A New Blog is Born!

Now that I am retiring and leaving Geekatopia I have launched a blog dedicated to my new adventure. Join me at:
www.dandelionlunch.blogspot.com

HAPPY BELTAIN!

I have a poem for you today (It's been some time since I got to poetizin' but it is Spring and that lends itself to poetic thought, don't ya think?). Here ya go:



VERGE

Beyond the concrete curb
where parked cars soak
in the noon sun, beyond
a line of young cedars
and a fur of ferns, below
where shadows
plunge, tumbling stones
toward gravity,
there trickles a hidden
stream busy with bugs -
unnamable, unknowable,
and not counting
on you or a coming night,
not yearning, not regretting
so much as a microscopic
shift in the play
of light upon rivulets,
or drop in temperature -
anticipating nothing,
dreaming nothing,
and above all
missing nothing -
beyond anything else
alive beyond your notice
as you start you car
and drive off to lunch.

BUNDLED INTO OBLIVION

A few weeks ago the Comcast cable guy arrived at my door to install a “bundle” of high speed internet, phone service, and expanded basic cable - looked around for ten minutes and rescheduled me for two weeks down the road when he had “more time”! (I’d set the appointment two weeks previous so this would make a month looking at a blank screen where History Channel used to be.)

Next time you see those snappy new Comcast ads touting the advantages of bundling your communications services, remember that the installers may not have viewed those ads - may not know how easy the process is supposed to be. The most my guy had to do was drill a hole, run some cable and plug in a couple of boxes yet apparently that required an additional two week’s in-depth meditation on his part.

Friday he returned armed with cable and drill. I explained where the cable had to come through the wall into my office - even applied a little yellow sticky to the wall in the appropriate location. Unfortunately few projects go as smoothly as first envisioned - I try not to get too attached to plan “A” since plans “B”, “C” and “D” soon toss it overboard wrapped in anchor chain. (Plan “D” is my current favorite. It has such a bold, free, and swashbuckling style - kind of a Pirates of the Caribbean sort of plan.)

Even though he was an hour later than expected I was overjoyed and optimistic when Captain Ricky the cable guy arrived at my door, tattoos flashing on his chunky biceps. I pointed out the yellow sticky - he set an extension ladder against the pole across the street, scampering up to disconnect the existing cable (which came crashing down over the red leaf Japanese maple tree). Back at the side of the house he pulled a drill from his tool kit as if drawing a musket on a rum trader - and immediately discovered the cordless drill was useless, its battery dead as Davey Jones’ parrot.

Captain Ricky swaggered to his van for another drill - which proved to be just as powerless (despite the fact that the good capt’n had had two weeks in which to charge it!). While he plugged his flaccid drill into the charger, I located my dad’s favorite old drill - which hadn’t been used since his death in 1978. Plugged into a stout orange extension cord and armed with a two-foot bit, Dad’s antique drill punched through the wall like a cutlas through rotted canvas. At this point I’m having serious doubts about the wisdom of “upgrading” my household electronics since the only thing that saved the installation process was a tool that’s older than I am!

I hear there were other misadventures before Captain Ricky finally sailed away down the street but I wasn’t around for them, having pushed off for writers workshop an hour earlier - Mom was left to man our sinking schooner. Upshot is I still don’t know how to get my laptop on line, we have a fried phone jack, I have no clue how to access my voice mail, and the cable face plate is screwed on crooked. Oh yes, forgot to mention all the screws, snippets of wire, and plaster crumbs that littered my office when I got home. And to add insult to injury the tv remote Comcast provided has numbers you’d need a microscope to read. We’re bound to be exploring a lot of new programing since we can’t use the remote without hitting two illegible numbers at once. Welcome to plan “E” for exploration and exasperation - and possibly electrocution. So if you don’t hear from me for awhile it’s because I’ve been “bundled” into silent running. So much for progress!

CHANGES

A few days ago I put in my 30 day notice - I'm retiring!! Yeah! Not ready to announce my plans yet but it looks like I'll be moving on to an exciting new job in the heart of Geekatopia. Will keep you posted.

