunday with Dub Gulley and Matt Weitz. Together we formed the only real foursome I’ve ever had. We were a perfect group. We knew each other’s games as well as we knew our own. Talk about comfortable: We were like one on the golf course. Although we all played together so often, Lee and I ended up playing by ourselves a lot too. We both left our traditional careers to start our own businesses at roughly the same time. As a result, for a while there, we had plenty of time to play golf — and we took advantage of it. I thought about this recently and figured that I’d played more rounds of golf in my lifetime with Lee Richardson than anyone else. That means countless outings together, spending four hours strolling through green pastures and piney woods — all in the company of one of the finest individuals you’d ever meet. Whether with Dub and Matt, or by ourselves, we told jokes. We acted silly. We played serious golf for a few dollars here and there. We confided in each other about life’s frustrations. We talked about anything and everything. It was easy to make Lee laugh and he was good at returning the favor.

It’s been a week or so since I heard about Lee’s death. Somehow, the sadness has grown with time, not the other way around. A friend told me such a reaction is the sign of strong and genuine affection. I cannot argue with that.

I have a colleague who’s been stuck in Europe because of that pesky but massive ash cloud. He’s trying to get home to Raleigh, to return to his family but also to meet some important work deadlines. For a few days now, the ash has not cooperated. He and I currently are working together on a big project, so I have a vested interest in his safe, timely return. He’s trying to fly from Spain. Isn’t that where most of the first flights have started trickling in from? Who knows. I do know that of all the things that could delay a project for one of my favorite and highest-priority clients, I never would have guessed a volcanic ash cloud might be the thing. What a world. One final thought: When I cautioned my client that we might be running a little late, she asked a question I assumed was a joke. “Do you have a backup plan,” she asked, “in case the cloud lingers for a year or more like it did in the 1800s?” Uh no, I hadn’t gotten quite that far, I said. Then I chuckled. She didn’t respond in kind. Like I said, it’s a high-priority client. Come on, man, get on that plane!

I have a friend who like me is a consultant. (Heck, the Triangle is full these days of coffee houses where on any given morning you can’t swing a cat without knocking the latte out of a consultant’s grasp.) My friend does some work helping clients, often health care providers, improve their internal communications and management strategies. He knows I’ve had trouble with my aging bones lately — two knee surgeries in eight months etc. — and sought my assessment of the treatment I received at one particular medical practice. To preface, he told me he’d heard a lot of grumbling about this place, which enjoys a sky-high reputation but also is apparently getting some complaints about customer service. I told him I had one surgery there, but moved elsewhere for the second, more significant procedure because I wasn’t satisfied with, shall we say, certain aspects of my treatment at the first place. Would I write up an anonymous critique about my experiences, he asked? Sure, I said. When I finally started writing, it occurred to me what part of the problem was. Its roots are in a small, local practice founded decades ago. Today, while it’s crawling with excellent doctors and nurses, it also has become big business. Very big. Too big. It has multiple offices in multiple cities. Significantly, a few years ago they bought a failing, small specialty hospital in Durham; tore down the historic building; used the Certificate Of Need required by the state to operate it (too complicated, so don’t ask); and built a new version right next door to their own shiny headquarters across town. So nowadays they diagnose your injury, then literally trot you across the street to perform the surgery. I remember being a kid in Eastern North Carolina and virtually all the local doctors had their offices in small places within quick walking distance of the hospital. Most of these places at one time had been residences — small, modest wood frame houses the docs had rearranged for stitching cut knees, curing poison ivy and setting broken arms. But the location was for convenience; these docs didn’t own the damn hospital. The more I wrote my critique, the more I became angry — and confused. Big business. Bingo. And duh. Now the tough part: Will our new health care reform make it all just that much bigger, adding to the problems I described to my friend the consultant? In some ways, decidedly so. At the same time, of course, some believe reform will do the opposite by, as Bob Dylan might say, simply bringing it all back home. My stance on this issue has muddied considerably. At this stage, I’m embarrassed to say, I guess I’d settle for something in the middle.

