Big week, gentle readers.

Maybe the most significant event was a strong rebuke from a dear lady friend who demanded additional information on the assertions of famed Plague Scribe Marlow, who did not include his recipe for what he claimed was the ultimate Old Fashioned Cocktail.

I immediately sprung into decisive action and sent an e-mail to remedy the discrepancy. Exhausted from the effort, I collapsed on the day bed and dozed the afternoon.

Other issues of the week were not as strenuous. I woke the next day and stared at the imposing stack of statements, periodicals and other essential information to provide the Federal Government with the fiscal information to complete the dreaded tax return for what now appears to be the Last Normal Year of our lives.

I inched toward the dresser where the records sat, unlooked at since my transitory interaction with the first part of a famous saying that is used normally to describe the only two certainties in life, one of which isn’t. The term was first coined in the Age of Greed- the late 1920s- to describe the inalterable synergy between life, estate and inheritance taxes by those who wanted to duck on of the alternatives.

I wanted to do my usual professional job on the preparation and submission of at least the taxes part. I grabbed the stack, surprised at the heft of the papers that had piled up in the period I jousted with the first part of the old saying. I logged onto the professional website of the folks at Intuit who specialize in accurate accounting. I invented a complex new password whose substance would stay with me only for the duration of my time with TurboTax.

I looked through the papers and identified the numbers that had already been reported to the wizards at the Internal Reptile Service and entered them in the appropriate boxes. It took a lot less time than actually reading the mail. The times tables at corporate HQ did a cursory analysis of my arithmetic, and asked me if I wanted to file online for a couple hundred bucks.

At that point, in between the two halves of the old saying, I muttered something impolite, mashed the ‘return’ button and I was assured everything was done and settled between me and the Reptiles for a year I had already lived.

No oxygen or other external support was required. For something that had loomed so large or so many months, I felt a vast sense of relief. I got a hot cup of coffee, lurched behind my cart to the back door, and puffed a Marlboro with quiet satisfaction.

The taxes were real enough, and cost more than I had expected, considering the minimal hours of employment in the now long past year. I puffed a cloud of gray smoke toward the pasture and allowed myself a gentle glow for a moment before I considered the last impossible task required by law.

I am a veteran estate executor. It is a daunting task, dealing with the final resolution of other people’s affairs, particularly when you care about them, and all the dings and undone things they had left are yours to decide before official- and final- submission to the Reptiles at the National and State levels. My brush with the first part of the old phase reminded me of the endless hoops and wrinkles involved in the attempt to master the mess. Mom and Dad tried to get as much in order for me, and for the most part succeeded.

Upon return from the hospital, I realized how daunting the task would be for the boys to settle mine. I had signed powers of attorney for both of them, but realized I had to make dissolution of real property as easy as possible. I consulted with my brother, the best free legal expert I knew. He explained we could set up a Foundation to manage the affairs. It sounded sort of impressive, but also required a fair amount of paperwork and legal office pirouettes.

I asked if there was a simpler means to avoid the Probate Judge, and make things as easy as possible for the kids. My brother sighed and recommended a device called a ‘Durable Power of Attorney.’ I could vest authority to vaporize real property an anything else of value without recourse to the Reptiles of the State.

Easy, right? Just some signatures between three parties in two states, witnessed by a notary public I did not know, while all the banks were closed to foot traffic and all parties were masked. There was supposed to be a means to do all this on the Internet, and I believe it.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t figure it out. The banks were still closed, but the human who answered my call assured me it could all be accomplished in Lanes 2-4 in the drive through. “Don’t try Lane 1. That is for ATM business only.”

I won’t bore you with how it all works. My son drove down from Arlington. We signed the document and got my car started to keep it fresh for another week or so, and drove to Culpeper. Traffic was intense in this normally laid-back rural enclave. Upon successful transit to the SunTrust we parked in Lane 3 for a while a lady jammed her driver’s side door against the pneumatic tube that connects cars to bank officials. Eventually she got what she wanted, I assume, since she got back in her seat, started the car and motored off. We were masked, of course, mumbling at each other in my car, watching as to what would happen to us if we ever advanced.

It was weird, but we left with the document in question examined and verified, some cash and all the piddly little checks that had been in the big pile of documents deposited. We celebrated by lunch out at the Chik Fil Aye, a marvelous entertainment that created two lanes of drive through attended by a platoon of masked attendants, a stop at the gas station for ice cream and Marlboros, and the swirl of commerce now being accomplished by citizens, masked and unmasked, in their personal automobiles.

We returned to the farm and had lunch with Grace, completing my fourth time off the property in more than two months.

Success. I noticed no one had sold any of my property by the time we finished the chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. After that came the new top ten list: Teeth, Eyes and knees and the other stuff I will never get to. Could there be anything more exciting?

Life in a society attempting to come back to life, in motor cars.

Copyright 2020 Vic Socotra
http://www.vicsocotra.com