BECAUSE IT'S TAX TIME

April is a time for filing income taxes, so I thought the following personal article might be appropriate.  Receipts can be revealing.  What do yours say about you?  Enjoy!

DISCLOSURE

                        As a bookkeeper for more than forty years, I learned to read people by the receipts they kept for business.  My penchant for deciphering numbers in fine print told me far more than just the financial cost of an item or service.

            I could tell there were two guests in a hotel room when a businessman was out of town, on business, without his wife.  I knew a businesswoman bought ten bottles of vodka for one dinner for four that she hosted back in December.  I knew when he sent his wife flowers, or when she took her husband golfing.  I knew where they banked and how much they earned.  I knew what their medical premiums cost and where they had RRSPs.  I could tell what vehicles they drove, whether they were purchased or leased, and when their insurance expired.  I knew if he had disability insurance or if she had life insurance.  I knew what school their children attended and the colour of the uniform for the basketball team they sponsored.  And I learned where the whole family vacationed each year.

            So what did my receipts say about me?  The top drawer of my filing cabinet was overflowing, so I pulled out one file folder that was bulging, entitled “Personal Receipts”.  It had been collecting items for many years.  I spent an hour sorting my memories, keeping some and discarding others.

            I’d been searching for a diagram I knew I saved that showed the assembly of an oscillating fan.  I wanted to take the fan apart and clean it.  “Destructions” come in handy.  The fan was probably twenty years old but I still had the diagram in my personal receipt file.

            What other details of my life were evident on paper?  I found picture I.D. of myself that had been issued by the provincial government before drivers’ licences included pictures.  The I.D. had been required to prove I wasn’t a minor when I purchased alcohol.  This laminated piece of identification was from 1970.

            There was a hospital registration card for my daughter from Vancouver Children’s Hospital for when she had open heart surgery in 1984 at the age of five.  When she turned sixteen, I gave her a birthstone ring.  I saw the receipt from the local jeweller.  And later there were receipts from her two driving tests; the one she failed and the one she passed.  From Champagne & Lace I had the receipt for her grad dress.  All of these were proof she lived and grew up.

            For my son, I found outdated vehicle registrations and vehicle insurance papers.   When he graduated as a second lieutenant from the Royal Military College in Kingston, I bought him a silver pocket watch and a silver flask, both engraved with his name and both for him to use with his dress uniform.  I had the receipts.

            I kept airline tickets to my son’s graduation and my daughter’s wedding.  There were also tickets to Winnipeg one February so I could visit my son and daughter-in-law at C.F.B. Shilo.  I remember the temperature was minus forty degrees Celsius the whole five days of my visit!

            I had receipts for my ancient chesterfield suite and VCR, both of which were still in use.  There were receipts for cameras that have since died and for all the repairs to a washing machine we later replaced.  I had detailed instructions for care of a box spring and mattress I bought for my daughter.

            In the file were all the vet bills for our since departed cat.  And I had the receipt for the large print bible I gave my mother-in-law for her birthday one year.

            Since the late 1980s, I had saved receipts every time I renewed my disabled parking permit.  My fold-up cane cost me $29.99, and my designer cane cost me $49.99.  My wheeled walker with brakes and basket cost $200.00, used.  No warranty.

            In 1996, my son bought one new tire for my car, for $129.95 at Canadian Tire.  I subscribed to Reader’s Digest for five years in a row, and to Storyteller Magazine for two years.

 
            The television in the living room came from Visions, a wedding present from my mother.  My driving glasses were two for the price of one.  My largest expenditures on clothing were always at the fabric store, some assembly required.  The Corelle dishes in the kitchen came from Walmart.  Wedding presents for the kids, pots and pans with twenty-five year warranties for both my son and daughter, came from Sears and so did my Kenmore stove.  There was also the receipt for the marriage licence when Bryon and I got married.

            Ah, yes.  There is revelation by receipt.  Can you read me now?

_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

WHO DO YOU TRUST?

I wrote the following story to illustrate some of the problems faced by seniors who age and lose their independence.  It's a difficult transition for everyone involved, and this story is only a small fraction of the many that could, or should, be told.  

TREACHERY?

             Connie lay on her back, counting the ceiling tiles in her room at the Shady Acres Hospice.  After a broken hip and a diagnosis of multiple cancers, she’d been moved there from the hospital.  Her daughter, Francine, though, was the only one using the word “terminal” about her condition, insisting that at eighty-four it was time her mother give her  Power of Attorney to handle her affairs.  Regretting that she’d signed the papers, Connie’s fingers plucked at the bedspread in agitation.

