pen rainbow

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Sunday—Life Is Complicated Day #3: Neverland

My daily journal as trustee of my dad's estate

My dad's scotchy-scotch-scotch

In Our Words
"She tried to pull the weepy woman thing, and that didn't land with me."  ~Me

"We're not criers."  ~My sister

"If they want to do a memorial, let them.  It makes no difference to the dead person, and everybody wins."  ~My sister

House Day
It was house day on Sunday.  The locksmith showed up at 1 p.m., and we had 8 locks rekeyed.  It was reassuring to know that whoever else had a key to my dad's house could no longer get in.  Now, if we can figure out how to operate the damn alarm, we'll be okay.  New keys won't stop bad guys, but an active alarm system will.  

It was a hands-on day.  We worked hard and started in the areas that held the most interest for each of us.  Heidi dove into the backyard shed, and I tackled the downstairs rooms of the house.  We began the process of staging. It's pretty much the same as moving, except for the odd sensation of knowing that nothing in the house belonged to us.  And, why again were we spending the day in my dad's house invading his privacy?  Like it or not, we had crossed the threshold into Neverland.

We moved through the house like army ants.  Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, we sorted through the things that brought richness, depth, and quality to his life.  I dug through the pockets of his jeans that were casually laid over the footboard of the bed in his spare room.  I folded the riding shirt that he had worn on his last mountain bike ride.  I cleaned out the upstairs medicine cabinet and gathered together all of his dog's insulin supplies, the doggie eye drops, the prescription dog food, the well chewed doggie toys, the scruffy dog bedding, and the meticulous notes that my dad kept on his dog's daily care.  My dad's mini-schnauzer, Rusty, meant everything in the world to him.

Around 4 p.m., we loaded the back of the shiny, black Escape with 3 more laundry baskets of financial records and a round maple table with a spinny top that once belonged to his mother, Pearle.

And, 3 unopened bottles of single malt scotch.  And, a mystery bottle of Portuguese liquor.

We rolled up to the condo quiet and tired, but we quickly revived when we remembered that Heidi had a case of soda water upstairs, and we had 3 bottles of decent Christmas scotch in the car.  20 minutes later, I was able to truly relax for the first time since I got the news that my dad was gone.

Here's to you, Dad