June 24, 1999
Dear Everyone:
Well, thank goodness that’s all settled and done
with at last. For those of
you who haven’t been embroiled in this little shindig, some time ago,
Mother and Dad put what amounted to their life savings into an
annuity, to be
owned jointly by both of them, with each one the
beneficiary of
the other. Or so they
thought.
Shortly after Dad passed away last summer, Mother
went to see their financial advisor about putting in a claim on the
annuity. The advisor, “Mr.
Chucky” as “Jeannie” and I took to calling him, since his name is
difficult to pronounce, particularly when there are several
expletives-delete-able surrounding it, explained to Mother that she was
not the beneficiary. That
position had been reserved for Dad’s eldest son, brother “Byron”.
Never mind that this wasn’t what Mother and Dad had
wanted. This was how “Mr.
Chucky” decided it should be done.
Why? Maybe he thought
it was better to leave the money with the eldest son, rather than the
widow. Maybe he can’t spell.
Whatever.
At first, it only looked like a minor glitch.
All they had to do was wait until “Byron” received the check from
the insurance company and he would promptly sign the money over to
Mother and that would take care of it.
However, insurance companies can be notoriously slow about
processing claims; and, less than three months later, “Byron” left us
unexpectedly.
One minute he was lying on the living room sofa,
watching the sports channel on TV, the next minute someone was handing
him a harp.
“Welcome to Heaven.
Cafeteria’s on your right.”
“Byron”:
“That’s great. Now
which way do I go to catch the end of the game?”
It now looked as though the annuity would go to
“Byron’s” estate. And since
he had a lot of debt piled up, it could disappear entirely.
Mother made some attempts at contacting the insurance company
directly, to explain the mix-up, but they seemed disinclined to pay much
attention to some little old lady in “Smallville”, Oregon.
After a few weeks of insurance company runaround,
Mother was ready to give up and try to forget about the whole thing.
But not “Jeannie”.
“Jeannie” had “a
legal acquaintance”.
Actually, “Jeannie” had a lot
of legal acquaintances and one was willing to help.
A letter from a lawyer with a prestigious
Walnut
Creek address commanded somewhat more respect than a phone call from
the LOL (Little Old Lady) in
“Smallville”, Oregon.
It took months of back and forth-ing, but the
insurance company finally came to the conclusion that they would rather
reach an agreement than go to court, particularly if they were facing,
not one LOL, but six additional angry
plaintiffs.
Bottom line:
Mother received the check last week for the full amount, plus
interest, just a few days short of a year after the whole thing started.
Mother is reportedly delighted and was last seen checking out new
cars.
Meanwhile, at the office…
Management is still looking for ways to cut costs.
The most recent attempt:
Cutting out
French Roast
coffee in the kitchen.
The company would continue to provide coffee, only it would be the
less-expensive, and less popular, generic Colombian coffee.
Speaking as a non-coffee drinker (and I am well
aware that there are members of the family who secretly suspect my true
lineage because of it), I couldn’t care less one way or the other.
But I am in the minority.
Which is to say: You
never heard such heartfelt cries of anguish and outrage as when people
learned that, not only had they run out of French Roast, but no more
would be ordered!!!
There was an ugly line of angry people outside the
cubicle of the supervisor who had given the order (so to speak) to not
order any more French Roast.
Then it was rumored that the decree had come from higher up, i.e., the
manager, who soon found himself facing almost open mutiny.
After all, it’s one thing to cut 8-10 jobs.
It’s quite another to cut out the French Roast.
Apparently, it was a hot item on the agenda at the manager’s next
meeting with his staff.
Although it was not mentioned in the meeting minutes, dark blue packets
of (guess what kind of) coffee reappeared in the kitchen within a few
days.
Tranquility reigns once again.
Movies…
“Jeannie” was too busy last weekend to do anything,
so I had Sunday afternoon pretty much to myself.
I could have fixed the toilet in the downstairs bathroom.
I could have drafted a
Living Will and
Power of
Attorney. I could even
have gone back to see
Star Wars
again. Instead, I went to
see Tarzan.
“Jeannie” has a strange animosity towards
animated features.
I don’t know if it bears any resemblance to her antipathy towards
Michael Douglas
movies. But I was pretty
sure she wouldn’t blow a gasket if I saw
Tarzan without her.
Although
Phil Collins was
hired to write at least one song for the movie, this is not
Disney-as-Broadway-musical
as some of the more recent features have been.
And the makers claim to have abandoned all the previous film
versions and gone back to the original
Edgar Rice
Burroughs novel.
Having read the novel when I was a teenager, I can tell you that
they left out about 80% of it, and with good reason.
Frankly, Disney and
cannibalism don’t
really mix.
But what they did keep is good.
Tarzan has his typical
Disney sidekicks. In this
version, he’s a sort of Extreme Sport athlete.
He doesn’t just swing on vines, he “surfs” the jungle
canopy.
Apparently, being animated means never having to worry about
gravity.
The story is simple, but charming.
And there are a number of nice references, not only to
Johnny
Weissmuller’s famous yell, but also to earlier Disney features like
Bambi and
Beauty and the Beast.
All in all, a delightful way to spend 90 minutes in an
air-conditioned theater on a hot summer afternoon.
Love, as always,
Pete
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