            “Mrs. Matheson, would you like to go down the hall with the walker again?  We can take you to the TV lounge and you can visit with Mabel for a bit.  Would you like that?” the nurse asked.

            “Yes.  Yes, I would,” she answered, always eager to move around and see other people.  She had been an active senior, busy with bowling and swimming and walking and visiting other shut-ins not so lucky.  Until that day she’d slipped on her own icy steps and broken her hip.

            “Here’s a robe I found that you can use,” the nurse said as she helped Connie cover up the ugly hospital gown.  Connie was mortified at wearing a hand-me-down robe, as if she was too poor to buy her own.  She had always been a natty dresser.

            “I’ve asked my daughter to bring me my clothes, but she says I don’t need them,” Connie suddenly blurted, in spite of never wanting to air dirty family laundry.  “I’m sure I could dress myself now.”

            “Yes, you most certainly could.  You’re healing nicely and moving better every day.”

            Connie walked slowly but surely down the hall with the walker, chatting with the nurse about the weather.  Once in the cheerful lounge decorated in bright spring colours, she sat at the games table where Mabel was sitting in her wheelchair, playing solitaire.

            “Morning, Connie.  I see they found a robe for you.  I’ve a good mind to tell your daughter what for!  She’s so unkind to you,” Mabel said, as she turned over a queen of spades.

            “Don’t do that, Mabel!  Don’t cause any trouble, please.  Francine’s under her husband’s thumb, and I know he’s after all my money.  If she defies him, he’ll make her life miserable, and I don’t want that.”

            “But Connie, she’s got access to all your money and the keys to your house and she’s refusing to bring you any clothes or personal belongings that you want.  You’re not dead yet, old girl, not doomed like me.  You know the doctor said you could live for many months or even a few years.  You could have a life again, Connie!  Don’t give up!” Mabel said just before she started coughing uncontrollably.

            Connie watched helplessly as the nurse hurried in and fitted Mabel with the mask from the portable oxygen tank on her wheelchair, and then pushed her out of the room.

            All her life, Connie had been quietly but determinedly independent.  She had nursed her husband for two years after his stroke, until he died of heart failure at fifty-nine.  She had worked as an office manager till she was seventy, and then worked for free as a volunteer in the community ever since.  She wasn’t one to ask for help.  It belittled her to ask her daughter repeatedly to bring her clothes and shoes and toiletries, items that somehow never arrived.  She feared she was imposing too much on Francine who was already handling her banking and paying her bills and taking care of her house for her.  So Connie had quit asking, and resigned herself to dying in this place, counting ceiling tiles.  But perhaps Mabel was right.  Maybe she did still have some life left, she thought as she gathered and shuffled the playing cards.

            When she returned to her room, she sat in the upright chair beside the night table and nervously reached for the phone.  Luckily it was Sunday afternoon and she remembered her son’s phone number.  Trembling, she made a collect call to him, seven hundred miles away.

            “Peter?  Oh, Peter.  Thank goodness I can talk to you,” Connie started, and then poured her heart out to her son.  She told him Francine had Power of Attorney and controlled her money, that she wouldn’t bring her any clothes, that she wasn’t about to die, that she hadn’t had a stroke like Francine had told him, that she didn’t have dementia, that Francine was selling all her belongings, and she was afraid she would sell the house and take all that money, too, if they didn’t do something.

            When Connie hung up, she was greatly relieved that Peter would catch the first plane home in the morning.  Determined to make the most of whatever time she had left, she started doing the exercises the physiotherapist had taught her to improve her mobility.  If she could start getting around without the presence of a nurse, then at least she could go visit the other patients who couldn’t leave their rooms.  She needed to have purpose again.

            Late the next afternoon, Connie was seated next to her son at a table in a private meeting room.  Francine and her husband sat across from them, and the doctor and a social worker sat at either end of the table.

            “Mrs. Matheson does not need to stay here in the hospice,” Doctor Rashid said.  “She’s not nearing imminent death.  Her heart is strong, she’s regaining mobility and her cancers are not causing her any great discomfort and may not do so for quite some time.  She may not be able to return to living on her own, but some form of long term care would be better suited to her remaining life than staying here with bated breath anticipating sudden demise.  Social services can help you find suitable placement Mrs. Matheson, where I’m sure you would be comfortable and even able to enjoy some social life again.