I'm also changing my internet provider today so I may be "off line" for a few days while I get things sorted out. Will give you my new email address as soon as I get my address book up and running again.

By the end of the weekend the plan is to post a new short story for your enjoyment so stay tuned!

SLAM DUNK

THIS WEEK'S SHORT, SHORT STORY . . .
In the excitment of hearing my poems read on national radio I very nearly forgot to post this week's story! (If you missed the details of my 15 seconds of fame, check 14 March post.)
Too easily do resolutions fall by the wayside. So, here's the story (Could the choice of title have something to do with this week's Final Four? Hmm.):

SLAM DUNK
“You said it was a sure thing Mr. Nussbalm, a slam dunk,” said the doorman.
“Come on, Rick, there are always risks, you know that,” replied the man in the Armani topcoat.
“An easy ten to twenty-five percent return on investment you said.”
“You’ve seen the news, you know what the market has been lately, Rick. But cheer up, things will turn around eventually. We must be patient.”
“But my bills are piling up. I need that money now.”
“There is no changing your mind once you commit to an investment. Wheels are in motion.”
“I invested in good faith on your say so, Mr. Nussbalm,” pushed the doorman. “Now everything’s gone sour . . . well, I think you ought to return my initial investment.”
“That’s not how the world works, my friend. Even if I wanted to return your money I couldn’t do it. It’s tied up in illiquid assets,” he said as he spotted the approaching black town car.
What will I do now, wondered Rick as he opened the passenger door for Nussbalm. What? Pray? He couldn’t believe in a god who bailed out losers like himself, pitiful dudes who kept shooting themselves in the foot. “God helps those who help themselves” was the way he’d heard it.
As the town car beetled away into crosstown traffic, Rick stood in his ill-fitting uniform, the city swirling around his body like a swollen river around a rotted log.
How much money was left in the checking account? Not much. Enough for a six pack maybe. Yes, that much - and a few rounds for his dad’s old service revolver. Only question now was where to put them for the best return on his investment - best bang for the buck.
An unbidden chuckle escaped his throat. With it came the knowledge that however tempted, he probably wouldn’t kill anybody. Not himself, not Nussbalm. At least not right away. He’d wait a day or two - see how things panned out.
Story of my life, thought Rick, stand around opening doors for other dudes to walk through.

Redefining "Retirement"

Spring officially has returned - with it comes a certain restlessness, birds creating a fuss in nearly bare branches, chill wind ruffling the first crocus blossoms. It is a time of resurrection, reinvention. A time to start off down unfamiliar roads looking for adventure! And to my way of thinking there can't be a better time to "retire"!


But what does that word mean these days? Not what it used to mean, that's for sure. Which is a good thing. My understanding of "retirement" is that it was a concept invented sometime during the early 1950s for people who never existed. These mythical people worked forty years in factories to earn fabulous pensions which allowed them to utterly quit all physical and mental activity at the age of 65, sailing off into their sunset years to bask under tropical sunshine for the balance of their long blissful lives. That was the Cold War propaganda I grew up with. It was a lie my generation swallowed whole. Though I can't help wondering where we got such a weird notion. Our ancestors didn't retire. They worked at this and that until they dropped in their tracks. Both of my grandfathers died in their eighties after putting in a full day at work. And women NEVER retired - and still don't. My 94 year old mother works around the house morning till night keeping the household running smoothly.

So I reject the fantasy of traditional retirement - which isn't to say I'm going to cling indefinately to the 40 hour plant care route. No, I'm ready to scale back on the "day job" to make way for other adventures. I have five novels in first draft stage that I need to revise and boot out into the world. I'm eager to volunteer at the local Senior Center. I want to explore all sorts of interesting opportunities and meet vast numbers of fascinating folks. I already have a handfull of exciting part-time gigs lined up that are bound to keep me on my toes. Yep, I'm ready to fly! Ah, Spring! What could be better than starting off into a bright new season?

