Daylight Savings Time: Providing neither more daylight nor any other appreciable savings

Congratulations! If you're reading this in the United States (except in Arizona or Hawaii), you have successfully survived the first few, most perilous days of Daylight Savings Time.

Traffic accidents go up on the Monday after Daylight Savings Time begins; there is also an uptick in heart attacks. And how many people fall off chairs, or ladders, trying to change the clocks in the kitchen or on top of a bookshelf?

Do you know anyone who really likes DSL? When I was working full-time, of course, I raged that losing an hour of my precious weekend was a terrible burden -- but, even in retirement, I see no virtue in it. I saw something online about an old Indian chief who allegedly said only the American government could cut the top foot off a blanket, then sew it back on the bottom of the same blanket, and then claim the blanket was now a foot longer. That story about sums up my current attitude toward DST. Do we turn on the lights a little later in the evening now at the Curmudgeon home? Yes, we do. But, just as we were starting to no longer need to light every light in the house to get moving in the morning, we now need them again.

A month ago (or so) we were turning into a blinding sunrise as I pulled out of our driveway to take Long Suffering Spouse to school. But the days got a little longer and the Sun became no longer an issue. Now, with DST, we are turning into the blinding sunrise again.

These are not terrible things; they are merely dumb. Pointless....

...but not permanent.

In a week, we won't be driving into the sunrise (again). In two weeks, we won't need to turn all the lights on in the house to get started in the morning.

Once I finish changing the clocks, the new time is the only time I know. Or acknowledge.

Long Suffering Spouse is made differently. I suspect she is far from alone in this: She clings to the notion that it is 5:00, although the clock says 6:00, for many days. The alarm doesn't ring at 5:30 a.m. (though the clock says otherwise). For Long Suffering Spouse, it is still 4:30 a.m. And she is more tired accordingly.

Middle Son and Margaret and their five children live in Michigan now, down among the Insufferable Elitists, according to this "Painfully Honest" map of Michigan:

That's in the Eastern time zone. Thus, when we went to visit them, a couple of weeks ago, before the switch to DST, we nevertheless had to 'spring forward,' if only for the weekend. Our phones and my Fitbit, at least, do this automatically; I changed the time on the car dashboard before we were out of Indiana. But Long Suffering Spouse kept asking, "What time is it really?"

I well know that I am not as accepting of as many things as I should be. But when all the clocks in the house agree that it is 8:15, I accept their verdict. Because everyone else in the vicinity is in the same boat.

Still... the only good thing I can think of about DST is that it furnishes an excuse for us to turn back our clocks to Standard Time in the Fall. And who doesn't appreciate an extra hour on the weekend? [Rips foot off bottom of blanket and sews it back to the top of blanket... and all the while wonders... could we do this with velcro instead?]

A Boomer moment for which I do *not* apologize

Illustrated above is an exemplar of a check. In the prosaic language of Section 3-104 of the Uniform Commercial Code, a check is "a documentary draft, payable on demand and drawn on a bank," the kind of "negotiable instrument" that displays "an unconditional promise or order to pay a fixed amount of money" to a particular person or organization.

Check writing is apparently a lost art.

Indeed, when I went online this morning to search for a picture of a check with which to illustrate this post (not wishing to provide a picture of one of my own -- I see no reason to make it even easier for the Russians or North Koreans to drain my meager checking account), I found all sorts of helpful bank tutorials about how to properly write a check. Because the kids these days... and by "kids" I mean almost anyone 50 or younger... and certainly darn near everyone 30 or younger... don't know how to write checks. Instead, they apparently point their telephones at one another, like ray guns from a 1950s sci-fi kids show, and zap money to each other when required.

The accounts in which their zappable funds are held are still referred to as "checking" accounts, but the word has rather lost its meaning, since account holders seldom or never draw checks on these accounts. At least the phrase 'checking account' is no longer understood in its original sense, much like this symbol:

A younger person will recognize this as a "save" symbol, without having the faintest idea that the image is that of a 3.5" floppy drive... of which there are dozens gathering dust in my house alone.