            “But what about the stroke she had, and her dementia?  The hospital said she was going to die, just like Dad did.  She’s not capable of making decisions on her own!”  Francine cried.

            “Well, your mother has never had a stroke, and shows no signs of dementia, so she is perfectly capable of deciding things for herself, and I will attest to that if required,” Dr. Rashid said.  “You can chat now with Ms. Yang here about possible living arrangements,” he said as he rose and left.

            Connie watched her daughter cross her arms in a huff, as she avoided looking at her mother or her brother.  Under the table, she felt Peter lay his hand over her own two hands clutched in her lap and he squeezed slightly.  He then raised the matter of why Francine had sold everything in the house and wanted to know where their Mother’s clothes were and why hadn’t she brought her any of the things she needed?

            “You have no right to come in here out of the blue and demand anything, Peter!  You haven’t been around to look after tick all for years, so don’t you come in pretending to be some bloody knight in shining armor when you haven’t lifted a finger to help all this time.  I’m the one who’s had to do everything.  So yes, I sold everything in the house and cleaned it up and painted the walls and got rid of all the old crap, and listed the house for sale.  I’ve done it all, no thanks to you!” Francine railed at her brother.

            “So what have you done with the money?  If you got rid of all Mom’s clothes and furniture and belongings, then there should be enough money to buy new clothes for her now.  And what about her future care?  As the oldest child, I want an itemized accounting of all income and expenses since Mom gave you Power of Attorney!” Peter yelled back.  “And if you don’t comply, you’ll hear from my lawyer!”

            Connie saw Francine turn pale and look nervously at her husband, Benjamin, who in turn was glaring at Peter.  She couldn’t take any more of this.  Her whole family was falling apart, as if all the love she’d given them didn’t count for a thing.  They were fighting over her money and she wasn’t even dead yet.  Rattled and distraught, Connie burst into tears.  “Don’t fight.  Please don’t fight any more.  I’ll stay here.  I don’t need anything.  Please don’t fight.”

            Ms. Yang cleared the others out of the room, saying she needed to speak with Mrs. Matheson alone and apprise her of her options.

            “You know, Mrs. Matheson, that you can revoke a Power of Attorney?  That it doesn’t have to be everlasting?”

            “I can?” Connie asked as she wiped her nose on a tissue Ms. Yang supplied.

            “Yes, you can.  And you can name a new one if you want, if you can’t get out and about to handle your business affairs.  Nothing is locked in stone.  Do you have any other children?”

            “No, just Peter and Francine.  But I have a lovely granddaughter.  Peter’s child.  She lives not far from here and comes to see me as often as she can.  She’s married and has a child of her own.  But she always says just to call her if I need anything, but I would never trouble a grandchild.  She’s such a dear, though.”

            “Mrs. Matheson, do you think she might be willing to help with your affairs?”

            “Well, I don’t know about that.  Wouldn’t that put her in the middle between her father and her aunt?”

            “You have a will, don’t you?”

            “Yes, it leaves everything to Peter and Francine.”

            “Well, all your granddaughter has to worry about then is handling your current money and affairs, and keeping an account of it, and then everything would go to your two children when you pass away.  Your pension would cover expenses in a subsidized care home.  But if you want to live in a facility that offers more, you could use the funds from the sale of your home to cover that additional expense.  Do you think you could trust your granddaughter to help you and to make sure you have whatever you need in the meantime?”

            “Oh, maybe.  She’s a sensible girl, honest and hardworking and very caring.  Yes, that might just work.  Can we call her and ask?  I think I need your help to explain this to her.  I’m not very good at asking youngsters to help an old burden like me.”

            “No problem.  In fact, I can call her for you, if you’d like,” Ms. Yang said, as she placed her cold hand over Connie’s.

            Two days later, Connie was slowly getting dressed in a new outfit Sarah had brought for her to wear.  She’d bought tops and slacks and underwear and shoes and socks out of her own money, she’d been so concerned when she’d learned of her Gran’s situation.  Connie was vastly relieved she could rely on at least one family member and that someone would be there for her during whatever time she had left.

            At Ms. Yang’s suggestion, she had asked that Peter and Francine also be present as she signed the papers to revoke Francine’s Power of Attorney and then give that power to Sarah.  She took a deep breath later, summoning her courage, as she faced her two children in the meeting room.

