Along the Way

There are certain aspects of a child's life in which a father will always be deprived,
But it's from his being that this child's own person will gradually be derived.
He may not carry in the womb or nurse the child for strength,
But through his example and his presence, his nurturing will go to enormous lengths.

An adolescent may often find it difficult to comprehend,
Why a father worries and must always keep the upper hand.
In each and every trial and tribulation there is meaning to be taken,
Even if years must pass before the lesson learned is to be awakened.

It's most often in those years later down the road,
When that child may reflect and see what the past relationship has bestowed.
Some may trace their father's footsteps and others may explore new ground,
But whether it's evident or hidden, the impact of a father will always be profound.

I did not know until these recent days,
All that I've gained and how much of him I inherited along the way.
From him, I was granted my strength of will and determination to survive,
Aspirations to be successful and  a strong sense of pride.
I too lack some patience, but strive for his heart of gold.
I'm also multi-talented and not so bad looking, so I've been told.
But like my father, I'm forgetful sometimes and always on the go.
I neglect to say thank you, you mean the world to me, and I do love you so.

For Dad,
Love always,
Ashley Dawn
2003

For Dad, May 2003

You have known me since before I was born.

I have known you since before I can remember.

My first memory of you is vague and fuzzy. You were always there, but I can't pinpoint an exact, first memory.

I remember your visits to California in the 70s. I remember our trip to a dude ranch in California and our trip to Hawaii.

I remember our trip to Mendocino when I wanted a book about Mendocino, and you said I could have it only if I would read it. I still have that book.

I remember the three of us traveling back to Virginia in 1976. I guess that's when you officially became a stepfather and I officially became a stepdaughter.

Who would want to be a stepfather? Who would willingly choose that? Who would choose to take on an 11-year-old girl who still foolishly believed in her "real" father?

A brave, loving man, who believed in the 11-year-old girl, and in whom the 11-year-old girl would eventually believe.

That 11-year-old girl is now a 38-year-old woman. 27 years have passed, and that 11-year-old girl is still inside this 38-year-old woman, wondering if her stepfather still believes in her as she still believes in him, as she believes in him as if he were her "real" father, because in her mind he is her only father.

With Love Always, Kristi

Remarks for the service
Whitney L. Duncan

Thank you all so much for coming—I always knew Dad was loved by many, and I’m so grateful that you could make it here and share in the mourning of his death and celebration of his life.

Two nights before he passed away, I began writing him a letter. We were alone in the hospital room save for nurses coming and going, and I decided that since I couldn’t speak with him I would write to him—knowing that he might never wake to read what I had written. The following are excerpts from that letter, which I read to him while he was still unconscious a few hours before he died, and the letters I have continued to write since that night.

Dear Dad,

I am sitting in the hospital with you as you lie, resting as you have been for days now, fighting for your life. We gather around you—you are rarely in the room alone, a testament to your magnetism, to how much love you inspire in us. We maintain hope, remain talking to you, though we don’t know if you hear us.  

I wonder what you are thinking, what dreams you are having, what images or memories or fragments flash across your mind. Who is calling to you? What can you feel right now? Do you know it when I hold your hand?

We looked at hundreds of photos of you today, and put many up on the hospital wall so if you wake the first things you’ll see will be people and images from the rich life you’ve lived. Though not as colorful as the narratives you’d tell yourself,  the photos tell stories about you and us at various stages of life: you and Mom at your wedding in Carmel; you smiling in your Porsches; you in pools and hot tubs; you jumping on a trampoline in St. Michael’s; you in your suits and tuxedos, always dressed to the nines; you holding all of your children as babies—you looked so happy, a carefree glow about you, and I think those days treated you well.

The way present becomes past is very poignant and immediate to me right now. How we age. How moments and sounds and tastes and smells become relics. The way things are—they always become the way things were. The things that are constant in life, though, I learned in great part from you: the joy, happiness, and love that a close family can yield, as it is yielding right now, in the hardest of times.