But for now, I guess I had better get myself out of this chair and into the backyard to clean up the remains of our Winter storms. First things first.

MY POEMS TO BE FEATURED ON RADIO!

Let me share with you an email I received this morning:
"Congraulations!  We’ve selected your poetry submission to use on an upcoming episode of “Travel with Rick Steves.”  Your three haiku about the sites along Interstate 90 will be read near the end of program #166, which airs the weekend of March 21, and includes interviews about round-the-world family travel, and Southern California.  
You should be able to hear it locally on KUOW 94.9 FM on Saturday afternoon, March 21 starting at 2pm."

I submitted this trio of haiku a year ago and forgot all about them! And here they have been out there in the world all this time - and now will find their moment of radio fame.

We take our own home towns too much for granted, don't you think? We travel to other people's towns, other countries without ever truly seeing the wonders of our own. We need to look around us with the eyes of an explorer, appreciate what we too often take for granted. It was in that spirit that I wrote my I-90 haiku series (I have dozens of haiku now), celebrating my daily commute out the interstate to Geekatopia. Here are a few (And yes, I take liberties with the form but I write in English not Japanese - that's my story and I'm sticking to it.):

BELLEVUE HAIKU

Bellevue rides a rhythm
of rail and boat and road -
a heart pumping, centered.

A tawny Jaguar stealthily
prowls up eighth,
closing in on parking.
    
Only the cadence of cars
dancing to the lights at the corner,
music as day dawns.

BREAKROOM

This week's short story is a romance set in the rat's maze of downtown Geekatopian businesses. Poor Geekatopia is gradually depopulating under the stress of our recession - two more of my clients threw in the towel last week: a mortgage company and a supplier to the aircraft industry. Yet construction proceeds on buildings that will no doubt remain vacant far into the future. Too bad we couldn't just commandeer a few to house the now-homeless software engineers!

BREAKROOM
He was off the couch like a shot when she screamed.
“Whoa! I’m just taking a nap here!” he yelled.
The woman with the cart aimed a can of lemon air freshener at his heart.
“What are you doing in the employee lounge?” she shouted.
“Like I said, taking a nap.” He held his hands up to show he was unarmed.
“In the dead of night?”
“I’m not hurting anyone,” he said. “Hey, it’s Friday. I thought the janitor came on Wednesday night?”
“He has the flu so I’m filling in,” she said.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” he said. “Sorry I scared you. Sit down and I’ll make us coffee. You’ll feel better in no time.”
He stepped to the galley kitchen, filled the coffee maker basket with Starbucks Pike Place Blend, and punched the brew button.
“You can’t do that!” yelped the woman.
“Sure I can. Do it all the time,” he said. “My name’s Mark, by the way. I used to work here.”
She sat down at the bistro table by the refrigerator. Mark took two clean mugs from the dishwasher and a package of Fig Newtons from the cabinet above the sink.
“Slim pickings, I’m afraid. They clean out the fridge every third Thursday. But you’d know that I suppose.”
“No, I . . . you said you used to work here? What are you doing still here?”
“Actually I mostly live here,” said Mark. “What’s your name? I can’t call you cleaning lady.”
“Maggie. You live in the building?”
“Sure. It’s got everything: kitchen, fitness room with a shower, nice cozy couch. Beats the heck out of a box under a bridge.”
“But how do you get past security?”
“Security is a joke. If you look like you belong, no one knows you don’t.”
Mark’s deep brown eyes twinkled with mischief. Maggie smiled. He filled her mug.
“You have a pretty smile,” he said. “How long have you been emptying wastebaskets for a living?”
She blushed.
“Not long. It’s the old story, I’m working my way through college,” she said. “You don’t exactly look like your typical homeless guy.”
In fact she was noticing that he was really very cute - for a homeless guy. Steady on, Maggie told herself. Though the idea of putting one over on mighty Microtechna appealed to her sense of poetic justice. She’d had to compete with a mob of downsized geeks for her modest janitorial job.
“Thanks,” he said. “And you’re prettier than most janitors I’ve seen. I’d be tempted to help you clean toilets if this was your regular route.”
“But it’s not my regular route and if I don’t get busy I won’t finish the building before dawn.”
She rinsed her mug in the sink and set it in the dish drainer.
“You won’t rat me out?”
“Nope. But I might ask for a re-route.”
“Cool! I’ll practice my toilet cleaning technique!”
###

