Winding up the estate

The discussions with the loan agency became more pointed during the past month. When can we take possession of the vehicle, demanded a supervisor, oblivious to the fact that we didn’t yet have ownership.  “Escrow is still in the courts,” I explained. “When we are appointed, I will be sure that you know.”

The Letter of Appointment finally came through in a few weeks ago, clearing the way for the last portions of William’s estate to be  cleared.  Bank accounts, vehicle sale, insurance claims all needed attention that could not be done from Europe.  So I coupled an investor meeting to a side trip to Boulder, hoping to sell the Jeep for enough to clear the loan.

The loan company preferred to auction, assuring me that bids were likely to cover the outstanding amount.  Book value should be much higher though, worth one try at selling it outright. 

The car was where I left it, sitting on a pad in the storage yard.  Someone had winged a pellet through the windshield, a cell in the battery had burst, but otherwise it weathered the four months well.  I drove over to the detail shop to get the exterior shined and the dog hair out of the interior: Puddle did a fantastic job.  Two stops gained bits that were half-again as much as the loan company offered, more than double the outstanding amount, and I was able to close the transaction the same day.

‘less luck with the bank accounts.  The checking and savings had been drained by the bank, acting in their own self-interest to pay off a credit card ahead of other claims on the asset.  It’s perfectly legal, but deeply irritating.  Unapologetic, their only question was whether we would pay the rest of his balance or if they should sue us.

I’m finding that institutions are a lot like individuals in these circumstances.  Some are compassionate of the situation and appreciative of efforts to keep them informed and to make things right.  The insurance company, one loan officer, and the auto dealer all behaved wonderfully.  Others, the banks and auditors, just want to clear their books by any means possible and deal with us as little as they can.  Like folks who send condolences by text or cross the street to avoid conversation, they make things worse.

I feel like we’re nearing the end of the process, but that I’m erasing the evidence of William’s life one bit at a time, and, worse, at a profit.

Soon there will be nothing left.  I will have assured that the marks that he made in life will disappear as surely as those that he might have contributed but never will exist. 

It’s not what I ever wanted to have to do.

What’s in a name?

I began exchanging light conversation with the fellow in the next seat, 30,000 feet above the midwestern prairies.  ‘headed home?  ‘how’s business?  ‘vacation plans?  ‘got any kids?

I hesitated.

It was only a week since the funeral: I didn’t want to burden a stranger nor get emotional trying to talk about it.

How many children do you have?

(Deep breath) Two, but I’ve just lost one of them.  He was surprised, then sympathetic. 

We talked for a moment about the loss and it’s impacts, welcome human concern, then moved to another topic.  It went okay for a first try.

It shook me, though.

One of the most difficult things that I had to resolve during the early weeks was how to talk about William’s passing.  I didn’t want to be manipulative nor to make others uncomfortable.  It took practice to be able to give a few short sentences and a reassuring smile that made casual conversation okay with colleagues and casual friends.

A key was recognizing the importance of his name.

The doctor asked his name, first thing, in the delivery room: I was too choked to say William Patrick Hampton clearly when I looked at him for the first time. 

My parents always told me to listen for how it would sound at graduations, at sports nights, growing up. 

I repeated it as we filled out his paperwork at the funeral home, fearing that each time would be the last.

Historically, names referenced lineage and professions as well as identifying individuals: many Dutch names contain origins and physical traits.  Today, names confer identity and a place within  society, document marital and professional status.

As a parent, I always used his given name, William.  He shortened it to Liam in high school and used that variation familiarly in the service and  in college.  It was sewn onto his uniform (to be removed before donating to charity), and framed in artistic Samoan script above his doorway.

The name is important.  A recent Times article describes how Vice President Joe Biden copes with the recent loss of his son: its striking how he uses Beau in every quote. 

Similarly, I’ve found that saying his name gives William presence and legitimacy when I talk to others, even though he’s gone and his story is frozen.  It remains a gateway to telling people how I remember him and his life’s meaning.

You’re not being manipulative if you’re stating reality, I’ve been counseled. 

How many children do you have?  Two, William and Laura.

One summers’ evening

Shakespeare's comedy Midsummer Night’s Dream was presented in the Savill Gardens over the weekend: it was a lovely show on a perfect summer evening.  We walked through the gardens from one setting to another as 12 players surrounded us with the story of the games of the Gods, of loves lost and found.  The encircling forest gave the production an immersive quality: the portion where the searching lovers cry out to one another over the reaches of rolling lawns and flower beds was especially effective. 

The play continues through July and is well worth an evening.

I’ve been absent these pages for a month due to the sudden and unexpected passing of my son.  I needed the time with family, and I want to thank all of the valuable, sometimes unexpected, support that I received from others.  With time and reflection, I’ll find the wisdom and resilience to make peace with this crooked turn along life’s path.

Telling stories through photography, art, writing, have always helped me to be aware of my context and to make sense of my experiences.   However, in this circumstance I knew that I needed to take a hiatus. 