            “Francine, Peter, you know my will still stands.  That everything left when I die is split between the two of you.  In the meantime, I’ve asked Sarah to handle my business affairs and you are to leave her alone to do that.  She’s already brought me clothes and things, and I need someone I can count on.  No more fighting, you two.  I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you, Francine.  And Peter, I’m sorry to have brought you into this when you live so far away,” Connie told them.  “And Sarah, I’m so grateful to you for being willing to look after your old Gran.  Thank you for taking this on.”

            “Oh Gran, you know I’m only too happy to look after things for you.  We’ll keep these old reprobates in line now, won’t we?” Sarah joked with an impish grin, lightening everyone’s mood.

            After signing all the papers in front of the Notary Public Sarah had hired to attend their meeting, Connie made her family join her in the lounge for a cup of tea, almost like old times.  Francine left first, when her husband came to pick her up.  He’d called her on her cell phone to say he expected her home to cook dinner.  Then Peter made ready to leave.

            “Have to catch my plane home, Mom.  I’ll call you every Sunday from now on, to see how you’re doing.  Sarah will let me know when you move to a new facility and maybe I’ll come up for a visit then,” he said as he bent down to kiss her goodbye.

            Sarah walked back to Connie’s room with her, matching her young stride to her grandmother’s slow pace with the walker.

            “That wasn’t too bad, Gran, except for when you told Aunt Francine to give me the bank statements and the cheque book.  There were daggers shooting from her eyes.”

            “Don’t you worry about it, Sarah.  Just show the bank the Power of Attorney, and then write yourself a cheque to cover the cost of those clothes you bought me.  I don’t want you going without because you were kind enough to help me.”

            “I know, Gran, I know.  Here’s your room now.  I do have to go and pick up little Jason from daycare.  You take care, and I’ll be by on Friday,” she said, kissing Connie on the cheek and then turning and walking away down the hall.

            Instead of going into her room, Connie stood and watched her granddaughter.  As Sarah neared the nurse’s desk, Connie saw her stop and chat with Ms. Yang and give her an envelope.  Ms. Yang peeked inside it, gave Sarah a thumb’s up, and then quickly stashed the envelope in the deep pocket of her blazer.

            Now what was that all about, Connie wondered?

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_______________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

DAILY COMPANION

We used to have a cat we called Suede.  He kept me company for many years when my husband, Bryon, often worked out of town.  I wrote this short piece in present tense when Suede was still alive.

MY FAMILIAR

            I pick up the cat, all thirteen pounds of honey blond fur, and hold his docile body under my right arm as I limp to the front door. He used to be a cat who always asked to go outside after a meal.  I think old age has stolen his memory, as he doesn’t remember how to scratch at the door to go out anymore, only how to scratch to come in.

            As I open the door, we are both assaulted by the wind and the rain. He stiffens under my arm, but refrains from clawing me.  I bend from the waist and drop him the remaining foot onto the front porch. Now is the tricky part.  Can I turn and close the door faster than he can turn and run back inside?  Stiff limbs hinder us both, and I see him turn to watch me balefully as I close the door. This time I win.

            From the window I watch as he dashes down the steps and under my car, his protection from the rain and predators.  After ascertaining there is no threat from dog, or Siamese cat, or noisy motor, he makes another dash for cover under the boat. He heeds my past instruction to run between the raindrops.

            Now he is temporarily out of sight and I am hoping he finds a patch of dirt to do his business.  I retreat to the kitchen and pour my morning coffee, then sit at the table by the patio door.

            Within five minutes I see my blond feline come around the back corner of the house and stride toward the sun deck, carefully avoiding wet weeds that stand obnoxiously in his way between the patio bricks.  Reaching the steps, he leaps thankfully up them and then glares at me through the glass door before he scratches at it imperiously to be allowed inside.

            I unlock and slide the door just wide enough for his feline form to gain entry, and he darts into the kitchen as if all of Mother Nature were chasing him.

            Now he rewards himself by munching on more of his cat food, and taking a long drink of water, before searching out the driest, warmest corner of my good chair in the living room, where he will complete his morning ablutions and then take a much needed nap before his next meal.  He is my daily companion, my familiar.

_____________________

By Lisa A. Hatton 

WHO ARE THE HOMELESS?

When the sight of homeless people became more prevalent in Langley City, B.C., Canada, where I live, I started wondering about the tragedies that could lead to such dire circumstances.  I wrote the following story to muddle my way through to some sort of understanding from the limited knowledge I did have.

