There’s something to be said for being a pack rat.
Even a mildly obsessive compulsive saver of all things that might someday be useful. Even of things that were never useful, but have nostalgic value. Like pictures, letters, books, even old warped vinyl phonograph records. That’s the obsessive part. I guess the compulsive part is the collection of old tax records, receipts and canceled checks. I mean, like the IRS is really going to audit someone who hasn’t even itemized a return for the past four years. Things like that are hoarded in dusty file boxes out of sheer paranoia.
Nevertheless, I have steadfastly refused to throw out my old daybooks, those little “week-at-a-glance” spiral notebooks that supposedly keep you from missing appointments and stuff. There’s nothing that can jog a failing memory like reading a day book from another decade with addresses and telephone numbers of people who no longer communicate by anything but e-mail, if they even still dwell on this planet.
Last week, my compulsion was vindicated by a daybook from the early 1990s, the retrieval of which just saved my sanity and a good chunk of my children’s inheritance. During a recent KCET beg-a-thon, er, pledge break, financial guru Suzie Orman was extolling the virtues of the revocable living trust. I have one of those. That is, I had one that I haven’t seen since two moves ago, when it went missing along with the name of the attorney who drew it up in 1988. I had attended a seminar much like the one Ms. Orman was giving (hers to raise funds for PBS, mine to raise funds for the attorney who mass-produced them for a few hundred dollars.
“Much less than I could do it for,” said my regular attorney, who was struggling with the probate of my ex’s estate at the time.
Vowing that I wouldn’t let my children go through a lengthy, costly probate of my earthly belongings, which didn’t amount to all that much anyway, I put what there was into a living trust. I also took out a hefty life insurance policy that would pay off any debts that might be owing against my stuff when I got the cue for my final exit. At the time, it seemed like the fair thing to do, and while the yearly premiums were hefty, I was assured the interest earned would pay the astronomical cost and after 10 years or so it would be vested and there would be no more premiums to pay. Ha! That was when the stock market was flying on irrational exuberance and interest rates were significantly above sea level, where they now hover earning basically bupkes. So much for my “piece of the rock.”
When I learned that my savings had gone south and the premiums would go on forever and might even be increased, I balked. Well no, first I swore in several languages, then I consulted my children, who magnanimously said, “What the heck are you doing all that for. We don’t need to inherit anything. You should spend what’s left of your money on yourself.” Wow. My self-reliant, no-entitlements, neocon kids. Bless their conservative little hearts.
So now I needed to update my trust to reflect our changing circumstances and revised expectations. But how do I do that when the documents have gone missing along with the attorney’s name? To start over, revoke the old trust, change the will, etc., etc., etc., would cost thousands. I spent days wading through spider infested file boxes and finally found a copy of the trust document. But nowhere in its voluminous pages was the name, much less the telephone number of the attorney. I could remember only that his office was in Century City. Then, quite serendipitously, I found 10 dusty little spiral notebooks dated 1993 to 2002. The oldest had worn and dog-eared pages generously dappled with coffee stains. I scanned the address pages looking for … what? A name I wouldn’t recognize? Page after page of names, most from another lifetime, all married or moved or gone to their just rewards. Then, among the Gs, between the pale brown circles of aged espresso, a name I hadn’t seen or spoken since 1988. And below it an address on Century Park East and a phone number. Omigod. Could he still be alive and practicing in Century City? I called. He was indeed still among us and still writing trusts. If I would send him copies of the first page and the grant deed to my property and any changes to the will, successor trustees or Durable Power of Attorney, he would make the necessary changes. And what would the charges be? Oh, about $200, he said. Oh, I guess that would be fine, I said.
All that taken care of, I’m packing for my vacation, another car trip to Montana, this time with just one daughter, one soon-to-be 4-year-old granddaughter and one orange cat named Hero. We will leave at the crack of dawn in the SUV, packed to the hilt with several days’ worth of life’s necessities. I don’t even want to know what that entails for Hero. For me, it’s a cooler with fresh, non-franchise food, a tape recorder with headphones and three unabridged audio books. With any luck at all, we’ll meet her husband, who has driven his Audi packed with his necessities and their border collie, Monday at their brand new house in Bozeman. But that’s another story. For now, let’s hear it for the pack rats of this world. Obsessive, compulsive, paranoid keepers of unnecessary stuff. Like little spiral notebooks from another life.