The edge of spring makes me nervous. I have allergies. I prefer cooler weather . The changing of the seasons signals the end of college basketball and football. Hell, I still have a good-sized stack of firewood to burn. My tradition is to attempt to burn my last fire, and my last bit of wood, on the night of the NCAA basketball championship. I have too much to make that happen this time. Guess I’ll save some for early next season.

Changing seasons. What’s coming next? Tons of pine pollen. Spring break for my son’s school. First couple of trips to the coast. And soon, sooner than you might think, the Legislature will be back in town.

What can we expect? A lot of very serious and anguished talk about the budget. Some crime-control issues. Add to that what I believe could be the most important issue to be considered this short session: Contributory negligence. The way the law works now, if a driver injured in a car wreck is the least bit negligent — I mean the LEAST bit, like an expired inspection sticker or something — they can be held virtually as liable as the drunken driver with no license who, speeding, runs a stop sign and hits that driver in a fatal crash. Who should be blamed? Obviously, the drunken driver. But in our state, because the other car had an expired inspection sticker, that driver can be considered at fault too. This isn’t right. No two ways about it.

It’s spring. Time for change, huh?

First off, in the interest of full disclosure, I have a car for sale. If this blog entry helps me sell it, fine. So there. Here’s the deal:
I have a 2007 Toyota Highlander listed on Craigslist. It’s loaded, the Limited model with 4WD and V6. It has virtually everything on it that Toyota offered at the time. I even got the pop-down DVD player in the back for my kid. Beautiful leather, great stereo, heated seats — all the goodies. And to top it all off, I’m offering it way below book value, several thousands below. It’s a lease and time’s up. I really don’t have time to mess around, so I’m selling it cheap. I lease because it’s something my accountant advises. I don’t know why. That’s why I use him. He knows more than I do. About taxes anyhow.
How could this car sit quietly on Craigslist at such a bargain price? At first I was confounded. Then my wife made me understand: It’s all the trouble at Toyota, recalls and such. (I’m slow to catch on sometimes.) Even though this model is not affected by the recall, it’s stigmatized. Can things at Toyota be that bad? Apparently so.
It was mere months ago that the American car industry was hanging by a thread. (Actually, I suppose it still is.) Like most of us, I know many people who long ago swore off American cars in favor of the Japanese models. Hell, the last American car I owned was a 1968 Mustang convertible. It was white with black top and burgundy interior. I loved that car. Sold it for more than its original cost. My first car, not surprisingly considering my age, was also American. It was a 1962 Dodge Dart — Slant 6 engine, three on the tree, as we said in the old days. (That meant the gear shifter was on the steering column, instead of the floor.) That too was a good car. But it’s been a string of Japanese models since the Mustang, with the exception of one BMW in there somewhere in the late 1980s, which I indulged myself with and never regretted one bit. The only thing on that BMW that was no good was the air conditioning, which the Germans didn’t take all that seriously until a few years later.
How could Toyota fall so low so fast? I’ve not kept up with all the details, but best I can tell they bought something, something important like a piece of the accelerator system, from the Chinese. Ironies of ironies. The Japanese bought from the Chinese. And the Chinese failed them. With my lease winding down fast, what to do? American cars still don’t seem quite the answer. Not yet.
A while back, when gas was at its highest, I considered buying a scooter, just to run errands and jaunt around town. My wife talked me out of it. Said I was being silly. Too old. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

It’s the day after MLK Day and for me, frankly, it doesn’t seem a lot different than the day before — or the day before that. The mail arrived. The bank’s open. City services are back on schedule. I operate my own company and declared MLK Day as an official holiday. I was surprised so many others did not. I’m not entirely sure why I chose to close shop for the day. It just seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. For me, when the U.S. Postal Service shuts its doors, it’s pretty much a genuine holiday. In addition, no one with a remotely reasonable view of the world could argue against the idea that Martin Luther King Jr. was a genuine American icon, one of the few leaders of our generation who truly changed the world.