And, of course, referring to the 3.5" disk as a "floppy" is a further example of a word that lost its original meaning, inasmuch as the 3.5" disk was entirely rigid and not floppy at all, as opposed to its predecessor, the 5.25" floppy drive that could hold an (at one time) astounding 360kb of data. Astounding, that is, compared to the 8" floppy disk... which was really floppy. I don't have any of the 8" floppy disks laying around... but there is quite a collection of 5.25" disks gathering dust in my home along with their 3.5" brothers and sisters.

But we will quickly climb out of that rabbit hole and resume our rant about checks.

The young people don't write checks anymore.

My wife, who is still teaching, has had occasion in recent years to order t-shirts for a school club she moderates. She asks the parents to send a check to cover the cost... and, with each passing year, this apparently becomes a more and more arduous task. Put it this way: The school parents need to look at the online tutorials I saw this morning. One parent wrote my wife a check with the amount of the check on the "pay to the order of" line. I had to take these checks to the bank for deposit... and I was afraid this one might not be accepted for deposit... and, indeed, the young teller gazed quizzically at that particular check for some time, before deciding to accept it.

If all goes well, later this summer, most of the Curmudgeon family will vacation together at a house I've rented for this purpose in another state. Middle Son wanted to book the house, but I pulled rank and claimed the honor. Among other reasons, I don't know how to point my phone at his and make money magically jump to his device from mine. "That's fine, Dad," Middle Son said, "now I'll get to write the first check since I wrote you the check for our vacation rental last year."

So I fully understand that the Young People don't write checks.

But... last I heard... the Uniform Commercial Code is still the law of the land (there may still be some variations of the UCC in Louisiana which are inapplicable to this discussion). A check is money.

So this past Tuesday, when I had occasion to be downtown for my only day of work this month, I brought with me a check to pay a department store charge card bill which was, by coincidence, due that very day. The walk to the store during my break would satisfy my Fitbit that I was exercising as it demands, and lend purpose to my wanderings.

I hoofed over to the store at my first opportunity.

I won't name the store, of course. I'm sure the store would be tremendously embarrassed by this story, or at least it should be, but if you guessed that the store in question has a modified bullseye for a logo, you'd be right on target. *Ahem*.

Anyway, I went to the customer service desk (I believe they call it 'guest relations,' but I have no relations working in that store that I know of) and presented the payment coupon and my check, whereupon the smile on the face of the nice lady behind the counter froze. "Oh, no, sir," she said, "we don't take checks here any more. It's store policy."

Now... being a reasonable fellow... I can understand a merchant being wary of accepting a check for the purchase of goods. If the check is no good, the customer has effectively absconded with the merchandise. There are civil and criminal remedies for passing bad checks, of course, but, while these consequences are far more onerous for the person passing the bad paper, there is, undeniably, a certain amount of inconvenience involved for the merchant. If the merchant does not wish to deal with that possibility, I do not say him nay.

I do not reflexively condemn every reduction of payment options. To cite an example: I am not happy with the fact that the pizza joint where I go for lunch on those few days I work downtown no longer accepts cash. Only credit or debit cards are accepted. But that is because, in Chicago, as perhaps in other big cities, there are people who view a cash register containing cash as an untapped wellspring for their own personal use. The pizza joint's policy is an unfortunate, but arguably necessary, response to a bleak reality of our modern world. The department store's position regarding accepting checks for payment of its store-issued credit card, on the other hand, is just plain stupid.

It is stupid because, when a person tenders a check for the payment of store-issued credit card, the merchant has no additional risk than it would if a person tried to pay online, and no inconvenience whatsoever. It is out no merchandise -- at least no new merchandise -- and, should the check prove to be backed by insuffience funds, the merchant can suspend credit, close the account, and maybe even sue. It certainly will add large penalties and fees and charge usurious interest on the balance due, just as it would do if no attempt at payment were made, or if payment were defectively tendered online.