SIDETRACKED

This week my goal was to write a mystery in 250 words. Here goes:

SIDETRACKED
“What you got there?” asked the old man.
“Spray paint,” said the kid. “Found it in the trash by the ticket window.”
“Put it back. And wipe your prints.”
“Like they’re going to dust the trash,” mumbled the boy.
“Don’t argue. Train’s coming.”
Harry hated working with kids. Still, there’s nothing like a cute little tyke to part suckers from their dough. They’d made a decent haul at the church social. He glanced at the briefcase by his foot.
Kids were more trouble than they were worth if you worked them too long though. Harry figured to ditch this one up the track. Why suffer the aggravation - or split the take?
“I should have swiped us a car,” said the kid.
“Told you, they’ll be watching the roads.”
“Won’t they watch the trains?”
“Who takes trains these days?”
The boy looked around the empty platform. Much as he hated to admit it, the old man might have a point.

“Our witnesses said the old man traveled with a boy.” said Detective Kirby.
“Yeah,” said Sergeant Phelps.
“Where do you suppose he is?”
“Ran off scared when the old man fell in front of the train. Uniforms are searching the woods.”
“Anything else?”
“Missing briefcase.”
“Maybe the kid stole it.” Kirby knew the station master undoubtedly filched it but he liked to needle Phelps.
“Yeah,” smirked Phelps. “And then he drove off in a stolen car.”
Kirby eyed the scary forest. “Poor little tyke,” he mused.
“Yeah, poor little tyke.”
###

Second Story

Okay, last week's story was a bit on the serious side so this week's offering is more fun.

CANARY YELLOW

“Strike!” yelled Keith, pumping his fist.
“Don’t get excited, you got no chance of catching me. You’re buying dinner tonight.”
“There’s a lot of frames left, Dougie old man.”
“You wish.” Doug lifted his black pearl ball, taking his stance at the line.
“Did I tell you Fran picked out her engagement ring?” said Keith as his brother fixed his eyes on the end of the lane.
“Nice try,” said Doug launching the ball in a precision trajectory for the sweet spot left of center pin.
The ball arched from right gutter, left into the notch where it detonated pins in all directions.
“Yes! How’s that for pin action, kid?”
“Not bad for an old geezer,” said Keith. “I could use a beer.”
“Quit stalling. Get it over with so you can buy us some burgers.”

“You said you wanted burgers, Doug.”
“You’re buying so I’m having steak. Got to keep up my strength for the next time you need your clock cleaned, kid.”
“Next week you’re buying me a monster pepperoni with double cheese.”
“Dream on,” said his brother. “Hey, what was that you said about an engagement ring?”
“Fran found one she wants. Look.” He flipped open his cell, scrolled, handing the phone to his brother.
“You got to be kidding! She wants a pee colored diamond?”
“It’s called a canary diamond. Fancier than plain white.”
“More expensive too I’ll bet. Fran’s got you where she wants you.”
“She should have the one she wants. She’ll wear it forever.”
“You’re setting yourself up to be a whipped man for life, kid. You’re as crappy with women as you are a bowler if you let her play this game.”
“Fran doesn’t play games.”
“They all play games. This yellow diamond thing is a test, take it from me. You hand over the plastic and you’re a keeper. Don’t and you’re history.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You think so? Tell her she’ll have to be satisfied with a plain white diamond and see how fast she heads for the exit.”
Keith chewed slowly, then swallowed.
“Dougie old man,” he said at last. “You’re a guy who lives like he bowls, sighting on the goal, following through to score - but you can’t see the bigger picture.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know I’ve had my eye on that ‘65 T-Bird in Tacoma, right?”
“Sure. Mint condition, rebuilt eight,” said Doug. “Kiss it goodbye if you bankrupt yourself springing for a yellow rock, kid.”
“Okay, let’s say I talk Fran out of the canary yellow. She loves me so she’ll marry me anyhow. But, what are the chances she’ll ever let me forget she made the sacrifice?”
“Hmm. Zero to none, I suppose.”
“Right. And what are the chances I’ll ever be parking that sweet T-Bird in my garage?”
“Have to say, you got a hell of a hook, kid, but it’s got some pin action on it. Maybe you’re not such a crappy bowler after all.”
“Pass the steak sauce, big brother.”
###

