Everybody complains about the weather, don’t they?  “Dang, it’s cold!”  Does that really count as complaining?  Does the snow care if I grouse about it?

When I was a Kansas City, Missouri prosecuting attorney, a hundred years ago before electricity was invented, and well before Al Gore invented the Internet, I served in Courtroom D, under Judge Leonard Hughes Sr.

A fire-plug of a man with a gravelly laugh who called me “Madame City Attorney Hotlips” in private, and “H.L.” in public, Judge Hughes ruled from a bench over which he could barely see but did so with piercing eyes.  He understood humanity.  In those days, when confused gender-identity had not yet found its way to the psychology journals, Judge Hughes allowed male prostitutes who preferred to dress as women to do so in his courtroom. He called them “Ma’am” and used the feminine names they preferred.  Though he threw a little humor in the mix at all times, he treated everyone with respect, even the most nervous of traffic violators or the new cop on the block.

Judge Hughes opened every docket the same way. He hammered his gavel on the bench to silence anyone still muttering after Bailiff Bill Green announced that court was in session.  When he had our full attention, he proclaimed, in his strong, firm voice, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I woke up this morning, which is more than a lot of people can say.  So let’s get this show started.”

I cannot recall ever hearing Judge Hughes gripe, grumble or complain.  As long as he awakened each morning on the right side of the ground, he counted each day as a blessing.

The snow might not care whether I complain about it or not.  But Judge Hughes, retired, and later, gone to his Maker in a sad and terrible car accident on a snowy winter’s day, skidding into a pole or a tree on his way to court — well, Judge Hughes might, and so.  And so.  Everybody I saw today that mentioned the snow got this from me:  “Well, it could be worse. We could be in Minnesota.”