37. Who Has the Time?
Okay, so you’re given a death sentence — AND you’re given time, so what do you do with it? My suggestion is you get down to business.
If you have a will, review it. Maybe give your lawyer a call to make sure everything is still current. Tim and I signed our most recent will in 2016. We called our attorney and explained the situation — he did a review of things and asked Tim to stop in and re-sign a bunch of stuff. We weren’t changing anything significant, but it was suggested that a sit-down between Tim and Attorney Wonderful (yeup, he’s wonderful) was a good idea.
If you don’t have a will — my suggestion is to get down to business. (Disclaimer: I am not an attorney – although I pretend to be one when I bestow that profession on one of my characters). If you’ve got some time, I say use it wisely.
Anyway, with or without a will, it might be a good idea to discuss your intentions with your children, and maybe give each one a little something, something — a piece of jewelry, or some little thing your child or grandchild or friend thought was special. Sharing your bounty is a sure fire way that they’ll remember you. Just kidding!
Each of us spends a lifetime gathering belongings, so go ahead and share them, and watch for yourself the pleasure it brings to the people you love. I did this during the Christmas holiday.
A little background. Tim and I live in a duplex; we on one side and Hannah and Hadley on the other. It is the absolute perfect living arrangement. The proximity means that my best little person in the whole world opens her front door, skips a few steps my way, opens my front door, and lands in my arms — while my heart is still racing with excitement that Hadley is on her way.
The side-by-side homes were perfect for this past Christmas, too. Hannah hosted her first Christmas brunch — the one I hosted for the past 35 years. Tim’s sister Annie always hosts a huge Christmas Eve bash for the O’Brien clan and most of Worcester County — which is pretty much the O’Brien clan — and then Tim and I would have my family — all 10 of them, to our home Christmas morning. With Covid rampant, once again, we needed to make a plan — a safe plan — for my family to spend this last holiday with me.
The plan.
Everyone visiting took a sacred oath to do a rapid Covid test Christmas morning, don two masks each, use hand sanitizer on the way in and on the way out of doors, congregate en masse at Hannah’s home, eat drink and be merry there, then come visit me — two by two — like animals boarding Noah’s Ark.
During the inner sanctum visits, the Sneades, the Bucks, the McCarthys and My Mother Bodreau kissed the ring of the Godmother (ME) — perched upon her leather recliner — much like the Tattaglias, the Barzinis, the Cuneos, and the Straccis kissed the ring of Vito Corleone when he sat at the head of whatever damned table he chose.
My ‘family’ exchanged happy hellos before anguished goodbyes. In between the giggles and tears, I ‘bequeathed’ my jewels — what that really means is this — I handed each of the women in my life a small black velvet bag that had a little something, something inside. Whatever surprise trinket was gifted to me over the years was now being gifted away. One of my most favorite ‘bequeathings’ was to my sister-in-law, Denise.
First a little background from a blog I wrote a couple years back. (No surprise here – right?)
The engagement.
April is a wonderful month, once you get past the tomfoolery of its first day — or in my case, the ‘timfoolery’ of its first day. Mr. Wonderful popped the question on April Fool’s Day. I think.
A little background before we get to that part of the story. Tim and I attended the same high school, though we didn’t hang out together. I knew who he was — everyone knew who he was. Tim O was the all-around, go-to guy at South High — the classmate who interfaced easily with teachers and students, the one who did things off-campus at the behest of administrators, the president of the inter-high student council, the young adult who roamed halls freely, whilst the rest of the ‘kids’ remained shackled to desk chairs.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t really part of my school’s social scene because I spent most of my time with my boyfriend — a really gooood-looking jock from a school across town. (The extra oooo-s in gooood just sort of wrote themselves, so I’m leaving them). Anyway, after high school, Tim started college, had to leave to have major back surgery, suffered through a lengthy recuperation, went to art school, and moved to The Woodlands, a sort of suburb of Houston.
While he was doing all of that, I was climbing the stepstool of success, earning some cash, buying concert tickets (you name them, I saw them), and tooling around in my midnight-blue Datsun 280Z 5-speed. I was living moment to moment, and enjoying every damned one of them.
For ten years, neither of us had a single thought about the other of us. That tidbit doesn’t matter a lick because when the man recently back from the Lone Star State, and the woman wearing a dress that screamed, “Welcome back to the Bay State” found themselves in the same reunion hall, it was a damned yeehaw moment.
Another digression. For those of you reading my Pulling Threads stories, you’ve met a character named (delete: ,) Malcolm Price, an NBA point-guarding phenom — man among men if you will. Part of Malcolm’s character development was based on my husband — sadly, it’s not the shower-scene — anyway, Malcolm has a habit of leaning against a wall, stretching his legs forward, and crossing them at the ankles. Malcolm has that ‘thing’ because of Tim. That’s how Tim was standing when I first saw him from across the room.
On the umpteenth time that our eyes locked, he raised his beer bottle, pulled a long sip, and nodded his head in what I assumed was some sort of Texan mating ritual.