A Short, Short, Short Story

In the last post I set a goal to write a piece of "flash fiction" each week - I find that's not quite as easy as it sounds. What a struggle to keep it short and sharp. Still I did come up with one this weekend - a rather grim little tale but I promise to lighten up for the next one!

CUTTER
“How you doing back there, Jen?” Her daughter had quit whimpering. That was either good or very, very bad.
Megan kept her eyes forward and away from the rearview mirror. She knew she shouldn’t be worrying about the blood soaking into the car seats but she couldn’t help it. How will I get the stains out? And what does that say about my priorities?
“You okay? If you don’t answer I’m pulling over.”
“Go ahead. What do I care? I didn’t want to come anyhow.”
Megan ran the tail end of a yellow at Boren Avenue.
“Are you all right or not?”
“Peachy. How much longer?”
“Not long if the lights cooperate.”
“You should have left me there.”
“Sure, that was going to happen.”
“Seriously, why bother? I’ll just do it again you know.”
“Look, what choice did I have? What was I supposed to do, leave you bleeding all over the kitchen?”
“I only agreed to come with you because you threatened to call the cops.”
“I wasn’t calling the cops. I was calling 911 for an ambulance.” She changed lanes, signaling a right hand turn. “What did you expect me to do when I find you sitting in a pool of blood?”
“I didn’t expect anything from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Leave me alone.”
Traffic had slowed to a crawl around a two block stretch of pothole repair. Damn, if Jennifer had let me call an ambulance we’d be there by now.
“What did you want anyway?”
“Can’t I visit my own daughter without ulterior motives?”
“For once, just give me a straight answer. What did you want from me?”
“I hadn’t heard from you since . . . well, must have been Christmas. I was worried.”
“If you were so worried you could have phoned.”
“Okay, so I wanted to see for myself you were all right. Which, as it turns out, you weren’t, were you? Cuts all over your arms and judging from the scars this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Jennifer. Are you on drugs? Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Sure, blame it on drugs, Mother. That way you won’t have to deal with the real reasons your daughter cuts herself.”
“Now who’s not giving straight answers?”
“I’m not in the mood for this anymore.”
Megan followed the signs pointing the way to the emergency room, pulling the car up to the curb near the entrance.
“I won’t go in,” said Jennifer.
“Don’t be silly. You might need stitches.”
“I don’t have insurance.”
“They have to treat everyone who comes in.”
“I’ll go in if you tell me why you really came to see me.”
Does it matter any more?
“I’ve left your dad,” said Megan.
“Good,” said her daughter. “But you’ll go back.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you always do. You can’t get enough of the pain.”
Megan helped Jennifer out of the car, noting that the blood stains weren’t nearly as bad as she had imagined.
###

2009 Blog Goal

In a few hours I will be off down the street to this week's Writers Workshop - which got me thinking that I really had better set my writing goal for this year. Last year I started the blog as a way to bludgeon myself into hitting the computer at least once a week - the theory being that a rock-solid deadline would lock me into a healthy habit of practicing what I preach to my workshop. And I did pretty well, posting faithfully every week (more or less). That's one heck of a lot of words! The initial format was to post a poem, a few comments, and a plant care tip. But after a while the blog developed its own notions and morphed into a grab bag of all sorts of projects - including an entire Summer spent reading and commenting on Jane Austen! I learned quite a bit - especially that I have no desire to read Austen ever ever again.