You wrote about the importance of home and family in an English composition from 1951, when you were only 13. It’s called “What my Home Means to Me,” and in it, after detailing your daily routine, you wrote:

“We realize, while we are together, how lucky we are to be all together in a warm comfortable home, with plenty of food and clothing. We think of the people who are less fortunate and don’t have these things to keep them well and strong.

At school, church or club, there are friends to keep you company and make you happy, but in my opinion there is no other place where you can get as much joy, happiness and love, as in your own immediate family. I wouldn’t trade the things I get out of my own home for anything in the world, except more of the same thing.”     

Thank you, Dad, for teaching us our whole lives what you already knew when you were 13. We are and will always be so grateful to you for all you’ve given us in life; grateful to have been touched by your presence.

I have hope—I want to hear your voice again, I want to laugh until we cry, I want to hear all of your stories again, I want to see you in the kitchen with your coffee and the paper you read every morning. I want to see you out of this bed and out of this hospital where you have been too long. I want you to meet Ashley’s kids, my kids, Andrew’s kids; I want you to see Lauren, Heather, Alex, and Madelyn grow up.

But if you can’t be here, at least in body, you will be here always in spirit and mind and heart, I promise. I go to you and kiss your forehead—do not be afraid, I am here, fully with you, sending healing energy and hoping you can feel that.

It is two days later and last night, as Andrew and I were falling asleep in your hospital room, I remembered how much you loved to garden. What pride you take in the plants that grow for you, in the colors that show themselves during the spring thaw after long winters like this one. I remember you out in the yard for hours on end under the sun, flower bulbs scattered around the grass. You surround yourself with beautiful things, Dad; like your garden, you have put love into your home and family and life and all of that love comes back to you.

We are all here with you, not wanting to let you go but knowing we must. We spoke to the doctor and you are not getting better.

You can let go now Dad, I say. You can go home and rest. All the love in this room won’t leave you when you leave this room. It will be with you forever, just as yours will be with us. Don’t be afraid. We are here.

We love you, Dad.  

Remarks
by Andrew Duncan

Thank you all for coming—it is beautiful to have so many people come together this morning to remember and celebrate my father’s life.  

While preparing something brief to say about dad today, I was initially overwhelmed as I thought about the complex shape of his life and the huge arc of his relatively short time here with all of his family, friends, and associates. During his final stay at the hospital, I pored over many photos of dad that our family has accumulated over the years (largely thanks to Kristi) and began to wonder how one person could experience and accomplish so much in just a single, brief lifetime. Since my childhood, it has become increasingly clear to me that there was something almost larger-than-life, something brilliant, and something that I could only describe as “epic” about my father. Over the years, many of my closest friends from high school and college have confirmed this observation, and they have frequently expressed affection and admiration for dad’s flair, his handshakes, and, of course, his rich sense of humor. The strength of his personality was undoubtedly apparent in his unique personal style, his panache, his deep appreciation of fine cars, wines, and watches, and in his seemingly inhuman ability to tolerate pain and discomfort (some of you will recall the time he completed a full round of golf after fracturing his ankle with a misstep on the second green); but more importantly, dad’s vitality was evident when he spoke, narrated stories and jokes, or shared a well-reasoned morsel of wisdom.   

Dad loved to give gifts. Whether at Christmas or on our birthdays, he always watched with a glow of satisfaction as we tore off bows, ribbons, and wrapping paper to find out what the package contained. But there was inevitably one present--the present--that required the undivided attention of everyone in the room. “Wait, wait, wait, not yet!” he’d exclaim when you reached this final, all-important gift. “Donnetta, Whitney, get the camera ready!” As a young boy, my joyful reaction at opening these awesome gifts was often beyond my influence, as I anticipated the pleasure of enjoying a radical new Ninja Turtle toy, a Batman bike, a snowboard, or, most recently, a new watch. 