So... yes, I suppose it was a 'Boomer moment' as I stood at the counter, brandishing my check, dumbfounded by the store's refusal to take my lawfully tendered payment. But it was not simply that I am old and the world has passed me by. I was right, and within my rights, and the store was stupid. So I make no apology -- this time -- for my Boomer moment. (I later paid the bill online, as I usually do....)

Long Suffering Spouse fails to attain verticality

I jinxed us.

In our last episode I suggested that Long Suffering Spouse would defy any virus that tried to lay her low; I said she'd consider herself healthy enough just as long as she could attain verticality. As long as she could get up and go.

Friday morning, Long Suffering Spouse's get up and go got up and went. She failed to attain verticality.

Almost from the moment I posted last week, my health deteriorated. My Fitbit told the tale: Instead of my now-customary 10,000+ steps, on Tuesday, I achieved fewer than 2400. On Wednesday, determined to get ahead of my personal creeping crud (nothing more exotic than a bad cold), I tried to sleep the day away and managed not even a thousand steps.

My wife suggested I was roughly a week behind her, health-wise, and she carried on as usual. She worked until midnight Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday, too.

Friday morning, while I was laying awake and trying to concentrate more on the radio news and less on my hopelessly clogged sinuses, Long Suffering Spouse started to scream.

When she tried to sit up, the room started spinning, she started feeling sick, and garish, pulsating visions started to impose themselves upon her field of vision. Then she thought everthing had or would go black... and that wouldhave been a relief.

The above illustration is garish and nausea-provoking, perhaps, but it isn't close to what Long Suffering Spouse experienced by way of her vertigo attack Friday morning: We made the diagnosis fairly quickly, after consulting the greatest medical mind the profession has ever known... Dr. Google.

It took a couple of hours for Long Suffering Spouse to make it out of bed, and another hour besides before we could get downstairs to our coffee. I texted my wife's principal immediately after the first round of screaming stopped, letting her know that Long Suffering Spouse would not make it in. I was then free to try and find some place where she might be seen.

The trick to accessing quality medical care in America these days is to never try. There'd be no point in even trying our internist; she doesn't see sick people. Actually, that's probably unfair to suggest: She may well see sick people... if they've gotten, or remained, sick whilst waiting for their appointments. We'd made it downstairs; we were no longer in a true emergency sistuation. We'd not have to bother an ambulance. But, even though Dr. Google had made it quite clear that the vertigo attempt was alsmost certainly just a temporary, if miserable, condition, my wife wanted to be seen by someone. And my daughters agreed.

I therefore found an immedate care (a 'doc-in-the-box') nearby and having ability to see us... allegedly... pretty quickly.

I made an appointment online... and we were still there for more than two hours. For most of this time I waited in the car (we had plenty of our own germs, thank you, we didn't need to mix and mingle with any new ones unnecessarily), while Long Suffering Spouse languished in an exam room. At one point, Long Suffering Spouse texted me that she was beginning to think that they'd forgotten her.

This proved to be only partially true: A nurse practitioner did indeed find Long Suffering Spouse and administer various tests -- ruling out ear infection and stroke and that sort of thing -- and then triggered another blinding episode of vertigo by having my wife lean back in a certain way. Apparently the exercise was designed to set off an attack, but the suddenness and intensity of the attack was such that it seemed to have scared the NP as well as my wife. Anyway, they decided I'd best come into the examination room, and I immediately answered the summons that came in via text.

I gave the receptionist my wife's name and asked how may I get to her room -- and she first told me that they didn't have anyone by that name -- then she asked me if I maybe had intended to wander into the physical therapy place next door instead -- and only then, when I persisted, scrolled back far enough on her screen to find out where Long Suffering Spouse was. So I guess they were in the process of forgetting she was there.

Anyway, long story short, Long Suffering Spouse is much better today -- having attained verticality again, if unsteadily -- she's back at school, teaching.

You, the reader, may take today's essay as testimony to my wife's grit and determination. Her toughness. And, of course, that is a reasonable and correct interpretation of this tale.

