My sister the ex-mayor's wife is still hung up about Mom's house.
"Has Cuz said anything to Hick? At work? Has he mentioned the house? Like...complaints or anything?"
"Hick says 'Not a word.' I asked if he was mad, but Hick said, 'He hasn't said anything.'"
You know how guys are. These nuances escape them. Cuz could LOVE the house, or Cuz could HATE the house, and it wouldn't enter his mind to say anything about it. Sis, on the other hand, wants her childhood home to be loved. Appreciated. Stroked like a soft, soft kitten. Placed on a pedestal. Revered. Chucked under the chin. Dandled on a knee. Tucked in at night with a kiss on the forehead. Sis might be dreaming that Cuz never invites her back to reunite with the house. She can't let go.
This being the Monday/Tuesday after the end of the month, I received the bill from the lawyer we used to get that 3-acre parcel of land recorded that should have been on the original deed to Mom's house. Funny how much 1.8 hours of that guy's time are worth. Funny peculiar. Not funny ha-ha.
I sent Sis a text to see if she got a bill. Nope. Only me. I told her I could pay it, and she could reimburse me from Mom's account. She said she could take payment by the office. It's about a mile from her house. She further volunteered to drive over to school in the morning to get the bill, because she knows I don't have much time. Never mind that she would be hauling Babe with her, and have to get buzzed in lest she be packin' a package containing an incendiary device, and then come to my room and brave a gauntlet of freshmen. That's how Sis rolls. She has a bit of Mom in her.
Likewise, this task of getting Sis the bill to include with her check has taken off rolling downhill like a Momesque boulder coated with honey, picking up pine needles, twigs, feathers, bunny fur, possum scat, blackberries, goldenrod, hawthorn, and dogwood flowers.
"Do I need the bill? Or you can bring it by my house? The morning would be best. But I could do it later if you need to come in the afternoon. Or you could pay it yourself. Would it be easier for you to pay? And then come by so I could repay you with a check from Mom's account. Would you rather mail it than take it by? That's okay with me. If you come by, I will just pay it with a check from Mom's account. Whatever is best for you. Just pick one."
"I will come by in the morning and drop off the bill."
"Have you seen the flowers I put at the cemetery? If so, do they look okay?"
"Yes. They look like Fall. That's good. I even took The Pony through there to see them. He was sad that there have been no flowers since that vase was stolen. I told him you already had some you were going to take. He liked them, too."
As you might imagine, we are both going to need carpal tunnel surgery from over-texting.
Seems more complicated than it should be. Is it me or are you surrounded by crazy?
ReplyDeleteI have a knack for making things complicated. Some people make extraordinary works of art, some people compose lilting melodies, some people sit on the front porch in a rocking chair with hounds at their feet and whittle train whistles for imaginative children.
DeleteVal makes things complicated.
The first Fall, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas... It's going to be hard.
ReplyDeleteBut this story makes it seem like your sister is relatively normal (and nice). Are you dabbling in fantasy writing?
The first back-to-school breakfast was hard.
DeleteThis story illustrates the duality of Sis's nature. She's kind of like a Sour Patch Kid. First she's b*tchy, then she's benign. Like that time I backed out of her driveway with a giant bolt in my tire (under mysterious circumstances), and she waved goodbye and said, "Be careful on your way home." Let the record show that she did not offer to drive me, nor invite me to wait while I called somebody to come fix my tire.
This morning, she told Babe that I stole her (Sis's) sunglasses. Let the record show that they were mine, picked up from the console of T-Hoe while I sat in Sis's driveway, and that I handed them to Babe to play with.
No fantasy for me. I can't make this stuff up.
I hate being given too many choices, it always flummoxes me. I feel like I'm being a multiple choice test and I'm going to get the answer wrong. I'm glad I don't know the owner of my childhood home, like Sis, I'd want it to be unconditionally loved just the way it was.
ReplyDeleteToo many choices means they have one choice in mind, and you will have to keep picking until they finally agree when you get to that one.
DeleteSis is lucky the Division of Childhood Home Services didn't come and take Mom's house away, what with it being so unkempt the day we handed over the keys.
My mother's assets are now all in cash, so fortunately there won't be any probate or property to dispose of except the items in her apartment. Listening to what you and your sister are going through has been an eye opener.
ReplyDeleteBury it in a sock in the backyard! Quick! Write your name on the items you want with a Sharpie! And in the eventual event that you acquire some cash, don't deposit it all at once, or you'll be accused of hoarding cash for paying off a blackmailer.
DeleteMom had all of her affairs in order, with our names TOD on everything, except that one piece of property that the county had never updated on their map. We even had the document where the purchase had been recorded, but the county never linked it to the main parcel, even though it was adjacent. That's why 3 acres had to go through probate. That one section of ignored property.
We are trying to get rid of stuff around here but it still looks kind of like your mom's house before you and the crew tackled it. Maybe you could bring them by here and give us a hand. (Guess not.)
ReplyDeleteI'm sure Sis would volunteer. As long as you don't mind her picking up and stroking each item before deciding what to do with it.
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