Like the Kansas song (and I do a mean karaoke version, along with Gold Dust Woman), what remains of Lord & Whip has, for the most part, been carried off by the wind.  For me, anyway.  What I have left is a couple of old admiralty books, one of which formerly belonged to George Whip, and the firm’s grandfather clock.  It doesn’t keep time and I doubt it’s worth anything, but it has sentimental value for me.  I am glad to have it in my office.

Lord & Whip celebrated its one hundred year anniversary a couple of years before I was elected a partner in 2008.  The firm cracked in half when I’d been a partner for all of eleven months.   Of the four partners who remained after that split, I believe I am the only one still actively practicing.  And I was the last elected owner of a firm that saw the Great San Francisco earthquake, the death of Susan B. Anthony, the birth of Samuel Beckett, and two World Wars. 

In the middle of the ordeal, I contemplated all sorts of horrible ways to destroy George Whip’s book.  I thought about burning it and posting a video of the bonfire on YouTube.  And worse things.  I know this was childish, and realistically I never would have done any of those things.  But it felt good to think them.  I was so very, very angry.

But I don’t feel that way anymore.  Time and the resolution of litigation have facilitated this, and copious amounts of wine haven’t hurt.  It was what it was, and it is what it is. 

So that’s my piece, and I’m done.  I’m not going to write about it anymore, in this blog or in my personal writing.  I’ve turned off the lights and turned the key in the lock.  Lord & Whip is now closed.