The Boat

My father died on Mothers' Day of 09. He knew he was terminal but never got around to doing a will. Under Oregon law, when you die intestate, your spouse gets half your property and your children, be they one or fifty in number, split the other half. He did say a couple weeks before shuffling off this mortal coil that he wanted his wife to have his money, such as it was, and his two children to have his personal property. He said this in all of our presence. Sis and I split the duty of changing diapers and administering morphine with his wife. I was recovering from minor surgery but managed the heavy lifting. Sis is a lawyer and went back to New York with the outline of a will for Dear Old Dad. But Dad went into a coma and died even sooner than we had imagined. No will. So be it. I liberated DOD's fish poles and firearms as I seemed the most likely of the three of us to use them. Ted, Sis' boyfriend, and I hauled the hospital bed Dad spent his last days on from the living room to the garage after the undertaker hauled his body away. I put my hand on his head through the body bag and said good bye. The funeral was a week or so later. It didn't take long for the fireworks to start. Dad's wife, Emily declared that I had stolen Dad's firearms and fish poles. Not long after Dad's ashes were interred at the Eagle Point National Cemetery, She tried to file a police report on the theft. The police officer who got to listen to her complaint labeled it a "family dispute" after talking to Sis on the phone. He never called me. Dear Old Dad had never been a father to me. My mother had divorced him for being a terrible drunk before I was a year old. He was in the military where you can be a functional drunk--or used to anyway. I have few childhood memories of him. My very earliest must be when I was about three years old and he took me fishing with his stepfather on the Coquille River. Alcohol and firearms were part of this story. Dad's truck was in both his and Emily's name so she was able to appropriate it with no hassle. Dad's boat was another matter. It was in his name only so it had to be probated. Sis looked into it and decided it wasn't worth the effort. I monitored the boat's ownership through the Oregon Marine Board for a year or so. Suddenly the title changed from Dad's name to Emily's. I called the OMB and explained that Emily wasn't the sole surviving heir in this case. The woman I talked to showed interest in this and one way or the other, the boat title was revoked or rescinded. I tried to talk to her lawyer about negotiating a satisfactory settlement to our situation. He told me to buy Emily's half of the boat for $$2,500 or quit bothering him. I quit bothering him. Eventually the OMB got tired of holding the boat title in limbo and printed out a fresh title in all three of our names. I called the woman who had been dealing with this mess and asked her to send the new title to me. Jane said that in her 13 years working at OMB, she had never seen anything like this. So now, here we are, bargaining for Dad's military medals, photographs and other few souvenirs like used car salesmen. What will happen next? Stay tuned.

A wienerdog walks into a bar...

Sande and I rode over to Florence on my Rocket III this morning to eat a big pancake breakfast at the Rebeka's Jesse T. Jones camp ground. After we pigged out and Sande caught up with everybody we went over to see Randy and Colleen. Randy is raising koi all over the place. We caught up on all the news and then we left. While it was cool in the morning, it warmed right up by the time we left Florence. We stopped in Mapleton so Sande could get some water and stretch. While we stood there in front of Frank's Place Bar, a little red wienerdog wandered in through the open door. I immediately said: "A wienerdog walks into a bar..." Haven't been able to think of the punch line for it but it is clearly an excellent beginning of a joke. Five minutes later, the wienerdog came wandering back out of the bar. I guess they wouldn't serve him. We rode back on Highway 36. The parking lot at the slide at Triangle lake was packed. I have no doubt that the swimming hole was shoulder to shoulder. Sande had never been on that segment of 36 before. Turned right on Poodle Creek Road and looked at Greg's place. No apparent break ins. Stopped in Noti for gas. The R3 got 39 mpg on that fill up. A good 150 mile ride. N