But if there is one thing I would like dad to know right now, it is this: although these gifts certainly were and are superb, his greatest gifts were those that he shared with us nearly every time he spoke aloud. His way with words, his use of language, and his tremendous capacity for self-expression—and ultimately self-direction—were both his greatest tools and his most precious gifts to me. I know that many of you have witnessed his unmatched ability to express himself over the years, whether in the form of a toast, a message of gratitude or support, a blessing, a marriage ceremony, a conference call, or (my imagination leads me to suspect) a courtroom flourish. 

His ability to speak and write with elegance and precision magnified his explosive intellect. He once explained to me that, as a young man, he’d read (and understood) the entire dictionary. And to the best of my recollection, he never gave me a reason to doubt such a grandiose claim. He demonstrated a respect for words and a mastery of our language—I suspect that it will surprise nobody here that one of the quintessential memories of dad in our home is of him sitting at the kitchen table or in his favorite lounge chair in the evenings, pen or pencil in hand, patiently and meticulously working his way through a crossword puzzle from the Post. Dad also believed that one’s capacity for self-expression could determine professional success, and he never tired of telling me that there is nothing more exasperating than an attorney who can’t write.  

It would be difficult to discuss dad’s personal or professional life without also mentioning his fierce work ethic and the dedication he showed towards any task, legal or domestic. This was rather obvious in his patient and perennial gardening rituals, the scrupulous attention he paid to our cars, and his devotion to the Christmas décor of our home. I learned very early on in life that the holidays were a big deal, mainly because dad and I typically spent an entire day just carrying box after box of decorations down the frail and perilous ladder in our garage, and another several days stringing lights, hanging wreaths in every window, and adjusting and then re-adjusting the tree until it stood up perfectly straight. Likewise, he taught me to plant impatiens and conquer weeds in the soil of our front yard, where we also spent quiet summer evenings playing catch. The results of dad’s dedication to these seasonal activities, as many of you have observed over the years, were often nothing short of immaculate.  

These gifts from dad—his way with words, his work ethic, and his love of ceremony, ritual, and preparation—could be seen well into his final months with all of us. Although his passing is enormously painful for all who knew and loved him, I take great comfort in the fact that he was well enough to spend time with his family, friends, and golf buddies for the better part of the last year. Some of the highlights (at least for me) included my college graduation, a beautiful beach vacation with all of his children and grandchildren, his 70^th birthday bash, and a New Year’s Eve at our home when, despite his obvious weakness and discomfort, dad gave his final toast and shared his deep feelings of love and affection for our family.  

The final gift of dad’s that I’d like to mention was the intense loyalty and firm support that he showed me throughout his life. As with any father and son, we were prone to occasional disagreements. But even when he disapproved of my decisions, he was always strong enough and smart enough to let me take risks and make my own mistakes. He understood that this was an indispensable step in my own pursuit of independence, self-expression, and self-direction. In a letter he wrote to me when I graduated high school—and after his first brush with his own mortality—dad asked me to trust my own judgment and reasoning when making important decisions. Knowing that I will never again hear his voice or his advice in this life, I have begun to appreciate that piece of wisdom from five years ago.   

Although I strongly doubt that funerals were among his favorite rituals or ceremonies, I think dad would be genuinely grateful to see this gathering--this coming together--of friends and relatives who wish to honor and remember him. I am certain that my family and I will continue to remember and honor him as we go forward with our lives. At all of the future graduations, the weddings, the births, or maybe even a future Super Bowl victory for our ill-fated Redskins, I will remember him with the affection and tenderness that he deserves. He taught us to communicate, to celebrate, and to dedicate ourselves to the lives we choose and to those we love most.  

Before ending, I would also like to sincerely thank all of those who did everything in their power to save dad from his illness and those who worked to keep him comfortable during the last couple of months. This includes Dr. Eugene Lambert and his fellow oncologists as well as the nursing staff at Arlington Hospital , especially the wonderful nurses of the ICU. Thank you for putting up with our endless flow of questions, our occasional skepticism, our banter, and our tears. Thank you for allowing us to sleep in your chairs, and for devoting your lives to the wellness of others. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I do not die.

