For want of tact. . .

Press, 26 April 1989, Page 16

For want of tact. . .

It has not been the best year for my family. A few family crises combined with the death of two friends has guaranteed a rough ride for everyone. There are moments, though, when you wonder if the whole world is going insane. After the death of one very close family friend my mother took on the task of clearing his daily mail. Among the usual circulars and letters which had to be dealt with was a letter from the I.R.D. It was addressed, very correctly, to Mr M. Jones (Deceased) of ... and his address. One wonders how they would like their reply. Should it be in the form of a taped message ... “I am sorry but I am unavailable at present,” or perhaps a note by celestial pigeon ... “Mr Jones regrets that he is unable to attend to the matter of his income tax, please refer all enquiries to God.” Letters which arrive for people after they die are often an added burden for the family. My grandfather wanted to avoid all this palaver, or as much as he could, when my nana died. With this in mind he carefully wrote to all concerned in the business sector and cleared up any outstanding business. To the credit card company he wrote a letter of explanation along with a

cheque in full payment of her account and the credit card cut in two (as directed in their little brochure).

The credit card company immediately fired off a belligerent little note to my nana (who was in no position to receive it, let alone reply to it) demanding to know why the account was closed and the card returned in two pieces. Which leads me to believe what I have long suspected — some companies do not read their mail, they simply turn it over to their computer which has not been programmed to deal with people who are no longer breathing. It is things like this that spur one on to clean up business affairs long before you expect to check out permanently. People who die intestate must be hell on their families.

Everyone is left in limbo, and often dire financial straits, while the mess is unravelled to everyone’s satisfaction. Far better to write a brief blurb witnessed by a couple of mates, even if

you leave it all to the cat. I didn’t make a will until I was married and had children. While I doubt that my daughter will want my entire collection of After Eight wrappers dating back some 15 years, she would probably prefer them to sitting down and trying to figure out what I wanted left to whom.

My parents are in no doubt as to who wants what. The three of us race each other to the indelible pencil everytime something new arrives in the house and place our name on it. Treasured possessions are often marked with all three names, or even worse, a series of names with each previous one being rudely crossed out.

This quaint little mercenary custom was started when we were just tots, and was not confined to our parent’s house. When our grandparents (maternal) died, my mother and her siblings were horrified to find our names on almost everything in the house, right down to the milk jug. Some people are super-

stitious about making wills. A friend of my grandfather (paternal) firmly believed that making a will was signing your own death warrant. My grandfather was a pragmatic sort of man and believed this to be absolute nonsense. To prove his point he made his will ... and died shortly afterward.

It was of little use explaining to his friend that these were two totally unconnected events.

Making a will, however, is a piece of cake compared with clearing out the deceased’s effects. The family home is stuffed with “things” carefully kept over the years. My sister-in-law’s first act, should my parents die at the same time, is to book a flight to anywhere so she doesn’t have to be part of the mopping up brigade. It is not just the sheer size of the task which daunts her, it is witnessing the arguments between three adult siblings that she cannot bear.

Luckily, most of the stuff in the house has been catalogued into submission. From insurance policies to Plunket books, it is all listed and stored carefully. My mother’s innate sense of fair play will ensure that everything goes where it should. My. father’s will may be a different story.

His threats to cut us out are frequent, and one is always kept on the hop. In today, out tomorrow. We suspect he is leaving it all to the home for the terminally bewildered. After he dies I fully expect a letter from the I.R.D. addressed to him with “deceased” typed neatly after his name, enquiring about the death duty on his collection of fishing flies.