The Family Inheritance
by E.T. Robbins
Both my parents will turn 70 in 2002. Neither one has a will. As the youngest of their six children, it has somehow become my duty to nag them about crafting one. I do this not because I worry about the fate of their estate — I do it for my own sanity.
My mother suffers from an incurable disease: Obsessive Compulsive Packratism (OCP). Under no circumstances do I want to be responsible for her house after she dies. My biggest fear is that the government (or my siblings) will force me to go and deal with certain “situations” — like the 3,005 refrigerator magnets and the articles entitled “Cat Facial Expressions: True Meanings” and “Top Ten Natural Ways To Control Flatulence” that are underneath them.
OCP is a serious disease, but the symptoms are subtle. It can go undetected for years until one day you discover yourself in your old bedroom facing a bookshelf that once contained Nancy Drew Mysteries, but now has National Geographic in order from 1969.
“I’m going to read them someday,” Mom explains.
We’re talking 379 issues and counting.
“But you can read them online now,” I offer.
“She’s not listening,” Dad whispers. “And she wonders why I have to get sneaky,” he continues referring to how he successfully smuggled magazines from 1988 out of the house and into the recycling bin.
There are other symptoms such as when the afflicted person disappears for half a day only to return home with an odd combination of items like ten pound packages of tampons, 100 cans of tuna fish, and a lifetime supply of milk duds. Wholesale clubs are dangerous places.
“They were on sale,” Mum says defensively. Denial is another symptom.
“But, Mom,” I groan as I lift the tampons, “it’s just you and Dad. You’re almost 70.”
“If you need them when you visit, they’ll be here.”
I can’t get angry. She looks at me with a let’s-bake-cookies-grandmotherly-face (she knows where to buy 20 pound bags of chocolate chips, after all). She’s a lot shorter now. Rounder too. Yelling at her would be like opening a can of whoop-ass on Mrs. Claus.
Holidays are a challenge for my family because relatives can observe how out of control Mom’s condition is. Tupperware is the issue. Mom has “nice” containers apparently for the “nice” relatives, whoever they are. The rest of us get turnips in an old Philadelphia Cream Cheese container. She has 6000 of these. Need a spatula to scrape the mashed potatoes out of the bowl? We have 478. Where does the crock pot go? That’s an old family secret — if Mom tells you, she’ll have to kill you.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. For all the junk she hoards, she gives that much back in love. However, I must admit I like Dad’s solution to the estate debacle.
“After we’re gone, just light a match to the house.”
Consider it done, Dad. Just put it in writing first.
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