It is Thanksgiving Day, 2017. I have assembled my young adult offspring for a family meeting. They are a reluctant and diffident group, tired from the previous night’s social activities and slightly wary.
I circulate a two-page handout to my children and announce that it contains a detailed outline of their parent’s finances. My oldest son flips through it quickly, and then turns his attention to his cell phone. Middle son Andy gives me a practiced and patient gaze while his mind turns to the lure of college football games. My number three son sighs and wonders why his mother feels compelled to convey this information. All three share an insatiable desire to finish so they can commence traditional holiday activities of food, sports, and couch time.
I run through the Financial Cheat Sheet quickly, knowing that my audience’s attention span compares unfavorably to six-year-olds at a birthday party. The document lists bank accounts, credit cards, life and property insurance policies, retirement accounts, real estate information, law firm buyout formulas, health and disability policy information, social security numbers, personal property valuations, automobile VIN numbers, where our wills are, and how to dispose of our remains. My husband and I are not young, but we are not so old that our financial lives have simplified. If we died, our kids would spend weeks untangling and ferreting out details of our estate. My first post-departure gift will be to ease that burden.
The footsteps of Father Time are more distinct with each passing season. I am healthy, fit, and optimistic, and it is possible that I possess the longevity gene. My mother was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer in her early 60’s – and died of pneumonia at age 93. Her mother lived, and thrived, until 103. My paternal aunt is patiently waiting out the pandemic and looking forward to celebrating her 99th birthday in a couple of weeks.
But there are no guarantees, genetic or otherwise. The Grim Reaper’s grasp is capricious, and the pandemic’s clasp brings me face to face with my mortality. I feel driven to organize, sort, and prepare my belongings for the day when they are someone else’s. It is a daunting challenge to look at my life’s possessions through the lens of someone who does not recognize them and may not want them.
I have embarked on dual daunting clean-up projects, both at home and at my office. Self-isolation has resulted in self-imposed tidying up. I have boxes of my mother’s photographs and bins of her memorabilia. I have trunks of my children’s schoolwork and containers of their athletic mementos. Our garage has a more-than-healthy collection of tools, half-filled paint cans, and lumber scraps. Sorting and condensing are tedious, and the process is exacerbated by the pandemic reality. Family gatherings to share and give away objects are not possible. Charitable donation organizations are shuttered or have reduced capacity.
Intellectually I know that my legacy is not tethered to my personal effects; to the contrary, it seems tied to the absence of clutter. When my adult children gather and examine my belongings after my passing, I hope their attitude is better than it was on that chilly day in 2017. Otherwise, they will cast disparaging glances at my chattels, make half-hearted attempts at ascertaining their importance, and decide to junk it all.
If that is going to be the case, I could save myself a lot of effort and dump it now.