But I see something else that may be going on here, something having to do with some hietherto unsuspected predictive power that this site may possess: I had only to comment about my wife's insistence on going to work as long as she could 'attain verticality' and -- voila! -- not only is she not able to go to work, but she is in fact kept out of work by a malady that makes 'attaining verticality' a near-impossibility.

Well, then. This may be an opportune moment to say I am going out to buy winning Lotto tickets. Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what I want to do next. If there's anything to it, my next entry may be datelined from the South of France....

January birthday parties in particular typically come with something extra...

Disease.

So I left off last Thursday, saying I was about to head out to pick up Grandchild Nine from pre-school. Which I did.

I wasn't exactly on time... but I wasn't so late that the school felt it necessary to notify Younger Daughter or her husband, Olaf. Actually, Nine said that he wasn't even the last kid to be picked up. Only next to last... but I will take my triumphs when I can.

My instructions were to bring Nine to Younger Daughter's House. What was to transpire thereafter was at first a trifle vague, but, ultimately, I wound up staying there for a few hours, during which time Olaf dropped off Grandchild One from her pulmonologist's appointment, scooped up the new puppy, and headed off to the vet.

Olaf returned from the vet about the same time that Younger Daughter came home with Grandchild Four. I had asked for instructions about giving my charges lunch -- they did not have a slice of bread in the house for sandwiches, so, with Long Suffering Spouse's permission, I volunteered to take One and Nine back to my house and feed them. We have bread. But neither Younger Daughter nor Olaf responded to my request for authorization to pull up stakes... even when I promised to bring them right back.

Whatever.

I did my duty and got my lunch when I returned home. Around 3:00 p.m. Just before I would have to pick up Long Suffering Spouse.

Four's adenoid surgery was, initially, the only complication known for the weekend. It was hoped, however, that Four would rally in time to go to the family January birthday party. Birthdays party?

Three of our grandchildren were born in the first month of the year: Grandson Seven (Younger Daughter's older boy), Granddaughter Eight (Middle Son's second born) and, celebrating his very first birthday, Grandson Fourteen (Youngest Son's younger boy). Middle Son, his wife Margaret, and their five children now reside in Michigan, an hour or so outside Detroit, so a degree of planning is required for any Curmudgeon family event. And a certain amount of good luck, too: Even if everyone stays healthy, coming around Lake Michigan in January can be somewhat hazardous. That's where most of our lake-effect snow goes... somewhere from Gary to Benton Harbor... depending on the wind direction. The entire area is not usually subject to heavy snowfalls all at the same time; the snow comes off the lake in bands of varying width. Buffalo may have it worse, but driving through a lake effect snow squall in Indiana or Michigan can be blinding at best. And very scary. A bad weather forecast would result in the party being cancelled, or at least rescheduled.

But the weather forecast seemed promising. Cold -- a real arctic blast by the end of the holiday weekend -- but not snowy.

Younger Daughter and Youngest Son both volunteered to host the party at their respective houses. By some process that did not involve me, Youngest Son's house in the western suburbs was chosen as the venue. Middle Son would arrange for catering. Younger Daughter would bring the birthday cakes and party bags.

(If you're wondering, all we were asked to do was bring a vegetable tray... but Long Suffering Spouse decided to make cookies for the party, too.)

It seemed a good thing that Youngest Son and Danica were hosting, too, when, on Friday morning, Younger Daughter disclosed that Grandchild One -- you know, the one I was watching just the day before? -- had woken up with a temperature of 102.8.

There was a scramble to find out what virus had felled One: She tested negative for Covid, Flu A, Flu B, and strep. If it had been one of these, Birthday Boy Seven and all his siblings and Long Suffering Spouse and I would all be forced to cancel. But since it was nothing identifiable... well, the question was still open for discussion.

All I cared about was that Middle Son was properly notified before he set out Saturday morning. When I talked with Older Daughter Friday, she seemed not to know about One's bug. So I flat-out asked Younger Daughter is she'd actually warned her brother.