I grew up in a small town in Eastern North Carolina, a child of the late 1950s and early 1960s. For no apparent reason, I am flush today of memories involving some aspect of race. With no particular purpose or order in mind, here are some thoughts I cannot shake:

My grandfather and others proclaiming the best barbecue to be not from one of the well-known pork palaces in the town where we lived, but from the back porches where some of the inventors of what we now refer to as “Eastern North Carolina Barbecue” cooked and served their food. These culinary pioneers were black, of course. Few had their own restaurants, at least the kind of establishments their white counterparts ran. They literally served plates of succulent barbecue from their back stoops. Most lived in what we called the “black part of town,” while most of their customers where white men dressed in dark suits on lunch break from their office jobs downtown. Of course, few of those white businessmen would have allowed themselves to be seen entering the front door. So they ate out back. My grandfather said he’d be glad to sit on the front porch for all to see. It just wasn’t done in those days. I believe him.

I vividly remember my mother taking me to a local civic center in 1972 to meet Shirley Chisholm during her historic run for president. I was only 14, but the significance of the moment still had meaning for me. My mother made sure of that. She told me multiple times I was witnessing something special. I collect political buttons and I still have one from that event. It’s orange in color and proclaims: “Get On The Chisholm Trail.”

I’m old enough to recall the integration of our public schools. Before it happened, black and white kids at my schools all attended classes together. But I didn’t realize the ratios were what they were. It never occurred to me there were so few black kids. We all seemed happy enough though. Then school officials took our town’s traditionally “black” schools and made the student populations roughly 50-50, while the “white” schools underwent similar changes. It was not easy. I remember terrible brawls, violent ones, in the courtyard outside the cafeteria at my middle school. In one fight, a friend of mine was beaten badly. Kids of both races were hurt. For weeks after these fights police patrolled the hallways at our school. The uniformed presence sure seemed odd. But we all got used to it. I’m not sure when the cops left, but eventually things cooled down at our school.

All those memories seem a lifetime ago. I guess in some ways, they are.

I’m astonished at all the feedback I’ve gotten from my last post on Wednesday, entitled “Kennedy, my father and me.” It’s all been positive. I liked the piece too, but I take little credit for it striking a chord. Instead, it was all about the subject — Ted Kennedy, a visit to the Senate by me and my father in 1963, and the emotions generated by both. I spent so much of Wednesday writing that piece, responding to comments and working on other, unrelated duties, I didn’t have much of a chance to dwell on how I felt about the Senator’s passing. His death is more meaningful for me today.

I’m a left-leaning Democrat, so Kennedy’s politics have always suited me fine. I’m just old enough to remember the uproar surrounding the events at Chappaquiddick. Even as a kid, that whole mess struck me as wrong. I certainly remember the adults around me being chagrined. Later, after my father had become something of a big deal in Washington himself, we heard rumors about Kennedy’s shady social life. In the 1980s, it was his nephew and the charges facing him in Florida. Very unseemly stuff, all of it.

But as my father said yesterday, it sure seemed that Kennedy had improved his life during the past several years. Despite any personal demons he might have faced, he became more and more like a father figure to many of us. He became a statesman. He became the man he couldn’t be when he was younger. I can identify with that. It takes longer for some of us than others.

Michael Jackson’s death is still in the news. I know it may not be exactly the same thing, but I hope Ted Kennedy’s death gets a fraction of that attention. Something tells me it won’t.

So on the day AFTER Ted Kennedy died, I’m researching his legacy. It’s an amazing one. From boyhood, to being kicked out of Harvard, to coming back to Harvard, to the U.S. Senate, to becoming the leader of a political party. Ted Kennedy: What a remarkable story. It’s one we shouldn’t soon forget.