It was published in 2011 in the Polar Expressions anthology “Inkspots” and won an Honourable Mention designation and my name was one of the authors featured on the back cover of the book.  It’s something different to think about.

FREEDOM

            Roger woke to the heavy drumming of winter rain on his tent.  He shivered and pulled himself in his mummy-shaped sleeping bag away from the tent’s edge that leaked.  It wasn’t still pitch black in his tent, so he knew daylight was trying to poke through the heavy cloud cover.  He was luckier than some, he figured.  At least he had the tent, which he’d rescued from a dumpster last summer.  And he had an old bicycle, too, so he could travel the streets, looking for cans and bottles he could return for cash.  Not bad for an old bugger.

            He pulled himself reluctantly out of his bag and put on his only pair of boots.  They were somebody’s discarded work boots, with steel toes.  Kind of heavy for walking, but way more waterproof than the last pair of used sneakers he’d had.  He was still wearing his only set of clothes and his only coat that he never took off, and an aviator hat that kept his head and his ears warm.  Once the boots were tied he was ready to start his day.

            Roger emerged from his tent with his rickety bicycle and pushed it gingerly through the brush to reach the path that would take him from the bowels of the park closer to the more used areas, and then to the street.  Once he was out of the mud, he’d be able to ride and he would quickly travel the streets that had garbage pick-up today, scrounging all the cans and bottles he could from the blue recycle bins as he went.  When he had three or four garbage bags full to overflowing, he would head to the closest grocery store or liquor store to return his finds for cash.  He was lucky he lived in Langley.  The City divided the garbage pickup into four different areas, with one section of the town designated for pick-up each day Tuesday through Friday.  The other three days, he scavenged from the dumpsters in town.  So for most days of the week he had an income, of sorts.  It was enough to buy the rum that kept him warm at night.

            He went to the shelter for a free meal every day.  But he wouldn’t let them talk him into staying there to sleep.  No way.  He hated crowds.  Couldn’t stand to be around that many people.  All the noise drove him nuts.  It was all he could do to get through the half hour it took to get a meal.  He couldn’t imagine all that ruckus for hours on end all night long.  And no, he didn’t want anything to do with staying there permanently in their attempt to get people off the streets.  He didn’t want anything to do with those judgmental bastards down at welfare, either, thinking they were doing so much good by making you feel like you’re no good cause you don’t have an address, or any relatives to vouch for you, or any I.D. from the frickin’ province.  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the Sally Ann shove any fictitious God down his throat, either.  He didn’t believe in God.

            If there had been a God, he wouldn’t have lost everything.  God died twenty years ago when he got a pink slip the day he left the mining camp to come home for a break after working three months to make good money to support his family.  Only the break was permanent.  And then coming home to find his wife had split with his three kids.  What God makes that happen?  So he goes to the pub to drown his sorrows and after a couple of hours hears some fire sirens.  By the time he made it back to his house, it was all gutted by the fire.  And then the insurance wouldn’t pay up for it because nobody had been living in the house for the past thirty days.  So don’t talk to him about any God.  He didn’t need to suffer all those sermons for a place to stay.  He had his freedom, and nobody could ever take that away from him.  He started humming “Me And Bobby McGee” as he pedaled through the rain.

­­­_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

PUBLISHED TWICE!

After my mother suffered a heart attack and the consequences of short term memory loss, she couldn’t live alone again.  Instead of going back to her apartment, she was moved to a nursing home in Abbotsford, B.C.  Having been her primary caregiver since my father died eleven years earlier, I was faced with having to empty her apartment and distribute all her possessions.  Luckily for me, I had Jeannette, my precious sister-in-law, to help me.

The following story was published in Today’s Senior Newsmagazine in June, 2005.  For some unknown reason, they again published it in August of 2007.  Somebody must have liked it?

 TWO MARBLES

            I sit on an antique wooden chair that belongs with the antique wooden telephone table in the corner.  Except for a tall dresser, they are the only pieces of furniture left in the bedroom.

            My sister-in-law sits on the floor in front of me.  Between us, open and supported on top of a large cardboard box, is my Mother’s jewelry box.  It is a large, white leather, padded box, yellowed with age, that opens in tiers.  It has a lock and key.

            Together we are going through its contents.  My brother abdicated his role as heir to these items and said his wife should stand in for him.  It should be women dividing up another woman’s jewelry, either for themselves or for their daughters.

