Can I Have All Your Stuff?

"The curtain of darkness is fallin'
And my friends are all here at my side.
Are those the sweet voices of angels
As I rise on that heavenly tide?

All hearts overflowin' with sadness
And those words left so often unsaid
Then I could hear a voice whispering softly,
'Could I have all your stuff when your dead?'"

* Lyrics to "Last Words", the Austin Lounge Lizards

"Sic transit gloria mundi": (Lat.) "thus passes the glory of the world."

My friend, Sky's mother-in-law passed on late last year leaving behind a nest that was like a centerfold out of Metropolitan Home. Charlotte had a strong aesthetic sensibility with a keen eye for interior design and a lot of flair. Her home was a luxurious salon full of cream-colored upholstered recamiers scattered across a field of leopard print carpeting; fat tassels swung from the hems of bed skirts and rich draperies, chinoiserie cabinets squatted under Renaissance reproductions in heavy gilded frames. Every surface displayed a precious crystal tsotske or piece of exquisite bric-a-brac. I only saw Charlotte's home in photographs, but one got the feeling that if you sat down anywhere, you would sink down into all of that plushness and just disappear.

Sky and her husband, Len, were a bit overwhelmed as to how to incorporate an excess of elegance into their own life - a life that includes a teenager and a young Golden Retriever - as their decorating tastes had long surrendered to the functional over the sumptuous. While they agreed that Charlotte's furnishings were far more sophisticated than anything they owned, they debated the practical wisdom of moving a van load of white furniture, tapestries and delicate knickknackery cross country.

Expense and practicality won out and they agreed that at least some of the larger ornate pieces and art would stay in Houston to be turned over to an estate sale. Sky emailed photographs so I could see Charlotte's beautiful creation before it was disassembled. And, I'm only a little ashamed to admit it, that's when I saw something I wanted.

"Are you taking the palm tree? If not, can I have it?"

I have long been on the hunt for an affordable artificial palm tree and this one was my dream realized. It was at least eight feet tall in an ornate pot - the kind of tree you'd imagine in the lobby of a pre-war Moroccan hotel, only fake. These are surprisingly expensive and I immediately imagined this one as the centerpiece of my spiritual life. My plans included decorating it as our Christmas tree and stacking our presents under its plastic canopy (very "Mele Kalikimaka"); wrapping it in twinkly lights and hanging leis, affirmations and offerings from it. I wanted to use the tree as an altar of sorts where I could commune with my tiki gods.

I had big aspirations for this palm. And although I had only met Charlotte once, at Sky's wedding, I was sure she would have been glad to know her tree was getting loving artificial care.

Sky and Len, on the other frond, had no plans whatsoever for it and were pleased to offer it to me. All I had to do was go and fetch it. In this, I enlisted the help of another friend, Amy, an intrepid gal always willing to sign on for the oddest of expeditions. We both viewed the trip from Austin to Houston as a chance to eat deer jerky, drink orange soda, talk incessantly for three hours, and, eventually, get lost.

We've done this before.

Now, Charlotte had a close friend, Rhett, who was her executor. Her passing was sudden, although not entirely unexpected as she had been in declining health for a number of years. No doubt, her attachment to her home and the future of her pretty things must have been on her mind, because she talked often about what she wanted to go to whom. But the distribution plan changed constantly, and in any case, other than a will leaving everything to her son, no written provisions were left for mementos to go to friends.

Understand that Sky and Len are not in the least materially inclined and had no objection to giving almost anything away. But they have lived on the East Coast for many years and did not know Charlotte's friends well, if at all. Absent specific instructions or a direct request, they couldn't read anyone's mind. They had no guidance if one friend had his heart set on the alabaster candelabra or if a neighbor coveted the brocade tuffet. Any requests had to be made outright.

Unbeknownst to anyone but Rhett himself, there were many of Charlotte's possessions that were meaningful to him. But he didn't speak up and in the confusion of arranging movers, settling finances and filing with probate, no one thought to ask him if there was anything he especially wanted. Rhett, apparently, became embittered as his super-secret longings were not being addressed. So while I was making plans with Amy to drive to Houston, Rhett had already claimed my palm tree for himself.

