Death, Taxes and a Little Blood

On a good month, I'm a realtor juggling at least three or four dead peoples' houses. Not in the air, but definitely juggling. I've got people grieving, fighting, complaining, worrying and trying to kill each other. Just last month I found myself in the middle of a domestic fight, with glass jars, picture frames and Buddha figurines being lofted in my (and mostly my client's) general direction. When furniture started making flight paths across the living room and then the yard, I decided it was prudent to meet elsewhere (ya think?!) With blood flowing (ever so lightly) from my left foot, I pulled my car away from the curb and thought I might want to write a book. I could be the James Herriot of Realtors. Write little vignettes about houses, clients, closings, murders. There's just so much good material. But then again, if the book didn't take off, I certainly couldn't keep doing real estate. Who would sign up with a Realtor who was going to expose and detail all that family drama? 

In all seriousness, however, I have learned much from these histrionics. Number one, get out a legal pad and detail who is getting what, who's doing what and then decide what they are going to sing at your funeral. Do it now. Then get a competent lawyer to draw up a will. Better yet, give everybody the stuff you want to give them. Now, not when you're dead. Then you get to see them enjoy it. Or not. Why are you hanging on to all that anyway? Number two, clean out all the junk out of your house. I don't care if you are twenty-nine or a hundred and nine, it's evil to make other people clean up your mess, especially when they're grieving and fighting with your relatives. A beautiful gift you can give them (and yourself) is to minimize your stuff. There are folks that will come and pick it up or throw it out for you. I do estates all the time and guess what? Most people really don't want your refuse, even if you think it's valuable. These young people might want that furniture, but they're just going to cover it with chalk paint and sell it on Craigslist. I'm no minimalist, but our paraphernalia is crowding out our brain cells. 

Lastly. Let go. None of us need to expect that Aunt May is leaving us a million dollars. We need to learn to work hard to make our own way. If there's two nickels to rub together, people lose their minds and do awful things to each other in the name of fairness and getting "what's rightfully mine." Whole families fall apart over all the little bits and pieces that are left after someone departs. Yes, I know, some of it's not little. It still ain't all there is, folks. There are larger things at play in the universe than our tiny patch of earth or our big treasure chests. Peoples' souls and hearts matter so much more than their trappings. And it's tragic to forget that, just when our lives are stripped bare by a death. Someone is going to act horrible, but that doesn't mean we have to.

A Crispy Day in Villa Rica

September wings its way in like an eagle, determined and bold. Exciting, new, fresh. The books crack open, the notebooks are clean, the band is playing and the whistles are chirping out on the football field. October hovers near, with its promise of bonfires, the smell of leaves burning, crisp air and apples, fields and parking lots full of pumpkins. Here in the Southland we might have several Indian summers, heck, all the way up to Thanksgiving. So we get the best of it. 

It's a true story that we voluntarily kept our kids at home for 18 years and homeschooled them. At the time, it was considered radical and even weird. We gathered on the porch in the morning and did the pledge of allegiance, sang the national anthem and sometimes other songs (to our neighbors' chagrin -- have you heard Nortons sing?) I got more schooling done in the month of September than I did the rest of the semester. September was honkin' serious. Our kids reveled in the hundreds of acres that surrounded our house, taking every opportunity to suck the marrow out of life after class. The animals turned cartwheels because things were cooling off. Church, family, field trips, wrestling and dancing filled in the other gaps. Don't tell me my kids weren't socialized. It was a wonderful, terrible time. I'm glad we had it.

So here we are, another September. My kids are grown, flying, bearing eaglets of their own, extending their orbits beyond what I could have ever imagined. When the wind blows just right, I hear the band practicing on the other side of town, the drum corps tapping out a cadence. I stop and consider the years, the seasons, the trajectory of life that I have known. Look homeward, angel. But look forward, with hope, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Two Funerals and a Hurricane

Two funerals in one week, both attended by a lot of the same people. It was two of our old, old friends, one 95 years and one 80. When I was young, I thought that was terribly ancient. Now it's not so far away. 80 is the new 60, right? The same pastor preached and the same pianist played for both, but it was all good. So very good. Music flowed, rich words were sung, hugs given and received, tears dabbed from eyes, friends reunited. As I listened to the exceptional sermons, it came to me that this was the finest part of life. Funerals aren't always that way and there's not always peace or joy accompanying them. But for these, that is what was present. I've been at wakes where people made things right with each other. Hatchets buried, bridges gapped. The summation of life is right there in that death room, good and bad, life and death, future and past.

One of my grandbabies was with me for one of them, asking a hundred questions. Where is he? Why is he dead? Where's his wife? Her best thoughts came after this one: "Yaya, was he sick?" I told her yes and that he was old. She said, "But he's glad he's not here now. He's with Jesus." Four year old wisdom. The occasional joke sprinkled in with the speakers made her laugh, loud and uninhibited, making us all chuckle more. The joy of a child, mixed in with the sorrow of death. There's hope in that, hope that tomorrow will indeed come. 

So winding up this week with funerals and a hurricane in the mix, I feel renewed. We hunkered down with naps and food while the wind howled around us; shortened work days reminiscent of snow days in Georgia that never usually materialize. But it was okay. A fine excuse to muse and pray for the families those who've passed on, those who are struggling elsewhere with trials, and to love and be grateful for those around us. It was good to remember that we can stop when we need to. And we don't have to wait for a hurricane to do it.

Blingin' and Laughin' Loud

I think I've figured something out... most people who have money are skinnier than us. And they also don't laugh as loud. Pa and I took our last hurrah of the season to the beach this weekend. Somehow we got a really cheap room in the heart of an expensive section of one of those fancy beach towns. Those places where people get up really early and run or ride their bikes. They do Crossfit in the parking lot. You have to watch constantly so that you won't run over five of them on the way to Hardees in the morning. There's not a Hardees for 20 miles, so that's a feat as well. All the fancy dining spots are outside, where it's still hot. What? Those people don't sweat, either, except when they're supposed to, like when they're exercising or paddle-boarding. 

We ate breakfast one morning in one of them elegant restaurants and I saw yuppies cutting up their kids' pancakes and fruit. These kids were, like, 8-10 years old, not toddlers. My eyes got wide and I thought the woman might cut me up too, so I tried not to laugh. Then there was the evening where we went to a Mexican restaurant for twice what it costs at home. I wore my deluxe new leggings with roses on them, with a blousy, fun top and my normal amount of bling. Nothing super special but I felt pretty spiffy. An imperious lady looked me up and down like I was some sort of circus freak, so I grinned and looked her up and down. She never did smile, but Ken thought I was mighty cute. There were so many beautiful buildings and people. I was impressed with all the kids and parents who were cycling on those old-timey cruiser bikes. It was great to see everyone so active and out in the air, not just marooned in their rooms. But what I found odd about the bike thing was this: if you're lucky enough to be staying and riding around in Seaside on a vintage beach cruiser, don't you think you'd be just giddy about it? I mean, it's one of the most wonderful places on earth and you get to be there. So why so serious?! The adults, in particular, seemed grim and determined. You're not on a racing bike. You're not in a marathon. For the life of me I couldn't get why so many people needed to be taken seriously when they were riding around on a cotton-candy-coated chunk of love. Oh well. Once again, there's some things that money can't buy. But I wish to goodness I could have bought a few more days down there. I'm not ready to be a grownup again. Maybe I'll string up those party lights and turn up the radio.