Stomping to the Fray

I’ve been in Gainesville the whole week.  It’s not conducive to writing because there is more for me to do than mope about the condo.

Although I can mope about a geriatric apartment pretty well too.

In all seriousness, I am almost over my victim why-me shit.  I still really miss hiking.  My goal had been to write enough non-hiking posts that nothing on my front page was hiking related.  At this point, I think I’m better off re-designing my layout than coming up with non-hiking posts.

This was a really tough fucking week.  I am trying really hard not to blame other people because it does no good.  That has meant I blamed myself a lot.  Which does no good either.  But here I am.

It’s entirely possible I should blame my father a little bit and I mentioned to Tom I might stomp on him when we finally visit the cabin this year.

“That’s really not right.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind.”

The reason for the stomping is some legal mumbo-jumbo that got very much jumbo-ed between the time my grandfather died and my father died.  At that point (my father’s death) I stepped into the legal fray with the understanding nothing really had to be done.  Unfortunately, the understanding was wrong and much of what the lawyer assumed made an ass of him and me.

Whatever.  It has meant on top of throwing 70 years of my grandmother’s life into the garbage so I can move her into a 12’x’13’ box, I have a lot of financial items on my to-do list.

It’s scary.  Even though I have been prepared for my grandmother’s death emotionally for several years (she’s been begging to kick the bucket since Grandpa left), I had little understanding of how her passing might ripple through the courts and IRS and banks, etc.

Here I should stomp on my father’s grave (do you call it a grave when it’s an unmarked spot next to a rotting sailboat with ashes buried in a plastic rectangle?) because not only did I inherit this mess, I inherited the personality type that does not want to have a fucking thing to do with this mess.  Family money gives me the hives.  Can’t someone just die in peace and I drink a fifth of Jack and we call it good?

Nope.  I have to put my big girl panties on and deal with this.  So I have.  I have visited FIVE – that is 1, 2, 3, 4, FUCKING FIVE banks in the past month.  I have produced important documents and death certificates and played on my iPhone (very big girl behavior) as they copied and typed and faxed to their heart’s content.

I have made great progress.  But I am no where near where the family needs things to be.

So I will do a load of laundry, find some fresh undies, and once more enter the fray.

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