Though so many memories from my earliest days have faded with age, I can still remember the first time I saw Ted Kennedy. I’m not sure why this event stands out so vividly in my mind, but it does. It was 1963 and Kennedy was in his first term as a United States Senator. I was 5 years old and in the company of my father, who was in his late 20s. In fact, my old man was 29. The thought of my father at 29 is enough to stir my emotions alone. But when I revisit these fuller images of a young Kennedy on the Senate floor — and my youthful father holding my hand as we climbed to our seats in the gallery — I can’t avoid choking up a little, especially on this day.

My father thought it was important that I see and experience as much of the world as possible at an early age. He took me all over the globe while I was still a child. With my father at the helm, we traveled like crazy, undertaking long exotic trips interspersed with plenty of spontaneous little jaunts, zigging and zagging through life with a curiosity and enthusiasm I hope my own son has inherited. (To this day, even a short adventure in the company of my father is, without fail, a fine learning experience and a wonderful pleasure.) So against this backdrop of zestful living, a quick visit to the U.S. Senate on a sunny afternoon in Washington was not so unordinary.

Peering down from the gallery made me dizzy. It seemed a mighty long way to that plush, colorful carpet on the Senate floor. It was not a big day in the Senate. The atmosphere was business-like, a bit hushed, but with plenty of activity — members moving about freely, pages and aides scurrying around, quiet laughter breaking out in small groups. Cigarette smoke created a haze that floated somewhere above the floor but beneath our spot in the gallery. A young man, only a year or so older than my father, addressed the room, hardly noticed at all. Dressed in a dark suit with narrow tie, he waved his hands as he spoke. His voice rose and fell with a natural rhythm that someday would become famous. His words created shallow echoes that bounced around the almost-empty gallery. No one seemed to be paying much attention, but he kept hammering away. My father knew who he was and told me: “That’s Kennedy’s youngest brother, Ted. He’s a new Senator from Massachusetts. Let’s listen.”

I’m pretty sure Kennedy’s brother, John, was still alive at this point, probably working away at his desk in the Oval Office just down the street. No one could have known what was about to happen to our country — and the Kennedy family — in the very near future. Looking back now, it’s almost hard to fathom. I get goose bumps thinking about it.

So we listened. I remember Kennedy’s voice, with his New England accent, and I remember his face, young, fresh and vigorous. Of all the fascinating topics he could have been addressing this day, the rookie Senator from Mass was discussing some kind of proposed tax on sugar. Since Congress doesn’t play a role in local sales taxes, I assume the issue involved international trade. This was the early 1960s, of course, decades before NAFTA or anything remotely like it. I wish I knew more about what he was talking about, but I just don’t. Maybe someday when I have enough time on my hands, I’ll do some research and find out. But for now, it doesn’t matter.

What matters to me is that I can remember these events at all. It matters that I was exposed to the U.S. Senate at such an early age. It matters that I got to see such an important figure in American history at this point  in his life and career. It matters that all this happened when I was with my dear father. My father, who at that point was relatively conservative politically, went on to become quite the liberal in the following five or six years, during the late 1960s. Forty-six years later, his political views have changed some more. So have mine. But not Teddy Kennedy’s.

For better or worse, Kennedy has always remained steadfast in his liberal positions. His politics simply didn’t change much. The only thing that really did change was his ability to get things done in the Senate. Over time, his legislative skills grew and improved and became so powerful that, as Vice President Joe Biden said this morning, the Sentate probably will not see his like again.

Kennedy served in the U.S. Senate during five decades. I feel lucky to have seen him in those early days. It’s a memory I will cherish: Being with my father. The stately Senate chamber. Cigarette smoke in the air. And a sugar tax I still don’t comprehend. But the older I get, the more I realize we don’t have to fully understand things for them to bring meaning to our lives. In fact, sometimes the most important memories don’t make much sense at all. They just hang there, snippets we’ve snatched from a long reel of tape playing over and over in the back of our mind. This is one of those memories for me.

I recalled this memory today with a mix of sentiment, fondness and respect. This morning, I was fotunate enough to share it with my father. From two of us who continue to survive that moment in 1963: Good-bye Senator Kennedy. We hope you rest well.