Tom Robert's Story:
My senior year, I wanted to attend UC Berkeley, like my
idols Brian McGuire, Robert Gray and Mario Savio. However, my father—who had attended Berkeley
in the 30s—was of the opinion that there were three major centers of World
Communism: Moscow, Berkeley, and the
University of Chicago. So I went to St.
Mary’s College, where I signed up as pre-med and learned (1) to play rugby, (2)
to drink beer, and (3) that being color blind wasn’t a passport to success in
biology, chemistry, or the practice of medicine. (Doctor:
“Hmmm. Would you say that rash is
red or green or brown?” Patient: “Hmmm.
I’m going to give my lawyer a quick call.”)
Armed with a degree in Biology-Chemistry, I also learned
that no one in 1968 was anxious to hire someone with a 1-A draft
classification. Accordingly, I accepted
a position as a warehouseman at the Del Monte Cannery in Emeryville, where I
worked stacking boxes on the prestigious “glass line” (Fruits for Salad, very
special) until informed by my draft board in August 1968 that the enemy was
running critically short of targets, so that I would be snapped up in about six
weeks. Despite my best efforts, I
couldn’t find a reserve unit (the Coast Guard wouldn’t even put you on the wait
list if you over 17½).
As Brother Bernard, the typing guru, might have said: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy
dog.” Arf.
So I was in the Army for three years, including a year in
Vietnam as a field artillery officer. My
brother Chris (class of 1968) came over while I was there; he flew intelligence
surveillance airplanes. We both came
home for a few weeks when our Dad died, then went back to finish our tours.
Returning to a Grateful Nation, I was unemployed for six
months—there was a recession, and the non-vets had all the jobs. My military skills of making beds, shining
shoes and directing artillery fire were not in the demand the recruiter had led
me to believe. Nevertheless, I was
eventually able to parlay my degree and my leadership background into a
position loading and unloading trucks at the post office in Oakland. Swing shift, 10% differential after
midnight—sweet!
After a year or so, I bid a fond adieu to my chums on the
loading dock and became a benefits counselor for the Veterans Administration,
first in San Francisco, then in San Diego.
It often pitted younger vets against the bureaucracy--like anything has
changed--and, was, somewhat to my surprise, very satisfying. During this period, my son Matthew was born.
In 1976, in a desperate bid to (1) get out of working, (2)
attend graduate school, and (3) avoid labs at all costs, I used the GI Bill and
enrolled at the University of Chicago Law School, thanks in large part to the
recommendation of Jim Burns, who had graduated a few years before. (His law license was eventually
restored.) Based on my father’s beliefs,
I fully expected to take courses with titles like, “Overthrowing the
Government: A Guide for Lawyers,” I was stunned to learn that the University
had since become the “crib” of Milton Friedman and the Trickle-Down
Quartet. Ah, the Great Mandala.
After graduation, I practiced law in Washington, DC, doing
mostly civil litigation and legislative law (lobbying). I was part of a team
representing an American company in the extremely famous “Polish Golf Car
Case,” in which we brought an action against a Polish company that had the
temerity to sell communist golf cars (not carts!) at a lower price than the
American kind—clearly a violation of the antitrust laws. (By the way, all possible jokes have been
made with regard to Polish golf cars.)
Legislative work was mostly in the tax area (although I did
work on the first Chrysler bailout in 1979-80).
I learned to say that, if Congress would just lower taxes for this particular
mega-corporation, the savings would be poured back into the economy to create
more jobs (primarily for the makers of cigarette boats, Rolex watches and
private jets).
On the other hand, I was also part of team that won a pro
bono case for some black iron workers against a discriminating union. That made us all feel like the license was
worth something.
I sort of burned out in DC and moved to Vermont, where I
practiced with a small firm. (Actually,
they are all pretty small.) Work was fun
and good, kind of like being in a real-life episode of Andy of Mayberry. The pay, however--not so much. I was a single dad at that point, and had to
worry about college for the boy--who else was going to guarantee my Golden
Years?
In 1987, I left Vermont to accept a position as General
Counsel on Senate Committee on Veterans Affairs, and have done legislative
stuff ever since. I was able to help
write and pass a lot of laws, including one that created a new Federal court
and another that changed the way the government pays for drugs. I once got lobbied by a guy from R.J.
Reynolds tobacco, who, in desperation, informed me that one was more likely to
get lung cancer from having a bird in the house (because of feathers or
something) than from cigarettes. Not
sure what would happen if one smoked the bird.
I “revolved” between the Congress and VA, at one point
working as Sen. Arlen Specter’s Chief Counsel and Staff Director. Arlen and I had kind of a stormy romance,
highlighted by me being fired at a Senate committee markup because I stood up
for the staff (firing later rescinded).
While working for the Senate, I also met my wife Jo, who was working for
Senator Alan Simpson. She later became a
judge at VA.
I left the Senate and became Chief Counsel for Legislative
Affairs at the Board of Veterans Appeals, part of VA, working there about nine
years. In 2003, following a more or less
“shot in the dark” job application, Jo and I moved to Germany where I became
the legislative counsel for the US European Command in Stuttgart, a “joint”
military headquarters with operational responsibility for US forces in Europe. I advise the command on what’s going on in
Congress, draft legislation, and coordinate lobbying efforts. Much fun.
Jo now holds the equivalent position at the US Africa Command, which is
also in Stuttgart.
We live in small town called Herrenberg (about 25 miles from
Stuttgart) and, frankly, would prefer not to leave. The pace is much less hurried, we are within
about two hours of five countries (we’ve literally gone to France and
Switzerland for lunch), stores aren’t open on Sunday, and Germans pretty much
love Americans. Plus, there’s no Second
Amendment.
Except now we have a grandson (4/16/14) who—as luck would
have it—is the most adorable baby in the history of the world. (What are the odds?) Baby and parents are in Austin, Texas, where
son Matthew manages people who do software development (I think), and his wife
runs the information technology stuff for a big home-sharing outfit. Austin has great music and horrible weather,
so we’ll see.
I keep trying to come up with “fond memories” of the high
school. Not sure if they’re fond, but here are four
things I remember, anyway:
1. Mr Neuberger,
explaining the importance of consistency in plotting a novel in English class,
telling us that you couldn’t have a story about a war hero with fabulous
exploits, and then have him slip on the gangplank and die when he gets off the
ship at home. Which is basically the
ending of the “Das Boot,” a great movie about a German submarine in WWII. (Should I have said “spoiler alert”?)
2. Football coach Dan
Shaughnessy telling us that “It’s no good unless it hurts.”
3. Brother Timothy,
on Friday, November 22, 1963, while we were in homeroom waiting to go to Mass,
coming into the classroom and saying:
“Now you have something to pray for.
President Kennedy’s been shot.”
4. Brian McGuire
telling me that I wrote as well as O. Henry.
See you soon.
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