This year I'll focus on short fiction - my intention is to post a piece of flash fiction each week (around 500 words). To start things off I'll cheat by offering a story I published last year in our workshop collection since the topic relates to last week's post. The story was inspired by an actual telephone conversation between my mom and her brother, Bud, who recently passed away after years struggling with Alzhiemers.

TOAST

Peggy was just waking up in her daughter’s guest bed, anticipating a wonderful two week visit in sunny California when she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Mom, are you awake?” said her daughter. “Uncle Bud is on the phone for you. He sounds upset”
Oh no, thought Peggy. Ever since Bud’s wife of fifty years had died a few months before, Peggy had worried about her younger brother. How would he manage all on his own for the first time?
She reached for the phone, nearly knocking it off the bedside table.
“Bud, what’s wrong?” she said. “Has something happened?”
“Um, Peggy, I think I have a problem.” His voice was tight and small.
Peggy went cold with fear.
“Peg, are you there?”
“Yes, go ahead. Tell me what’s happened,” she said, imagining floods, blood, tornadoes. All sorts of disasters descending upon her poor “little” brother in Oregon.
“Well, I was thinking I’d like a piece of toast this morning.”
Peggy looked at the phone as if it had suddenly grown tentacles.
“I’m sorry, Bud, there is something wrong with the phone. I thought I heard you say something about toast.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me how to do it.”
“How to do what, Bud? What are you talking about?”
“About making toast,” said her brother.
“It’s five o’clock in the morning, Bud!”
“That’s why I thought toast sounded good. So, what do I do?”
Peggy was suddenly quite angry that Bud’s wife, Sigrid, had been such a passionate homemaker she hadn’t let her husband enter her kitchen except to place the weekly grocery bags on the counter.
“Bud, do you have the toaster plugged in?”
Peggy felt it was always a good idea to start with the obvious.
“Uh yes, it’s plugged in.”
“Did you put the bread in it?”
The silence was overlong.
“Mmm. Yes. Got it. But nothing is happening.”
“Put your hand over the slots. Is it getting warm?”
“Uh no.”
“Did you push down the lever on the side?” asked his patient sister.
“Just a minute. Okay. Yep, there’s heat coming out now.”
“Wonderful! Well, enjoy your breakfast, Buddy!”
“Wait, Peg! How do I know it’s done?”
Oh my lord, thought Peggy.
“Bud, it pops up when it’s done!”
The line was eerily quiet.
“Bud, is that all you needed?”
"Um. Peg?,” said her brother.
“Yes, Buddy?”
“You don’t by any chance know where Sigrid might have kept the raspberry jam, do you?”
###

End of an Era

Sorry for my month long absense! And thank you to all who have emailed me with your speculations as to my mysterious disappearance. No, I have not fallen off the earth or wrecked my pretty new auto (whose name, by the way, is SU-Z-Q the Subaru - thinking of getting a vanity plate next year).

What actually happened was my mother's younger brother (at 92 years old) died a few weeks back. He had suffered from dementia and Alzheimer's disease for the last few decades. And though his death was not unexpected, it was nonetheless a trying time for us all. Since last Fall I've been working on a novel roughly based on events and circumstances surrounding his illness - it was the novel I wrote for National Novel Writing Month. My uncle's death has pushed the project ahead - as well as prompted me to write a memoir of my six year stint as his trustee/caregiver. I will be posting some of it as a kind of cautionary tale - the story of a family tragedy. Like Dickens' "Bleak House", it involves a trust fund and the distruction of a family. Here is the first draft beginning:

This is a cautionary tale and a mystery - it’s also a story of deception, confusion, elder abuse, exploitation, and neglect. My part of the story started in the Fall of 2003 when I became my uncle’s trustee.
His wife had died the previous Valentines Day and my mother, his elder sister, began to suspect that the old man was not coping very well on his own. Uncle had always left domestic matters to his wife. She was keeper of the check book and manager of the household. Now that she was gone Mom felt her “little” 87 year old brother could use someone to make sure bills got paid etc. She “volunteered” me, saying that all I would actually have to do was collect rents from Uncle’s rental properties, make deposits, mail checks. Sure, what the heck, I thought. I’m pretty good at financial practicalities so I’d pitch in and do my part. How hard could it be? (You can see it coming, right?)
One thing to understand is that Uncle lived half way down the coast in Oregon, five hours drive from Mom and me. We had seen him at most twice a year during the previous fifty years - talking on the phone and exchanging Christmas cards of course but not much more. In the Spring Mom attended Aunt’s funeral and seeing how lost and flummoxed her brother seemed, she easily slipped back into her childhood role of bossy big sister.
In retrospect it’s clear that we knew next to nothing of Uncle’s true situation. We had accepted as true the elaborate fiction he’d woven around his life for half a century. Not that he had consciously, deliberately lied to us - Uncle was utterly incapable of guile and probably would have been amazed had anyone pointed out that there was a disconnect between who he thought he was and who he really was. He had wanted everyone to think well of him so the image he presented to the world was one of a successful independent business man, owner of rental properties, investor in oil wells - in other words, if not a wealthy man at least a man comfortably well off. He often told us he was making lots of money in the market and his duplexes were producing healthy cash flow. We had no way of knowing none of it was true.
As a child I heard what the family said of Uncle: that he was well-to-do but something of a cheapskate. He never picked up a check at the restaurant even though he could afford to, never left a tip unless someone reminded him and, even when reminded, he was not a big tipper. And he seemed to think no one noticed how slickly he had fumbled his way out of paying. We kids thought it was terribly funny. The adults would shake their heads when they were once again stuck with the bill. Everyone saw Uncle as cheap as Jack Benny - an eccentricity at once aggravating and comical.
There were times though when his perceived miserliness could cause pain to members of his family - times of hardship and trial when a monetary bailout would have saved the day yet he never did offer. Several family members wrote him off as cold and cruel. I learned much later he was neither but it hardly mattered by then. Some wounds don’t heal.
All I really knew that Autumn of 2003 was that Uncle was a sad elderly widower in need of my assistance. Whatever I personally thought of him I couldn’t turn my back on family - nor was I about to refuse when my mom asked me to help. No one turns down Mom. So I signed on as trustee of my uncle’s “Family Trust”, though at that point I wouldn’t have known a “Trust” if it bit me on the behind. (I capitalize Trust, the legal entity, to destinguish it from trust, as in belief in the honesty and reliability of another.)
Most people, even when they are talked into setting up Trusts, don’t understand what a Trust is - how complicated they are, how much work they generate. They are sold the idea of setting up Trusts as a way to avoid probate but, believe me, probate creates nowhere near the misery of managing a Trust.
I called the attorney in Oregon who had set up the Trust ten years before - learning in the process that there were two Trusts, not one. There was Uncle’s, which was a “revocable living trust”. There was also my aunt’s “irrevocable trust”. (When a person dies their revocable trust becomes irrevocable.) My uncle had been trustee of them both - when he passed the baton to me I became trustee of both Trusts. I also found out that every cent and every property Uncle supposedly possessed were held within the Trusts. His only personal income was a tiny monthly Social Security check - tiny because as a self employed man he had paid nothing into the Social Security system. He called this $500.00 monthly check “free money” he could just have fun with - “mad money” - he didn’t understand that he had nothing else.
That was as much as I learned from the attorney because as he pointed out he had no attorney/client relationship with the Trusts - he was my uncle’s personal attorney, not the attorney for the Trusts. And who then was the attorney for the Trusts? I asked. As far as he knew there wasn’t one. Not good news.
He explained that a Trust is like a corporation, a legal entity with its own strict demands and restrictions. A person who sets up a Trust has no further access to the assets of the Trust beyond what the trustee determines is a reasonable monthly or yearly distribution to the Trust’s beneficiary. The purpose of a Trust is to preserve wealth, therefore a trustee is not legally allowed to speculate with assets or divert Trust assets to personal use. In other words if you put your house in Trust it is no longer your house - it belongs to the Trust and what happens to it is up to the trustee, not you. You had better have yourself one heck of a trustworthy trustee!
Unfortunately, for ten years Uncle had not had a trustworthy trustee - though he certainly hadn’t realized it. He had appointed himself as his own trustee. Which is very like a dentist filling his own teeth. No doubt Uncle had been lured by media hype touting the benefits of Trusts as a way of avoiding taxes and probate. He would have thought he was being very clever - kind of like dodging the dinner check at the Olive Garden Restaurant.
The Trusts now squarely my responsibility, I got on the internet to learn everything I could on properly managing them - the first thing being that it was not for amateurs. I would need to immediately hire an attorney and a C. P. A . - especially since I lived a state away from where the trust properties were located. Being an out of state trustee complicated already muddy matters. So, next day I hired an attorney who specialized in elder law and also hired a very savvy accountant - both of which earned their keep from the first day by pointing out that the trusts needed bank accounts to receive rent deposits from the duplexes. (Each trust owned three of the six duplexes, thus splitting the rental income evenly.)
The banker asked me to produce legal documentation of my authority to act as trustee - a one inch stack of legalese which the banker photo copied and stuffed into a matching pair of clean white folders. By the end of an hour I had two checking accounts and a large safe deposit box. I was now ready to deposit rent checks and pay the attorney and accountant - had there been money to deposit. But my uncle’s tenants were still depositing the monthly rent payments into Uncle’s personal checking account. I’d have to contact all the renters and ensure they sent me, a total stranger in another state, their money from here on. How on earth would I do that, I wondered. There was also the issue of collecting the trusts’ financial records, files, tax returns etc. Which, I was beginning to suspect, probably did not exist. I had no recourse but to get into my car and get myself down to Oregon. There are some things you just have to do in person. There was no way I could sort the mess out without sitting down with my uncle for a good long talk. That would prove to be impossible. (To be continued)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO 2009 - AND TO ME!