She was mad at me for even suggesting that this might not have happened. When she calmed down, Younger Daughter told me that she and Margaret had decided that those kids who had gone to school on Friday could go to the party, unless they had become actively ill in the meantime.

This may have explained why Older Daughter was being coy when I'd spoken with her on Friday: Her youngest daughter, Grandchild Six, had been kept home from school on Thursday because she had some bug or another. I wasn't exposed, at this point, to Six's bug. But (guessing before she learned about the Friday school rule) she had decided to hold Six out on Friday as well. Older Daughter was most insistent that Six was much improved on Friday: She was eating like a Hobbit, Older Daughter told me, scarfing down two breakfasts at least.

And so Middle Son and his brood came in. His youngest, the twins Twelve and Thirteen, had runny noses, but they are teething. Seven and Nine came with Younger Daughter (One and Four -- who was not recovering as fast as had been hoped from her surgery -- did not).

The party went off well enough. With all the presents for the three birthdays it looked like Christmas. Fourteen's older brother, Eleven, kept trying to open his brother's stuff, but he's two and you wouldn't expect anything else. Seven seemed to run down a bit, at one point, but he rallied instantly when his uncle put video games on the basement TV.

Sunday, Middle Son and his brood came over to our house after early Mass. Youngest Son came along a little later -- his boys had slept in and he was not going to rush them. Older Daughter's oldest, Grandchild Two, had an indoor soccer game Sunday morning, but she and her mom and dad and her sisters, Three and Six, came by in the afternoon and everyone stayed well into the evening. (Yes, if you're keeping score at home, we provided breakfast, lunch, and dinner during the course of the day... if you had been thinking we'd gotten off easy with the vegetable tray on Saturday, you are now free to think again....) Younger Daughter and her brood did not make an appearance; then again, Younger Daughter had to work Sunday afternoon, so that was not a surprise.

The surprise came later: Seven, who'd been at Youngest Son's house for the birthday party -- after all, he was one of the honorees -- had a 105 degree temperature Sunday night. Not a typo. 105.

Eleven had a low-grade fever yesterday, too. And Danica is not pleased. She's had to cancel some plans today on account of Eleven's condition and (I think) she may feel that her husband's siblings and their respective spouses were not entirely forthcoming with regard to the risk of contagion. She will learn, in the fullness of time, that everybody gets sick in the winter, especially once the kids start school or day care. There's not much anyone can do about it. I'm pretty sure that's what happened to poor One: This is her first year in middle school -- hence, a whole new set of germs to sample and to spread. Next year, Two will be in a different middle school for the first time and she will probably have more than her share of creeping crud come next winter, too.

Curmudgeon family gatherings will be increasingly difficult for some time, as the grandkids age up.

Younger Daughter was very upset about the unexpected illnesses that played havoc with our party plans, too, and I don't blame her.

But here's the awkward truth: With any luck at all, my grandkids can look forward to decades of parties with their cousins. My kids should likewise be able to enjoy each other's company for many years to come. As bad as one of the kids or grandkids feels about having to pass on a party because of illness, it's much, much more difficult for Long Suffering Spouse and me. I hope we may yet have several more good years... but the actuarial tables are starting to turn against us.

So we went to the party Saturday and we hosted on Sunday because we know this can't last forever. Even though we know there will be consequences: Long Suffering Spouse started in with a bit of a dry, unproductive cough a few days ago. She never acknowledged illness, of course: As long as she can attain verticality, she's healthy enough, in her view. As long as she's actually breathing there's no way she'd get sent home from school. The cough got worse over the weekend, but the kids and the grandkids didn't hear it. She's got a sore throat today and various aches and pains, but it's below zero outside, and it could be the weather, you know. It's certainly a contributing factor. But she's at school today, teaching as if nothing were amiss.

I had been entirely fine all weekend and in the days leading up thereto. My cough started in last evening. I slept badly last night and feel worse today. I cancelled my dental appointment today because it probably isn't a good thing to hack up a long while the hygenist is stabbing at my gums. I wish everyone could stay healthy... and then I wake up.

