tidwell « Robin Writes

…of a pissed-off writer.

That was a Facebook status yesterday. And today, I’m going to tell you why this is a bad idea.

My dad died in 2001. In April 2005, we discovered that his widow was prepared to sell the family farm. OUR family farm, not hers; not even my dad’s, although he’d acquired it several years before his death. Lawyers were obtained by both sides – which segued into three or four sides, or more, before it was all over.

Of course, it wasn’t all over.

Both/all sides agreed on most points; negotiations continued, well beyond the bounds of a normal time frame, because one law firm involved seemed to have forgotten how to use the telephone. Or email.

I began working with my current attorney’s firm in February 2008. It took until November 2011 before the other side(s) signed the paperwork and the suit was filed. The St. Louis County Probate Court said it would be signed by a judge within a few days.

That turned into a few weeks. Then months. Nothing but excuses from the court.

Finally, I called the court myself and said I was prepared to file a complaint. The next day, the judge signed and the order was finalized. That was in June 2012.

Now, it’s March. 2013. Initial disbursements were made, others were to be forthcoming in the next 30 days; a few other details could possibly have taken a couple months. In fact, we were informed in December that QC deeds had been signed involving the farm itself, but to date nothing has been finalized or filed.

Besides all this, here’s why I am totally ticked off beyond reason:

I’ve spoken with my attorney every couple weeks from December through January. He said he wanted to wrap this up before he went on his two-week skiing vacation. He did not. He was back in the office by early February and has not taken a single one of my phone calls. Or responded to email. Or to messages. Oddly enough, according to one girl who answered the phone, he has no voicemail.

The excuse I heard most often, throughout this eight-year ordeal, is that he has “no information” for me and so simply ignored my calls. Buy a clue: GET the information!

Funny how an attorney who gripes about opposing counsel returning calls can’t manage to do so himself.

Oh, and here’s a clue, Eric – you don’t even have to buy it, I’ll throw it in for free. Considering that I paid you over $30K and did a lot of research and such myself, not to mention a big damn waste of time trying to get you to finish a job, I only think it’s fair that I let you in on something:

Having your receptionist answer the phone and responding “yes” to my question of “Is Eric in?” and then coming back to the phone to ask my name, only to tell me that “Oops, he must have stepped away from his desk,” is not fooling anyone. It only makes you unprofessional, as well as laughable. Same thing with having her tell me that telling me that you “don’t have voicemail.”

Obviously, you are incapable of completing a task, timely manner notwithstanding. There really should be a binding clause somewhere that states you don’t get paid AT ALL until the case is over, settled, kaput. One more thing: I’d be very careful casting stones against opposing counsel; those things have a way of coming back to bite you in the butt. And I really hope it does.

The primary setting in REDUCED and REUSED is an “old, abandoned camp.” However, it’s actually an active camp, consisting of 700 acres, that has been in operation since 1927. Of course, we aren’t entirely sure “when” REDUCED takes place, so perhaps by then it could indeed be considered both of those things.

The lake is a real lake, eight acres in size as it says in REDUCED; the “old” infirmary and shower/laundry room are real locations, as are the numbered sites. Many readers of the novels know exactly what I’m talking about, as many have been there as either campers or counselors or both. And the hills in the books are named after the actual hills. Many of you remember those famed “7up” hikes!

There are indeed shelters up on top of Pioneer Hill, and at one time there were tanks on the crest of Tank Hill. The current camp ranger has verified the existence of the underground cave on Sunnytop, and of course the spring, down past Site 3 and behind another camp unit, is well known. The cave opening on the cover of REUSED is up behind the office building; the photo was taken on a recent trip down there.

The stone posts of the camp gate are a familiar site to a campers and staff, past and present, as are the roads leading to them – all accurately named. The towns and landmarks in both books are real, and exist today in the St. Louis area.

As for my own history there, I began as a camper in the early 70s and ended as a staff member in the mid-80s. I’ve been down there, camping, in all seasons and all weathers. I’ve hiked over a good portion of the camp, and it’s as familiar to me as my own backyard.

I’ve had my share of adventures at camp, starting with getting bug spray in my mouth the first year, nearly stepping on a copperhead the second year, and almost drowning in the monsoon that erupted right after a tent camp out in the meadow. I’ve wiped out on my bike, gotten the worst case of poison ivy I’d ever had in my life, and been stepped on, kicked by, and dumped off of more horses than I can count, all the while having the BEST TIME EVER at camp. Surprisingly, to me and to others, horses never made an appearance in either novel.

I met some of my closest friends at camp – I won’t name them, because I might miss someone and would never hear the end of it! But I will say that I’ve stayed in contact with some since the late 70s and recently reconnected with others that I first met in 1972… and the really cool thing about this place? I often run into others who I never did meet during summers down there, but we still have a connection. Some of these “new” friends came to camp for years before I first became a camper, and others were there a decade or more later.

But we’ll always have camp. Probably sounds silly or strange to those who were never there, but to those of who were – we know better.

The cedar trees are calling

And whispering a tune,

For it’s nature’s peaceful love song

To the winds they gently croon.

The emerald hills are fading

And the sunset’s glowing gold;

And the whippoorwills are calling

While the moon is growing bold.

Farewell, we take memories

That years cannot fade.

Our Cedarledge friendships,