            There isn’t a lot of monetary value in what we find.  We have already dispersed the good pieces that were kept in small boxes.  Today we find an antique brooch, trying to sparkle its sequins of blue.  It may have belonged to my Grandmother, but we do not know.  My niece has asked for anything old and funky.  This will go to her.

            We pull out three lockets, two gold and one silver.  The silver one has pictures of my deceased Father and my deceased brother.  I put this locket aside to take to my Mother in the nursing home.  One gold locket has a picture of me.  I decide to keep that one.  The other gold locket has pictures of my maternal grandparents.  I keep that as well.

            Then we pull out a gold compact with an R.C.A.F. emblem on the front, and my Mother’s name inscribed underneath.  My Dad had been in the Air Force when he gave this to her on their engagement during World War II.  I keep it for sentiment, even though the mirror is broken.  The compact is heart shaped, and speaks of his love for her.

            There are sets of chunky clip-on earrings to give to my niece.  A pearl necklace, coming apart but with errant pearls still present, my sister-in-law wants to salvage, in case the pearls are real.

            I retrieve the obituary notices my Mother has saved, token reminders of lives lost.  At some point in her life, though, these people were family members and therefore earned her respect.  Their names she saved with her jewelry.

            We pull out an old Bulova lady’s watch.  It has a small delicate face and a gold expansion bracelet.  I remember my Mother wearing it on fancy dates with my Father.  It was her “dressy” watch.  I wind it and look to see if it works.  There is no second hand, and I can’t hear if it is ticking.  My sister-in-law holds it to her ear and says it’s working.  The bracelet is too small for me.  We decide her daughter, my niece, should have this, too.

            There is a small pill bottle that we open.  She pulls out the contents, but doesn’t know what they are.  She asks if they are roach clips.  I laugh.  I tell her no, they’re men’s tie clips, used to clip a tie to a shirt so it wouldn’t flap around.  They had belonged to my Father.  We decide my brother should have them.

            Next we find two men’s rings, one with my Father’s initials.  Again, these will go to my brother.

            There are a number of old coins, some silver dollars, and one large piece that says “Ontario, 1867, White Trillium”.  I don’t know if it’s a coin or not.  It has no amount on it.  I ask to save the coins for my son.

            We pull out a matching set of necklace, earrings and scarf pin, done in fine petite point, all tiny red roses.  These go to my niece as I have a similar set that will be passed down to my own daughter.

            At the very bottom is a folded, yellow piece of paper.  I open it and read my Father’s handwriting.  It is a promissory note for $7000.00 that he signed in 1959.  It is marked paid in full one year later.  I remember he started his first business at that time, so perhaps that is why he borrowed from a friend.  My Mother saved the paper for over 40 years.  I discard it, even though it’s proof my Father always paid his bills.

            There are several tiny padlocks and keys we dispose of.  And at last we have only two marbles left, one large and one small.  My sister-in-law shakes her head and asks why Mom kept marbles in her jewelry box?  I tell her Mom kept them to roll through a vacuum cleaner hose to find where it was plugged.  And if you move house a lot, if you keep your marbles in your jewelry box you’ll never lose them.  She doesn’t believe me.

            I take the marbles and put them in my pocket.  They will go in my own jewelry box, waiting for the day someone else will have to clean out my life.

_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

FAMILY HEIRLOOM

Sorry to say, but I never thought diamonds were my best friend.

THE RING

Whenever I wore that ring, I was terrified.  Terrified of theft.  Terrified of losing it.  It was a white gold band sporting a floral cluster of twenty six diamonds and screamed of wealth I never possessed.  I felt like such a fraud when I wore it, that someone would question me about where I obtained it.  And yet, it was so very, very beautiful I loved to look at it on my hand.

            But no, I didn’t wear it more than three times in sixteen years.  I had two choices.  Have it assessed regularly and pay for the extra insurance to cover it.  Or stow it away in a safety deposit box.  So that’s where it went, to a box at the bank.  I retrieved it to wear when my son graduated from the Royal Military College, and several years later when he married.  And then again when my daughter married.  But otherwise it stayed safely under lock and key.

            The ring had been a gift from my father to my mother on their fortieth wedding anniversary.  She had wanted a new set of engagement and wedding rings, as hers were almost worn through.  But Dad liked to splurge and demonstrate his success in life.  He needed the bling of ostentation.  So she received this gorgeous, sparkling ring that she seldom wore.  After he died, she gave the ring to me.  I suspect she was tired of being the keeper of Dad’s pride.  She also gave away the mink coat he’d given her, that also needed assessments and storage.

