One year ago today

One year ago today, my mom died. It seems like a lot longer than that, so much so that I just looked at her death certificate to confirm it. In general, as I get older, my perception is that time passes more quickly. A year doesn't seem like a year. It seems shorter. So looking forward, anticipated dates come faster. "A month from now is Thanksgiving," and boom! Thanksgiving is here. I get that. But looking backward, why does a year ago seem like two? Shouldn't it seem compressed as well? Shouldn't it seem like mom died a few months ago? Or is there some weird paradoxical effect in play here?

What's the Kerouaconnection, you ask? Jack and his mom were very close, unhealthily so, some would say (he more or less lived with her his entire 47 years). So he would resonate with me reminiscing about mom one year after she died.

RIP, Elizabeth Wetmore Dale, b. 6/11/24 d. 10/23/09; daughter of Edson and Ruth; mother of James, William, and Richard; grandmother of Jason; wife of Hugh; Mansfield State College graduate; musician, teacher, homemaker, writer, friend . . . Mom.

Synchronicity

Being in the initial stages of settling my mom's estate (she died two days after Jack's death anniversary), this article about the on-going legal battles over Jack Kerouac's estate caught my eye: Get Your Sordid Kerouac Estate Details Here.

The lesson? Have a will. Make sure it is clear, legal, and current. Provide a copy to your attorney, personal representative, and beneficiaries (don't forget to be specific about who gets your collection of Jack Kerouac books and memorabilia).

But only if you care about your wishes being followed after you head out on your last road trip.

You might also want to prepare a document containing details like social security number, bank account and investment information, insurance policy and retirement information, and other stuff it might be hard for those left behind to pull together or find out about (e.g., usernames and passwords, safe deposit boxes, outstanding loans). Oh, and a concise directive about what to do with your body and how you'd like us all to go about your send-off would be very helpful as well.

And no, it's not morbid. It's called being responsible and considerate.