Read with love by Kristi Hansen, February 28, 2008

Remarks by Michael Postar, delivered at Memorial Service on February 28, 2008.

 Wallace L.  Duncan

Donnetta, Berney, Kristi, Ashley, Whitney, Andrew, family and friends, so many friends, on behalf of Walley's colleagues and friends at Duncan, Weinberg Genzer & Pembroke I will take a few minutes to tell you what Walley meant to all of us. For those I have not met my name is Michael Postar, a law partner of Walley's.

For the past 15 years, I have had the good fortune to practice law with Walley at the firm that proudly carries his name. From the start of his career at the Department of the Interior, through his partnership at Jennings , Strouss & Salmon to the founding of his own firm, Walley continuously demonstrated the finest attributes of our profession. He was proud to service clients that were, as he put it, "the good guys." Stopping the Cross Florida Barge Canal in one of the most significant environmental victories of the 70s, breaking the NY electric companies' grip on consumers in Massena, Sherrill and other communities, allocating water rights among warring western states and successfully negotiating and litigating the development of new transmission connecting California to the Pacific Northwest are but a few of his varied accomplishments.

It's an impressive body of work. As those from the consumer-owned utility community here today, including clients, members of the bar and experts in the fields of economics and engineering can attest, it’s no exaggeration to describe Walley as a pillar of this community. And while his many professional accomplishments bear testament to a successful legal career, there’s another side to Walley that I want to talk to you about today.

The essence of Walley Duncan is not reflected in the rulings he won, though there were many, or the success he achieved through the arguments he presented to generations of judges, or even the countless clients, a virtual who’s who of consumer-owned utilities, whose respect he earned. No, he was more than all of that to us.

Walley had a flair, a style, a presence that was undeniable. It wasn’t just his impeccable attire that distinguished Walley—although it was undeniable that he looked better dressed casually than the rest of us did in our finest suits.

No, there was something more about his man that drew people to him. It was really quite simple—he understood people. He knew how to make you laugh when you needed to laugh and how to lift you up when you needed a hand.

Over a glass of wine, or maybe two—merlot—always merlot—Walley would spin captivating stories; some of which were even fit for mixed company. It could be about an errant golf shot, a courtroom blunder, defeating the Evil Empire that we knew as Enron, a new strategy for prying power from the New York Power Authority, defeating PG&E’s latest gambit or battling the California electricity transmission operator’s latest misstep. Walley had so many stories.

He was as quick on his feet as he was with his words. Among his proudest achievements was the formation of new municipal utilities, and the Massena, NY, utility was one of the first and one of the most difficult projects. A long and arduous legal fight pitted Walley against the NY utility. As only he could tell it, following a particularly heated cross examination of his witnesses, blows were struck in the witness box and blood was drawn by the NY utility attorney as the panel watched in horror. Walley jumped into action to pry away the attacker and restore order. But it doesn’t stop there. The NY attorney, no longer willing to address Walley by name, simply referred to Walley as the man in the plaid coat. Always the fine dresser, and a quicker wit, Walley retorted, “better a plaid coat than a checkered past”! And eventually, of course, Walley prevailed for his client.

And who can forget Walley’s representation in the case involving the cost of nuclear plants in Louisiana, Arkansas and Mississippi . Walley’s initial meeting to present the options to the Governor of Arkansas, Bill Clinton, occurred in the kitchen of the Governor’s mansion. None of this fazed Walley, not even Bill Clinton’s dire prediction that his reelection as governor hinged on Walley’s saving the case. I guess, as they say, the rest is history.

Many of us were part of these stories. Others have heard them from Walley, for he was a consummate storyteller. And those stories were true—make that generally true—well they at least had a whiff of truth in them. But as we all know, it wasn’t the stories we were listening to. It was the storyteller. Spinning his magic, entrancing yet another gathering, making the evening go by so quickly. That is what many of us will remember. The stories were fun – the storyteller was memorable.