As it played out, our trip was set to coincide with the day the movers were packing and loading. Sky called Rhett to let him know that I would be there to pick up the palm, and that it should be set aside from going into either the estate sale or in the moving van.

Relations quickly deteriorated when, apparently, the introduction of a usurper from Austin laying claim to any of the spoils just pushed Rhett over the edge of polite restraint. Rhett declared that he was very upset that no one had invited him to choose from among Charlotte's things, and felt it was an egregious oversight. Additionally, he said that Charlotte had always promised him the palm and he felt well within his rights to fulfill her wishes. Rhett huffed that the tree was at his house and if I wanted it, I would have to come there to retrieve it. He had hurt his back and was not willing to return it to Charlotte's house for a stranger. So, there.

The first thing that occurred to me when I heard the story was, "He must have wrenched his back moving that fifty pound artificial palm in a hurry" and the second was "He stole my tree."

As I told Sky later, I found it highly unlikely that anyone says, "When I die, I want you to have my plastic tree to remember me by." That's like saying, "I want you to have my bath mat," or "I know you have always admired my sweat pants and I want you to enjoy them after I go." A faux plant is just not the sort of thing you bequeath.

I conjured the mental image of this man on a clandestine mission to jack a heavy potted plant, certain he wouldn't be found out, and filled with righteous indignation that he should get SOMETHING out of his friend's estate, however trivial.

It had such a Daffy Duck-esque quality to it that I could not fail to be amused. As you recall, Daffy's greed always got the best of him and he would explode into a cloud of feathers after some misadventure, leaving only his disembodied bill to sputter, "It's mine! It's mine! It's ALL mine!"

In the end, I graciously conceded implied possession to Rhett. The world is full of artificial palms, and one is likely to come my way by some other means. And, although I remain dubious that Rhett was ever named heir to the tree, he was Charlotte's friend. If the tree gives him happy memories of her and her home, then it should go to him.

But Rhett gave me an opportunity to reflect on how the prospect of free plunder can turn otherwise respectable people into petty thieves or shameless beggars. We've all heard stories and had experiences with relatives showing up to sift through the remnants of the deceased's earthly life.

I was once witness to a distant relative arriving from out of town to pick through the modest scraps left after my father-in-law passed. Cousin Neal hadn't been seen or heard from in decades, but he saved us all a lot of time and effort when he happily carted off everything from the cracked dish drainer to Dad's hairbrushes. You would have thought that Neal already had his own hairbrush, but I guess the sight of free stuff - even free stuff no one usually wants like used hairbrushes and old socks - just brings out some sort of weird covetous lust that's completely disproportionate to the value of the goods.

Another friend tells the story of being at her grandmother's funeral, and returning to the grandmother's house to discover that it had been completely looted, not by burglars, but by other blood relatives. The father of a high school friend of mine committed suicide when his family couldn't agree on how to divide the family ranch after the grandfather had passed. People will, apparently, fight to the death over Aunt Fran's battered credenza or a family ring, even though the world is full of credenzas and rings.

While I'm sure that having your family behave like opportunistic buzzards fighting over roadkill is distressing when you are in the middle of a battle over your late Uncle Boo's lawn chairs and power tools, you have to appreciate the entertainment value. How can the plunderers overlook the obvious and ignore the proverbial writing on the wall? That is, we come from dust and to dust we shall return - sic transit gloria mundi, and all that.

The boxes of your possessions destined for the estate sale wait for no man, and in a blink, someone else will be going through YOUR stuff and behaving badly over your fitness equipment and snow globe collection. This was made abundantly clear to me when Cousin Neal fell off a ladder not long after loading up his truck with the detritus of my father-in-law's life and was lost to this world.

Possession of anything is so temporary you wonder why we bother or why we care at all. But since we apparently do care, I have an idea for a game you can play with your family, your friends or just by yourself. First, think of the people you know who would likely be affected by your demise.