Trust your gut... and your bladder: Curmudgeon makes an alarming decision

This isn't the alarm clock on my nightstand, but it's very much like the one I have had for... gosh... 30 years at least. Maybe 40? More?

The volume control on my radio is shot, erratically going LOUDER or softer, but not everyday, and I'm not too certain how well the tuner would work, were I ever to try and change stations. Which I haven't tried for years. Anyway, the darn thing is old, but it works well enough for our purposes: The first alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. WBBM Newsradio comes on -- the AM station, not that FM upstart which I would occasionally tune into for traffic updates while downtown, because AM never worked in the shadow of skyscrapers -- and Long Suffering Spouse and I respond by 5:30 or so. She gets moving first. As long as I don't blink, I'm only five minutes or so behind.

Of course, one is expected to blink when taking one's glaucoma drops in the morning, which I do -- I resisted for years, but I have run out of excuses in retirement. But I am mortified on those few mornings when my blinks... extend.

Our radio has a 6:00 a.m. alarm setting as well. The news goes off for a minute at 5:59 and that silence -- if I haven't already gotten out of bed -- will jumpstart me into frantic action.

That's enough detail about our regular routine for this story, which concerns Granddaughter Four.

She is having her adenoids removed today -- they're probably already out as I type this, actually, given her surgery time.

But we didn't know what time her surgery was scheduled for until quite late yesterday evening.

This was not the fault of Younger Daughter and Olaf, Four's parents: The hospital is supposed to call them the day before the schedued surgery and tell them what time the surgery is set and what (much earlier) time they are to arrive.

There was a question whether I would be pressed into service getting Grandsons Seven and Nine off to their respective schools (Granddaughter One takes the bus to middle school and so does not need my transportation services). I know what time the boys have to leave... but when would their parents be leaving with Four? Because that would be when I would need to arrive.

Older Daughter works evenings these days. She was already at work by the time the hospital got around to calling. Olaf let me know that the surgery was set for 8:50 a.m.

I did some quick ciphering. The hospital usually wants check-in at least an hour before the procedure -- they were supposed to specify this when they called Olaf, but did not -- and the hospital is a good half hour away from their home. Build in a little cushion... I figured they'd be fine if they left by 7:00.

But to get to Younger Daughter's by 7:00, I'd have to drop off Long Suffering Spouse at school by 6:30 (she's still teaching). The 5:00 alarm would have to be advanced... to 4:30 at least. Maybe 4:00. I communicated most of this to Olaf.

Hang on, he texted back (you don't think I actually spoke with a Millennial on the phone, do you?), there are complications.

Granddaughter One had a pulmonologist's appointment that apparently could not be rescheduled, and their new puppy (long story) had her first appointment with the vet. So Olaf and Younger Daughter would be playing a game of divide and conquer. He would handle the appointments for One and the puppy while Younger Daugher got Four to the hospital. If he did these things, he would be able to drop off the boys, too.

(Honestly, my grandchildren -- all of them, or darn near all -- have each had more doctor's appointments and procedures and surgeries than I ever had -- and I've had cancer and a heart attack -- I don't want to go all MAHA on you so soon after coming back here... but, gosh, one can't help but at least wonder.)

Anyway, Olaf concluded, I should plan on being there at 7:00... but maybe that would change and all I'd have to do would be to pick up Nine from pre-school around noon. He said there should be a message on my phone by morning as to my final instructions.

That's when I texted that I'd have to advance the alarm a bit to make it there by 7:00... and he said he'd get back to me as soon as he could (meaning when Younger Daughter was through with work, so they could finalize their own allocation of labor).

I promptly fell asleep in my chair watching TV. Long Suffering Spouse eventually did, too. There was no further direction on my phone when we woke up to go upstairs.

But it sounded, at least to me, like I would be spared early morning duty. I told Long Suffering Spouse that I would not advance the alarm. We'd improvise if necessary.

This is what passes for risk-taking by grandparents, right?

But it all worked out.