You might remember that back in the Spring I challenged my car dealership clients to find me a super used car within my plant lady budget. "Little Rusty", my 25 year old Toyota, has decided to retire after a long, useful life. It still runs like a champ but its windshield is cracked, its radio and air don't work, it needs four new tires and its body is . . . well, rusty. The dealers presented for my approval a variety of vehicles. None rang any bells for me.

Then a few weeks ago (when we were up to our rears in snow), my counterpart in West Geekatopia offered to sell me her 1999 Subaru Outback - a car I have been lusting after since she bought it many years ago. Price was right and I love the car, so I'm giving myself a car for my birthday! (Photo above is not the exact car but close enough) Let it be said that I have never actually PURCHASED a car. My first car was a 1965 T-Bird that my mom bought me. It was totaled a few years later by a drunk driver (not me). Insurance paid practically nothing - a friend found me a '62 Dodge Dart so that I could get out and about. I drove it until my dad passed away and left me his '67 Barracuda. Then about ten years ago my sister gave me her 1984 Toyota Supra (Little Rusty). So tomorrow I will buy a car - for the first time! Pretty exciting!

This week I'm seeing Outbacks everywhere. There are apparently zillions on the road - whole herds of them. Every other car in the parking lot is an Outback. It seems I am joining some kind of movement. Will have to change my image to conform - start wearing a lot of L. L. Bean, more plaid. Get myself a pair of hiking boots and a down filled parka. With the weather we have had of late I should be oh so appropriately attired.

Of course now that I am prepared to meet any wild winter weather - prepared to all-wheel-drive-it over mountainous glaciers - we will undoubtedly not see another snow flake, ever! I might have to migrate to Alaska. On second thought . . .