I was lassoed. I leaned close and whisper-drooled to a classmate who knew Tim really well, “Barbie, that’s the man I’m going to marry.”
She nudged me nearly off my 4” stilettos, and laughed, “Doubt it.”
Okay, back to the point of this story (I think there is one, but we’ll see. First, another point of reference). I neglected to mention earlier that I was senior-class vice president at South High. Trust me, you aren’t the only ones surprised by that little twist in this ramble. The reason I held that esteemed position is because Tim O’Brien approached me one day at school and asked me to run for the position — that’s it, he asked, groveled a bit, and I said, yes.
Ah, the segue!
Mr. Wonderful and I began dating shortly after reunion. Eight months later, on April Fool’s Day, Tim O’Brien asked Sheryll Sneade to marry him at Dino’s, a wonderful Italian eatery with red and white checked tablecloths, Chianti bottle centerpieces, each with a melted to the nub taper, and a roasted pepper pizza to die for.
At a booth for two in a quiet nook off the main-seating area Mr. Wonderful pushed his meal aside and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot, but I haven’t really planned anything yet, you know with rings and things, but I think we should get married.”
After a minute or two of silence I asked, “Are we engaged?”
After a minute or two of silence he asked, “Did you say, yes?”
After a minute or two of silence I asked, “Did you propose?”
He reached across the table, took hold of my hand.
He asked. I said, yes.
Okay, back to the Christmas story. Because Tim didn’t do ‘the rings and things’ proposal, I suggested we use my mother’s wedding set. She ‘bequeathed’ it to me upon my parents’ divorce — there was a hiss involved but, still, the event was charming.
Anyway, the set was really beautiful. The rings were gold, but the engagement ring held a half-carat round diamond set in platinum, and the very thin wedding band was gold, but had a row of itty-bitty round diamonds, also set in platinum.
I don’t really like wearing rings, so I never planned to wear both pieces. Tim and I took the band to the jewelers and purchased two thin gold bands and had the three pieces made into one wide band. Into the drawer went my mother’s engagement ring.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Don was getting engaged to Denise — I offered him Mom’s engagement ring. It pleased my mother that two of her children happily used her rings. It pleased me that my new sister-in-law loved the ring and the sentiment.
This Christmas morning, I handed Denise a black velvet bag that held my wedding band, “I think it’s time we put the set back together.”
Mom, Marjorie, and Denise shed tears during the sentimental moment — Don and I pushed ours back and swallowed them hard because the ‘bequeathing’ ritual was taking its toll on me — and because he’s a dude, you know.
I most definitely would suggest to those with time on their hands, and trinkets in their drawers to give them to your loved ones. The sheer joy on their faces is priceless — even if your jewels are not.
Planning YOUR funeral.
I’d made the decision years ago that I would be cremated. My somewhat rational decision was born from my irrational fear of confined spaces — like coffins — even though I’d be dead, the thought of being in one gave me the panics — partly because I read that book by Mary Higgins Clark, — the one where the female darling was kidnapped and buried alive in a century-old cemetery plot — that just happened to have an old-fashioned above-ground bell attached to a string hanging into the grave — to be used — if someone was buried alive — you know, because he or she could find the string and ring the bell.
That. Was. It. For. Me. And. Cemetery. Plots.
Although I love the plot Mary used in that book.
Anyway, even though cremation was my preferred way to go, there were other things that I wanted done my way. Like — I don’t want a wake, and I don’t want a church funeral, and I won’t be buried, and Covid is still an effing curse on those living and those who won’t be for long — and one of whom might find themselves without a proper farewell because of the whole kerfuffle over wearing masks and getting shots and boosters shit fest. (Sorry, for the rant).
I’ve decided to have an open-house gathering at a funeral home. A ‘stop by’ anytime between 1 and 3 or 2 and 5 (not sure and don’t care), listen to some tunes by Eva Cassidy and some hymns by Alan Jackson, watch a little slide show of random thoughts by Yours Truly, listen to Father Dude plead my case to the Big Guy, and to my brother say nice things about me on behalf of my family, and to my bestie tell the truth about me.
Planning the best party you won’t attend.
You might as well plan your party, your last hurrah, your final send off.
After the open-house gathering, there will be a quick drive past my childhood home, a stone’s throw away from the Knights of Columbus where my favorite tunes will be played — courtesy of Hannah who has put together a playlist — and lots of laughs will be had — most likely at my expense, but I’ll be dead, so whatever.
A trip to Breens.
My sister-in-law, Noreen Hanlon, is the Sam Malone of Cambridge Street. She owns a bar/café called Breens. Many members of the Hanlon family have been part-owners of the joint for decades — that’s the length of time I’ve said these words.
“I have never stepped inside Breens. When I was young, I was a Blarney Stone girl, when Tim and I were dating we were more inclined to share our drinks at home before hitting the sheets, then I had kids, then I became a recluse. So, this is the plan. When I die, I want my urn to be taken to Breens for a private, family-only toast or two.”