... what an interesting date. I was going through papers doing a little chore I do not enjoy, though when completed, I feel remarkably self-righteous. The responsibility of being guardian and conservator for my auntie is (as I should have known, due to some obscure corollary of Murphy's Law) far more complicated than anyone realizes before they jump feet first into the mire-y mess of probate. After you have committed yourself to the care and feeding of another adult, you slowly begin to find your life considerably more weighted down by the responsibility placed on your shoulders as more of the details are revealed.
In my case, in addition to the physical care of this other, often obstinate, consistently dis-satisfied individual, there is also the equally weighty burden of conservator-ship: keeping detailed records of all her financial business. I have, on occasion, thought it might be easier if she were destitute with the barest of resources, dependent on the generosity of the gov'mint to provide funding for maintenance. Not a serious thought, as she would not be in the perfectly Perfect facility where she now resides, and would be in dire straits in a variety of ways - none of which would be to her liking. Therefore even though she consistently reports to 'not like being here', I know she is well cared for, kept tidy, fed regularly and safe. All those things that are necessary if not to her liking.
In the process of trying to keep orderly records, I bought file folders, but had no place to file them. Started with a green plastic mesh shopping basket that might have been heisted from my work place, as it was of the perfect dimensions to hold file folders upright. But as things have progressed, as paperwork has increased - meaning I do not know what will be important when questions are posed by probate judge, and I want to be able to produce accurate answers - I have bought more file folders, which require more space to store. I remembered that the auntie had a two drawer file cabinet in her house - jam-packed full of eighty-plus years of paperwork. It would have to be emptied before I could bring it home to make use of it for orderly record-keeping.
Going through that file cabinet in her house recently, deciding what to keep, papers to trash, documents to shred, I found a copy of my grandparents marriage certificate. Their anniversary is today. Wow. It has been One Hundred Years. Remembering when there used to be a daily radio program by Paul Harvey, telling interesting anecdotes, often footnotes to history that revealed things you never knew, "The Rest of the Story". At the end of his interesting little talk he would often mention some married couple with remarkable longevity: people who had been together for sixty plus years. Amazing little snippets of couples with an unbelievable ability to stick it out. Often a pair of Nebraskans, or Texans who you would know had come up as children and young adults in really harsh circumstances, living through hard times as pioneers in sparsely settled country. Devoting their lives to manual labor of farming or raising cattle in blistering heat or rip-roaring blizzards.
My fore-bears did not survive the droughty seasons of west Texas or blowing blue-northers of Minnesota, but they did live in Georgia and survive Depression years. Moving to raise a family on a farm so they could grow crops, livestock to provide plenty for four children to eat. Homemade clothing, home grown food put up in a muggy, steamy kitchen in the summer from garden produce. I clearly remember a Fiftieth Anniversary Party, hosted by the four adult children, in my parents house back when I was still in my teens.
But: I thought their annniversary date was October 20. Which is why when I got married, I chose the twentieth for the date I would be wed. And now, after over thirty-five years, I find that the date was wrong? Oh, well, guess I might as well stick it out...
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