Through a happy combination of Old Man Bladder and Catholic Guilt, I was up at 4:00 a.m. anyway. I checked the phone: Sure enough, a message had come in while I was off in the Land of Nod excusing me from early morning duty. So I have time to tell this story... and maybe do some other stuff, too, before I have to go out in the cold....

ABA spreads ludicrous claims about lawyer income

Ed. note -- I find it difficult to believe that I haven't posted here since 2022, but the list in the archives appears dispositive on the question.

A bit has happened between then and now, and I've written about it extensively, of course -- just not here.

I had a heart attack a couple of days after my last post (no, it wasn't fatal, why do you ask that?) and we've welcomed four more grandchildren into the family between that last post and this one. I've also retired from the active practice of law, mainly because I wasn't earning any money from it. Persons searching the archives here will quickly discern that I've often bitched about not making any money from my chosen profession -- but I'm dead serious here: At the end, it was costing me money to pretend to be in business. I wasn't making enough money to pay for my malpractice insurance, bar dues, and license fees. Why that was the case is not what brought me back here today. The actual reason should become clear momentarily. Read on.

----------------------------------------------------

This past November, the American Bar Association published, as part of its annual survey of the profession, an article purporting to describe the average wage of the American lawyer.

According to the article, which I first spotted on Twitter, or X if you prefer, as of May 2023, according to statistics apparently obtained from the Bureau of Labor Statistices, the average lawyer in America was earning $176,000, a 19.2% increase from 2021-2023. The linked article includes this chart:

Yes, I know some attorneys that made this kind of money. Some.

No, none of them was ever me.

In my best year ever, my K-1 -- the total that got reported to the IRS -- the total on which I had to pay taxes -- was somewhere around $50,000 more than I ever actually saw. Ah, the joys of working at a small firm.... (Of course, I'm grateful for that K-1 now -- that was one of the most important numbers that the Social Security Administration used in calculating the monthly benefit on which I now subsist. And since I did in fact pay taxes as if I'd actually received the amount reported -- according to the partnership's accountants, this really was the share of partnership income attributable to me, my vociferous protests notwithstanding -- the SSA in particuar and the good people of the United States in general aren't being cheated in any way.)

I had some good years. But never $176,000 good. There were more than a few years where it was nip and tuck for much of the year whether I would clear more from the practice of law than my Long Suffering Spouse earned as a Catholic school teacher. (Don't get her started on that -- the starting pay for a newly-graduated teacher in the Chicago Public Schools is somewhere around $55,000 -- well more than my wife makes after nearly 30 years at the parish school.) I'd say I usually beat her number... but not always. Toward the end, I had a year where I made nothing after expenses. And, of course, at the very end, in 2023, when the average lawyer was supposedly banking $176,000, I was loaning the business money to pretend to be in business.

I trust it is now clear why I had to vent about this anonymously. Were I to write about it under my own name, it might appear that I was trolling for sympathy or, worse, setting up a GoFundMe.

No. If I ever attempt to profit from my many failures (a notion I have toyed with in the past) it will be by delivering something of value -- a book, I hope -- that you can buy of your own free will, whether online or at your nearest bookstore.

But, in the meantime, I felt compelled to call out this crazy ABA claim about lawyer income: While there are indeed some lawyers who make $176,000 annually, and some, indeed, who make a whole lot more, there are a whole bunch of us who make a whole lot less. And who have done honorable work nonetheless.

I'm not just talking about public interest lawyers either: The linked ABA article notes that that average salary for lawyers in legal aid, public prosecution or defense, other public agencies, or not-for-profits earned far less than $176,000. They bring down the average, if you will. But there were years I would have killed to make so 'little' as these claimed average figures for lawyers at NFPs or doing legal aid.

Well... maybe not killed... but I would have been significantly envious.

So, bottom line: I think these ABA figures, though grounded in government statistics and other seemingly reliable sources, are ludicrous. The average work-a-day lawyer simply doesn't command this kind of dough. I can't prove the ABA wrong, but I am certain that, on the question of average lawyer income, they most certainly are wrong.