Life savings loaded with socks and bonds
Lori Borgman | Monday, July 27, 2009
My dad’s Ford Explorer with suede and leather
trim is mine now. My brother nudged me to take it when Dad died
last year. It was the most wonderful nudge I’ve ever had in my life.
On the occasional late afternoon when I find myself
on back roads and the sun has turned to gold, it’s almost like Dad
is still here -- sitting in the passenger seat, surveying the crops
and keeping an eye out for deer.
My father-in-law’s zippy convertible, the one
he bought a year after my mother-in-law died, the same year he turned
86, is parked in our driveway.
Last Sunday I burned a quarter tank of gas, driving
with the top down and the radio blaring.
All of our parents are gone now, both of our dads
within little more than a year. The most daunting task that follows
death is closing out houses.
So much stuff. You start sorting towels in one
room and wind up grouping picture frames in another. If you don’t
have attention deficit disorder when you begin closing out a house,
you will by the time you’re finished.
Having handled a lot of stuff in the past few
years, I’ve developed some ideas on what I want done with my stuff
when I’m gone. The first rule when I die is this: Nobody goes through
my underwear drawer.
I’ve done three underwear drawers now and there’s
just no dignified way around it. I hereby dictate that upon my demise
my underwear drawer become a two-person project. One person holds
open a trash bag and the second person empties the drawer.
This will eliminate any commentary about my socks,
bras, and nighties. It should also preclude any and all discussion
as to whether I actually thought that shapewear did any good.
I won’t want every drawer dumped wholesale. There’s
something therapeutic about going through your loved one’s earthly
belongings.
It’s how you learn that your dad had 14 pocket
knives in his nightstand and liked pressed handkerchiefs. When you
see that your mother used every spare dresser drawer for tablecloths
and linens, it is reaffirmation that big parties are your heritage.
Bagging 43 pairs of dress pants, including a blue
seersucker and pink seersucker, etches into your memory that your
father-in-law was a fashion risk-taker, even at 97.
Give my clothes to charity when I’m gone, but
only the good stuff. We give a lot of garbage to non-profits. Why
punish the poor?
After my clothes have been taken care of, I’d
like family members to move to the kitchen and take any dishes that
make them smile. Maybe it’s a serving bowl from a dinner that was
a disaster or the pedestal plate that held triple-layer chocolate
cakes.
If there are still some nice things left, call
my remaining cronies and tell them to come help themselves. (If
it’s the same set of friends I have now, they’ll need coffee and
Danish.)
As for the rest of the stuff, have a sale. But
make it a respectable sale. I want early bird specials from 8-10
a.m. Honor all coupons and set up a clearance area marked 75 percent
off the ticketed price.
The family is headed into the second month of
going through things at my father- in-law’s. When you consider everybody
who has come and gone and enjoyed conversation amid the boxes and
the piles, I almost wonder if he saved all this stuff just to get
the family together one more time.