His passing leaves a big void in our lives. It leaves a big hole in the consumer-owned utility community and in his Firm. And make no mistake about it, it is, and always will be, his Firm. He crafted the firm by associating with people he respected and with whom he wanted to practice law. And the attorneys and staff at the firm felt the same for Walley. He treated every employee with care and respect. The importance he attached to the Firm’s entire staff and the way he treated each of them is a hallmark of Walley’s philosophy. And they rewarded him with a dedication to the Firm that simply doesn’t exist elsewhere today.

A mentor to me and many other attorneys who have had the privilege to practice law at Duncan , Weinberg, Genzer & Pembroke, an astute legal mind always searching for challenges, and a man we proudly call our friend, Walley will be greatly missed.

Public power has lost a warrior and we have lost a unique, valued and dear colleague. From his second family, at his Firm, Walley will forever remain in our hearts.

Fondly remembered,

Michael Postar

February 28, 2008

Remarks by Peter Scanlon
Delivered March 15, 2008, Edgehill Ward, Salt Lake City, Utah

Wallace LaMar Duncan
Professional Accomplishments


On behalf of Walley’s colleagues and friends at Duncan, Weinberg Genzer & Pembroke - I am honored and challenged to attempt to explain how much Walley meant to all of us at the firm.  A firm that Walley founded on nothing more than his skills, guts, tireless labors, and the ideal that the firm would focus on serving consumer-owned power entities.  Although it may have been more lucrative to represent investor-owned utilities, Walley was proud to serve clients that were, as he put it “the good guys.” And of course, the firm was built around Walley’s personality, his larger than life presence, his style, and his philosophy.

I had the pleasure of meeting Walley a few, long years ago when I was considering a return to private practice. Of course he made a great impression.  It was quickly apparent that, despite his position of power, Walley was firmly grounded in the real world, and we shared a public-minded philosophy.  Certainly this was a special person, with a love for life and family, and a dedication to his firm, his clients and his profession.  It was the trust that I quickly developed in Walley that emboldened me to leave my job with an energy company, pack up my household, and move to Washington. 

I recall as though it were yesterday my first exposure to the magic of Walley’s story telling.  It was the summer of 2001 and we went to lunch at the University Club, a short walk from the office.  As he told story after story of the firms’ battles, Walley held everyone at the table’s joyous attention, even though all the others at the lunch had worked with Walley for years, had no doubt either lived through the experience or heard the stories before.  Indeed, you could see the twinkle in their eyes as they anticipated their favorite part of the story - and the roll of their eyes when the facts were modified a bit too much to make the story more entertaining.

As one story came to an end someone would plead for another – “tell the one about Hillary serving coffee in the Governor’s Mansion”, and Walley quickly launched into an explanation of his initial meeting to present litigation options to then Governor of Arkansas, Bill Clinton, in the kitchen of the Governor’s mansion.

Next someone would ask Walley to recount the history behind the firm’s representation of a particular California city – in fact one whose utility director is here with us today – Walley explained how the firm’s 30 plus year relationship with the city of Santa Clara began on a bittersweet note.  The City wanted a share of the low cost hydro-electric power produced by the Federal Government’s massive, tax-payer funded hydro-electric projects, but the government refused.  Believing the City had a statutory right to the power, Walley recommended that a suit be filed against the Federal Government.  Of course - suing the federal government pits you against one of this planet’s largest, and at times fiercest and most stubborn, legal organizations – the US Attorney’s Office.  Anticipating years of contentious litigation, the City Council requested a cost estimate.  Walley presented two options – the firm’s standard hourly fee arrangement, or a reduced hourly fee coupled with a contingency fee – a modest percentage of the energy cost savings the city would enjoy, but only if the suit was successful.  The City Council ultimately authorized suit, and opted for the standard hourly fee arrangement.  Suit was filed and the Firm and the City dug in for a lengthy battle.  However, much to everyone’s surprise and delight, the government quickly backed down and agreed to provide the power demanded in the law suit.  This was a fantastic victory for the City – a victory worth hundreds of millions of dollars in savings to its citizen-customers.   Of course, the bittersweet part of the story would come as Walley wryly calculated the millions of dollars the firm would have earned, if only the City Council had opted for the contingent fee.

