“Piggy Bank Jar”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

The recent passing of my father brought much sorrow to our family.

But this event also revived childhood memories, bitter in flavor but sweeter as remembered from a perspective of innocence. Having died with many debts unpaid seemed ironically appropriate for he who was our sire.

Dad was always in debt. In his own language, “flat broke.”

As a kid, I learned quickly to be careful when answering the telephone. Bill collectors were known to frequent the line and would always ask for my father by his full legal name. When I handed the receiver to him or my mother, a look of concern would spread across their faces. Then, I would be brushed away with some excuse. A diversion to protect my ignorance. Only later would I come to realize that these regular inquiries via the rotary-dial device were because household bills had gone unpaid.

Such memories were tattooed on my psyche.

Around the age of eight, I once found my father pinching coins from my piggy bank, which was an old jar on top of the refrigerator. When I expressed youthful disbelief, he confessed a need for gas money. In the 1960’s, a handful of coins would actually fill our tank. I liked to retell this story as a kid because it evoked laughter from family and friends. With wide eyes, I missed the actual issue completely. My parents were busted.

Dad had somehow obtained a Sears & Roebuck charge card, which proved handy throughout my upbringing. I used to joke that my younger sister and brother must have come from this chain of retail stores because literally everything in our household was purchased from that company. When the balance grew too large, Sears would shame my father into paying off some of the debt. Then, his credit line would be extended. This cycle of deficit spending and negotiation kept him on the hook for years. Costing a great deal in interest on the actual amount. But it also provided us with clothes and household goods.

Throughout life, I retained these memories in the pit of my belly.

Many years later, the sale of family property brought a brief infusion of cash to my parents. The money burned up rapidly as help was allocated to all of us, their children and grandchildren. Then, predictably, old habits returned. As before, we were shielded from knowing the full measure of this situation.

In personal terms, I feared debt like a plague with no antidote. But as my parents aged, their spiral into red ink only continued. I was given ‘Durable Power Of Attorney’ by Dad in 2009, to prepare for any family woes that might visit. Too late, I discovered that this document meant little to anyone we had to approach, except for the nursing home where they ultimately landed. It only provided an avenue to direct bills in need of payment. In his will, my father specified that I was to be his executor. This simply guaranteed that I was in the bullseye for claims against the estate. A duty about which I had to learn while in motion.

In particular, a hospital bill left by Dad was reissued in my own name. I could not avoid speculating that this charge might place me in legal jeopardy. I felt enough concern to address the issue directly, in a letter to the healthcare provider:

Dear B of P Hospital,

You recently sent a bill left by my late father. This bill was addressed to me at my home in Ohio and lists me as the target. I feel compelled to reply in this letter and state what is obvious – I am not personally responsible for this debt and do not voluntarily guarantee its repayment... As executor of my father’s meager estate, I am well aware that you have already filed a claim on this bill with the county court. The original charge was sent to my parents at the nursing home, where my mother currently resides. This document was forwarded to me as is all their mail… I have no current access to my parental accounts as they were ‘locked’ after Dad’s passing. Once I am named conservator for my mother and am able to take actions on behalf of her and my late father, I will review the available options... I ask for your cooperation.

Sincerely, RDI

I debated over sending the letter. Indecision made me weak. Dad might have opined that it was best to simply do nothing. To let the moment pass without reacting, as I went forward with the task of settling his estate. It was impossible to be sure. Yet something in my gut said that silence would only invite further injury.

My letter gathered dust, never making it to the mailbox. Because before a decision could be made, I began to receive calls from a debt collector. Despite the fact that only two months had passed since my father’s death. This brought us to direct contact via telephone. I described the current stalemate and observed that a court date in September should offer relief.

My plea was not unlike those offered by Dad, so many years ago. I remember the inflection of dread in his voice when saying: “I will send you a check on Monday...”

Losing my father opened a floodgate of sorts. I have received many stories from family members and friends about their own ‘eldercare’ experiences. But the voice I longed to hear was one no longer echoing through the mortal world. The patient adviser I wanted to consult had moved on to paradise and a court of angelic wisdom. I had so many questions, for Dad.

Like where to find my piggy bank jar.

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