Vol. 34, No. 6, 14. Bar Counsel Report.

• Author: by Mark W. Gifford Bar Counsel Wyoming State Bar

Wyoming Bar Journal

2011.

Vol. 34, No. 6, 14.

Bar Counsel Report

Wyoming LawyerIssue: December, 2011Bar Counsel Reportby Mark W. Gifford Bar Counsel Wyoming State Bar Of Christmas, Fist Figlits,and Brotlierly Love In my family, it is now known simply as "The Fist Fight." It is a subject rarely broached except during holiday meals, when it can be counted on to come up every time.

The evening of December 24, 2007, found me dozing on my ex-wife's living room sofa while the Denver Broncos went down in defeat on Monday Night Football. Cindy's alarmed cry woke me with a start.

«Boys! Stop it! It's Christmas Eve!»

I followed her down the basement stairs to see what was causing the commotion that sounded sure to tear the house apart at its foundation. We found our son. Grant, then 21, hovering over his younger brother. Reed, 18, fist cocked and poised to let another punch fly. A welt was already rising under Reed's left eye. Both of them were panting like dogs.

Cindy had moved herself and the boys to Cody in 1998, a few years after our divorce. I eventually took an apartment two blocks from their home, and divided my time those years between Casper and Cody. Christmas 2007 found Cindy's house populated by herself, her boys, and Michael, a brainiac classmate of Reed's whose parents were half a continent away and unfit to care for their remarkable son. And three dogs. And, living on the front stoop, a cat. Cindy is constitutionally incapable of turning away homeless animals, her sons' cast-out friends and, come holidays, her former spouse.

"Both of you, stop it," Cindy said, more calmly now that the storm seemed to have passed. "Come upstairs and open presents."

Both boys took a deep breath. Grant offered his hand and helped his brother up, giving Reed a final shove to the chest for good measure. A few minutes later, we were assembled around the Christmas tree. Reed handing out gifts, each of us observing the time-honored ritual of opening one present at a time, laughing and joking, Michael wide-eyed with wonder at his raucous foster family. It was as if the donnybrook had never taken place.

The following morning I was at Cindy's front door early, warmed by the new sweater my sons had given me the night before, a DVD of "It's a Wonderful Life" in my hand. "Merry Christmas," she said sleepily, unlatching the screen door to let me in.

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