            After my mother died, I started thinking of death and wills and belongings left to children.  I decided to give the ring to my daughter.  But she lives 3,000 kilometres away, and I wasn’t going to mail it.  I waited, and waited, until finally she came for a visit.  I took her to the bank with me and in the secured, dark back room with all the safety deposit boxes, I opened mine and handed her the ring case.  She opened it and I watched as her eyes grew large and a gorgeous smile bloomed across her face as she took out the ring and placed it on her finger.

            “Oh, Mom, I absolutely love it!  You’re really giving this to me?  I can’t believe it.  I’ll never take it off!” she said.

            And I knew that with the third generation, the ring had finally found a home.

           

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By Lisa A. Hatton

A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW

This story was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Below The Canopy” in 2009.  It was my attempt to write from a male point of view, first person.

HIS RANT

            He lives in the apartment over the three-bay carriage house.  Not because he wants to, that’s for sure.  Only because the bitch he’s married to doesn’t want him in the house anymore.  Take your shoes off.  Don’t touch the walls.  Don’t smoke.  Don’t sit here.  Don’t go there.  Don’t let the dog on the furniture. Don’t put your feet on the coffee table.  Don’t walk on the clean floor.  Don’t leave dirty dishes around.  Don’t throw your clothes on the floor.  Don’t leave beer bottles in the den.  And for God’s sake, don’t ever go in the living room with all her fancy furniture. Damn it!  You’d think she was curator of a museum or something.

            Never mind he slaved his ass off to buy the property in the first place.  No way does she acknowledge that. She just acts as if it’s all hers, like it’s her special right.  But at least he was smart enough not to put her name on anything. So if she wants out of the marriage she’ll have to really fight him to get a cent.  He’ll pay the bills to keep the property out of hawk, but anything else she can pay for herself.  See how she likes them apples.

            Dumb bitch. He just got so fed up with all her complaining about what a slob he was, he moved out to the garage.  Piss on her!  He’d live any way he damned well pleased now.  He didn’t have to wash up to sit at any table with her.  And he sure as hell didn’t have to bathe first to get into bed anymore.  So what if the grease on his arms rubbed off on the sheets.  And so what if he liked to eat in bed while he watched T.V.  A few crumbs never hurt anybody.  And he could leave the toilet seat up all the time if it suited him.

            Now he could drink beer all day on a Saturday.  He could twist a top off at eight in the morning and there wouldn’t be anything she could say or do about it.  Hell, she wouldn’t even know about it.  And he could have himself a feed of fried pyrogies and garlic sausage every night for supper, too.  No more effin’ rabbit food.  So what if it was Sunday and she’d always cooked a roast and yorkshire pudding.  He could feed himself.  He didn’t need to put up with any more of her crap in order to eat something, that’s for sure.

            And there wouldn’t be any more visiting with her family.  He wouldn’t have to be pleasant to her mother and he wouldn’t have to act like her kids were his own, either.  They could all go plumb to hell.  His own kids didn’t bother with him anymore, so why should he have to put up with hers?

 

This bitch just kept saying she was tired of being blamed for what the first wife did, especially since he still had the first wife listed as beneficiary on everything.  Should never have married a second time.  The first time was bad enough.  That one had taken everything.  But he’d been able to live with that ‘cause she got custody of the kids, first one did.  Had to take care of his own kids, never mind they never had any time for him.  Truth be told, both women had just been out to get whatever they could from him.  No, he wasn’t going to write a will.  He wasn’t going to make it easier for anybody.  Nobody ever helped him.

            Setting the tenth empty beer bottle on the table beside his old and torn recliner, he takes the last puff of his cigarette and puts it out in the overfilled ashtray.  He does an unsteady sideways shuffle to the bathroom and fumbles with the fly on his jeans before he’s able to relieve himself.  He absently gazes at the empty paper towel holder and remembers he still has to buy toilet paper, too.  He would brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have any toothpaste.  The towel is so filthy, he decides not to shave.  He hasn’t gone out anywhere today because he doesn’t know which clothes on the floor are clean or dirty.

            Stupid bitch.  It was all her fault.

            He flops on his badly rumpled bed that smells as rank as he feels.  He passes out wondering what she’s cooking for dinner.

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By Lisa A. Hatton