Yes, it's very sad, but don't linger there - it spoils the hilarity. Next, think of your stuff and imagine what sort of feeding frenzy your death will create and which of your friends and family are likely to be circling to get their hands on your palm tree.

Now, here's the fun part. Far in advance of your passing, what sort of clever things can you dream up to thwart those predators? Interesting, huh? You probably have a few kin who will not rest until they have stripped your home of every quantum particle, or a brother-in-law who has been eyeing your fishing boat and hopes the angels come for you sooner rather than later. With an evil mind and a little pre-planning, you could entertain yourself for years to come. For one relative, I imagine getting DVD cases promising Asian porn, Swedish porn, spring break porn, international porn and intergalactic porn. Naturally, the original DVDs would long have been substituted for the complete boxed sets of "Monty Python's Flying Circus" and "The Vicar of Dibley" by the time he sneaks them away under his jacket.

Amusing evenings could be spent creating personal correspondence that reveals all sorts of outrageous secrets about you. Or you can start acquiring weird evidence of a heretofore unsuspected shady life. Surely only an addict would leave behind a hookah, precision pharmaceutical scales and a stack of bumper stickers that say, "I Heart Opium". Probably none of your relatives know anything of your work in espionage, your unholy interest in a neo-Inquisition, or your love child by Donald Rumsfeld. They probably do not know that you believe yourself to be the reincarnation of Amenhotep III.

The possibilities are infinite for seeding your estate with hints of a back-alley life you never lived and crazy stuff no one on earth could possibly want. Write mysterious notes on the back of photographs of people you do not, in fact know and tuck them into your photo albums; cryptic notes like "Salvatore and Myrna on the bridge. Sodium pentothal. More dumplings."

Think how much pleasure you could have by just putting a family size can of Spam in a safety deposit box and leaving instructions, "To Be Opened Only Upon My Death." Start collecting something farfetched like...I don't know...pan flutes and force your potential heirs to fake an interest in your new hobby and spend hours listening to your Zamfir recordings. Enjoy watching them nearly implode from trying to pretend that they love pan flute music.

It seems reasonable to me that before you sail off to the Afterlife, you get a little pre-Afterlife enjoyment. If your friends or relatives are going to get your palm tree anyway, I say make them have to jump for it.

Last Words

* The curtain of darkness is fallin'
And my friends are all here at my side.
Are those the sweet voices of angels
As I rise on that heavenly tide?

All hearts overflowin' with sadness
And those words left so often unsaid
Then I could hear a voice whispering softly,
"Could I have all your stuff when your dead?"

"Could I have your TV and your pickup?
And I've always admired your shoes.
Could I have that old dining room table?
And there's a couple of chairs I could use."

"Well, you know that you're headed to glory,
And like a star, up to heaven you'll shoot
When they write the last page of your story,
Could I try on that seersucker suit?"

It was the voice of my dear brother Thomas.
He was kneelin' down close by my side.
His breath had just come from a funeral
For a mouth full of teeth that had died.

Well, I prayed my last prayer for salvation.
I was feelin' the touch of God's hand.
But I could still hear the voice of my brother
As they struck up that old angel band.

"Could I have your old ski boots and surf board?
And maybe that four-poster bed?
Would you mind if I took a few records?
Just Nirvana, The Stones, and the Dead."

Well, you know that you can't take it with you
To your heavenly home up on high.
When you pass through those gates, and they hand you your wings,
Could I have all your stuff when you die?

But the angels consulted St. Peter
And flew me back to my hospital bed.
My life was a new day a-dawning,
And the angels took Tommy instead

- complete lyrics, Austin Lounge Lizards

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Ingrid lives on San Juan Island.

While Ingrid is spiritually promiscuous, she credits her guru, Jimmy Buffet, for her mantra..."If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane." Besides a passion for Tiki Studies, Ingrid is borderline biblio-obsessive. She is an old-school Libran - i.e., she won't be leading the Revolution, but she'll work to make it an attractive affair and hire the musicians and caterers."

Her column appears every other Thursday in San Juan Islander. To contact Ingrid, send emails to ingrid@sanjuanislander.com

editor@sanjuanislander.com

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