We all cherished the times spent with Walley at firm celebrations, dinners with clients, or rounds of golf, soaking in the glory of the stories, as only Walley could tell them. We have all been privileged to hear those stories and to become a part of them.  Some of the stories were important as they passed along helpful knowledge and legal strategy.  Some were personal celebrations of his family’s achievements.  Often Walley told a story to subtly, or sometimes not so subtly, make a point.  Many stories were just plain fun, and we loved watching Walley bring them to life.

And there was no shortage of material for the stories.  Walley’s victories were many and they will continue to have a lasting impact.  Stopping the Cross Florida Barge Canal in one of the most significant environmental victories of the 70s, breaking the NY electric companies’ grip on consumers in Massena, Sherrill and other communities, allocating water and power rights among warring western states, and successfully negotiating and litigating the development of new transmission connecting California to the Pacific Northwest – these are but a few of Walley’s many accomplishments.  Walley’s legacy lives on from these victories – self- sufficiency, independence and choices of power sources for many consumer-owned utilities – the victories translate into lower cost power that makes life better for citizens, and improves their industries’ competitive position.

It is an impressive body of work.  It’s no exaggeration to describe Walley as a pillar of the consumer-owned power community.  A man’s reputation is, of course, a product of his actions reflected through the eyes of others.  I can honestly explain Walley’s reputation among the energy bar through my own experience.  At a public power conference last year I introduced myself to another lawyer who worked for a competitor.  When he heard where I worked he asked, in a whispered tone “so what is it like to work with God?”  Walley was indeed held in high esteem amongst his peers, his competitors, and his adversaries, an apt reflection of his integrity and success.

But, for many of us, those accomplishments are overshadowed by another lasting accomplishment.  The truly remarkable way in which Walley nurtured and grew the delicate, fragile organism known as a law firm –which is, after all, nothing more than a group of professionals agreeing to work together to serve its clients.  But law firms have been exposed in popular literature for clashes of egos, power plays, and back-stabbing amongst partners.  I never saw that happen at Walley’s firm.  And why not?  Was it because Walley held a controlling interest in the firm and  imposed his will over his partners?  No.  He did indeed hold a controlling interest, but he didn’t use it to impose his will.  Walley gave everyone an equal voice and allowed issues to be resolved through consensus.  Walley could do that because he crafted the firm by associating with people he respected, people who shared his philosophy, dedication and integrity.  Walley treated every employee with care and respect. The importance he attached to the Firm’s entire staff and the way he treated each of them is a hallmark of Walley’s philosophy. And they in turn rewarded Walley with a dedication to his Firm that simply doesn’t exist elsewhere today.

Walley left behind an enormous professional legacy.  A lasting body of accomplishments, and a top-notch law firm that will always be “Walley’s firm.”  Walley’s passing leaves a big void in our lives. As one of his former associates and long-time colleague recently expressed – Walley left a HUGE - foot print.  Walley’s firm has lost its founder and its story teller, but Walley left his firm with a legacy that will live on.  He left a high-water mark for us to seek as our guide - it is our role, our duty, to honor Walley by keeping his philosophy and spirit in mind to guide our decisions as a firm, and inspire our work that will continue to shape - Walley’s firm.
 
I know Walley is smiling down on us as we continue his life’s labor, continue playing golf, and celebrate his life.  Our friend and mentor will be greatly missed.  We at his firm will try to fill Walley’s footprint, and will forever keep Walley Duncan in our hearts.


With Love and Respect,

Peter Scanlon
March 15, 2008
Edgehill Ward
Salt Lake City, Utah