A month on, I feel ready to return. Despite the loss and sadness, I know that my life remains filled with remarkable scenes and stories, generous people and much happiness.  There will be a time when I am ready to write my remembrance for my son.  But, for now, recognizing and appreciating the best things in life through these daily perspectives is what I most want, and need.

Happy New Year, 2015!

Christmas gems

Half of my family lives in Boulder, CO;  my son studying at the University and my parents living coincidently nearby.  My daughter and I flew in for a few days visit between Christmas and New Years, ready with cookies to exchange and life’s stories to trade.  Everyone is doing well: it’s great to share memories and plans, get some advice and encouragement, and to share meals and events.

And some fun together!

The Denver Art Museum is hosting Brilliant, and exhibition of Cartier’s finest bespoke works.  The French jeweler has been around since1847, and the exhibit traces its early establishment by Louis-François and its long association with royalty and celebrities.  The works are intricate and expansive: arrays of matched gemstones set into filigreed silverwork.  Necklaces, tiaras, rings and bracelets glisten in the cases; special portions cover the influences of the Far East and Middle East on related pieces.

I liked the ‘mystery clocks’, the hands suspended without visible connection to the clockworks.

My daughter has a retail background, and aided my engineer’s eye, curious about how the tiniest of gems could be attached to the intricate pieces.  There are impossibly tiny silver baskets and prongs that anchor each individual stone, a later portion of the exhibit illustrates the design and crafting processes.

 

The collection of emeralds, a portion devoted to men’s creations, rounds it out; it’s a lovely exhibit, well worth making time for.

I breezed through a showing of colorful works by Raoul Dufy downstairs and the outside sculptures, then lunch together in the café to compare perspectives.  We topped that with Champagne brunch at the Greenbriar Inn the next morning, highly recommended regardless of the season. 

It was a wonderful visit, a reminder that family holds many of the true gems in life

. 

Colorado snow and celebrations

I haven’t been in the US as often as I used to be: the shifting nature of work, family, and economics meant resulted in nearly a year’s absence.   It accumulated faster than I realized,and I particularly needed to get down to Colorado to visit my son and my parents.

And we had a good catch-up and reconnection all around. 

And some lovely snow days for early-morning walking; sometimes jet-lag is a good thing

 

My son left the Air Force to start back to college: it was great to see his apartment, play with his big graceful dog, and hear about his future plans.

 

My parents are in the midst of down sizing, moving from the house to an apartment a few blocks away. There was time to sit and talk, to see the new place, and sort through the boxes of things that wouldn’t be able to move.  There were a lot of pictures of generations of family, memorabilia from my grandfather, scrapbooks of family trips taken together growing up. 

 

We scanned all of the oldest photos: my great-granfathers at work in their paper mill and shoe store.  We contacted railroad museums that might have interest in the coffee sets from long-vanished dining cars.

I felt a tug at how closely the carefully typed vacation diaries, illustrated with curling photos, reminded me of the way i capture life as an expat and entrepreneur: the journey’s record. 

We bundled two large boxes of them to keep.

 

There were long discussions of real-estate and politics, the Jan1 arrival of retail marijuana, computers and sports teams.  We all enjoyed dinners together with old stories and familiar laughter, followed by single-malt sipping and Christmas cookie exchanges. 

It was all very traditional, close, and happy, a cap on the old year and a touchstone to measure the new.  ‘And more visits in 2014, seeing if expat and extended family life can be better mixed.

Father’s day memories

Father’s day is always a bit wistful: everyone far away, it’s a bit of a scramble to catch people by phone, and lots of folks my age have lost their’s.  I’m fortunate, still with mine to talk to about life events and when the road get’s rough.  So, I do my shopping and shipping weeks in advance (a bottle of 16-year Single Malt in a mailer marked FRAGILE: Lava Lamp).

  

My own children, in contrast, can be …well…a bit last-minute.

However, this year, my daughter is using a portion of her convalescence to organize and scan decades of old family photos.  These treasures have been languishing in a very crowded bedroom drawer, lovingly added to after every vacation and holiday, year after sedimentary year.  There are lots of good memories there, and I’m hopeful that we’ll get them into some sort of chronologic (or at least subject) order soon.

So Father’s Day was a good opportunity for her to post a few memorable shots on Facebook.  I woke to find my younger self (with real  blond, rather than birch-bark blond hair) and my much younger offspring decorating my Wall.  Cute.

‘hard to believe we were all that cute…once.

A very happy Father’s Day to all!

It’s a big deal

This weekend, I’m proud of my daughter’s completion of her four-year degree in Fashion and Marketing at Washington State University.  She was one of over 2000 graduates in Pullman that filled the basketball arena: there were inspirational speeches by the faculty (all punctuated by Go Cougs fist pumping), cheers from family members each time a graduate was introduced on the jumbo TV, ritual queuing for pictures alongside the school mascot, posing (and a nice dinner) with Boyfriend Mike. 

It was a fun weekend and the culmination of a lot of Laura’s hard work.  We are proud of each of our children for their unique talents and accomplishments: ‘Liam in the Air Force, now Laura getting her diploma.