$13.61

Shortly after I was born, my parents bought a life insurance policy for me with a $1,000 payout upon my death and an annual premium of $13.61. Mom and Dad were the beneficiaries, and I believe Dad bought it at Mom’s insistence, thinking they’d need the money for final expenses. Funerals back then typically cost between 450 and $800. Dad made the payments until Ruth and I got married.

When we moved into our first house, Mom packed up my childhood treasures: model cars, Lionel train set, cowboy holster and six-shooters, Lincoln Logs, plastic farm animals and army men, kids’ boxing gloves, the teddy bear Dad gave me for my first Christmas, an erector set, electronic football game and other odds and ends. She left me in charge of looking after them. Dad also handed me the invoice for the life insurance policy and the change of beneficiary documents. He’d made the first twenty-four payments, and I’ve been paying ever since. Between the two of us, we’ve put in about $1,062. The value of the policy today is eight times that amount. The typical funeral expenses today are also eight times what they were when Mom and Dad bought the policy.

The annual payment is due each May, right around my birthday. I’ll be seventy-nine on the twenty-ninth and this year’s invoice arrived in the mail last week. Its arrival triggered this story.

The earliest birthday I clearly remember was turning thirteen. People asked if I felt any different becoming a teenager, and I said, “No.” If they asked me now, I’d say, “Absolutely.” These days, I feel different every day, and this morning I discovered aches in places I didn’t even know existed yesterday.

I’m heading back to Michigan next Thursday, and one of the things I need to decide is what to do with my Lionel train set, cowboy holster and six-shooters, Lincoln Logs, plastic farm animals and army men, kids’ boxing gloves, the teddy bear Dad gave me for my first Christmas, erector set, electronic football game and other odds and ends. I stored the model cars in my Michigan garage for a while, and mice took up residence in the vintage boxes that I saved along with the cars. I disposed of them a few decades ago.

David and I played with the electronic football game when he was a kid. David, Elizabeth and Michael all had the opportunity to enjoy my train set. The last time I played with it was when Brady was about five. He won’t remember that, but I do.

I’m returning to Michigan next week. I’ll be there for about two and a half weeks. I’m planning to sell my Michigan condo and need to determine what I’ll bring back to Florida. I won’t move things right away, but I’ve got to begin the sorting process. I’ve begun a mental list and when I received the invoice for this year’s life insurance policy, the list of toys stored in Michigan popped up. I’m not bringing any of them.

I’m not bringing the stack of congratulatory cards Mom got when I was born or the birthday cards she kept from my first birthday. Those are nearly eighty years old. Then there are the chalk drawings she made before marrying Dad and the glamorous photos she saved from her youth: Marlene Dietrich, Rudy Vallee, Greta Garbo, Mickey Rooney, and Rita Hayworth. If they were autographed, I might consider keeping them, but they’re just clippings from 1930s and 1940s magazines. As for her postcard collection from the war years, I’ll probably hang on to those.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with her high school diploma and her and Dad’s marriage license. Then there’s Dad’s discharge papers from December of 1945 and the marriage photo they took in Chicago that year. There’s a ton of memories stacked away in the brown tweed suitcase she gave me when she moved from her condo and into assisted living. I’ve got to leave them behind.

I’ve got a four-drawer filing cabinet full of press clippings from the kids and Ruth and me. We each took a shot at notoriety and Ruth saved the documentation that accompanied our fame. Then there’s the kids’ high school and college records. If they don’t want them, I’m not saving them. I’m not sure I’m saving the diplomas I’ve earned. I’ve already disposed of the golf trophies and pile of memorabilia associated with my years as an elementary school principal and school superintendent. Each piece helped measure another milestone. I’ve got the memories; I don’t need the hardware.

I am bringing the guitar Mom and Dad bought for me when I was in the seventh grade. It’s a sixty-six-year-old sunburst Gipson and worth a ton today. Dad paid $225 back in 1960. Our house fire stopped my guitar lessons, but I’m not too old to begin again.

I’ve started a mental list of what goes and what stays. I’ll know more when I see things on display. Ruth set most of it up, but I added a few pieces since she’s been gone. I’ll load up a carload when I return in June for Eva’s graduation party. My California kids will be joining my Michigan kids. They can have whatever they want, and I’ll take some of the leftovers. I won’t have room for them all.

My most coveted memories are pictures and papers. Artwork we bought or Ruth made. Photos that we took since meeting in 1969. They chronical the growth of our kids and grandkids. And then there are the words on paper that I want to reread. Stories and poems that the kids wrote while in high school and a pile of Father’s Day cards they handcrafted. I may have to scan and save knowing that I prefer to hold things in my hand rather than view a screen.

The tough things to leave will be the cabinets, bookshelves, serving trays and tables that Ruth’s dad and my dad handcrafted. Ruth’s dad, Lou, made most of them. I still have a single table that my dad built. They’re on display in Michigan but there’s no room for them in Florida.

I’m grateful that Ruth and I made a purge of things when we moved from Lake LeAnn to our Stanwood condo. We left several things behind but still moved a lot. We tried to focus on things that we’d see every day, but there’s still a storage room full of boxes left to explore. I’ll donate a bunch to the Salvation Army. That was Ruth’s charity of choice. I’ve taken carloads already from both Michigan and Florida.

I’ve lived my entire life in Michigan. Born and raised as they say. But like I’ve said a few hundred times, “Life’s different now.” My California kids will be there forever. Five-year-old Young Jackson James is at the mercy of his parents. He’ll go where they go. David and Lindsay are becoming empty nesters, and I believe they’ll live life differently now as well. Brady and Eva are beginning their next chapters. And finally, there’s me.

Two weeks before Ruth died, I had a conversation with her. I asked her if she had to choose between our condo in Michigan or our house in Florida, where would she choose to live. She said, “Michigan. David and his family are here and it’s beautiful. There’s nature all around and I get to look at it every day.” And then she asked me what I’d choose. I said, “Florida. There’s more for me to do.” We ignored the elephant in the room. Would we live together or apart? I don’t have a choice now. I’m on my own.

All the reasons we moved from Lake LeAnn to Stanwood have disappeared. Our friends, Dave and Anne, no longer live there. David sold his Twin Lake cottage, and our condo used to sit halfway between his home in Holland and the cottage. Ruth’s sister, Kathy, and her husband, Dan, once lived on the same lake as David’s cottage, but they divorced and moved away. And most importantly, Ruth is gone. Now I’m on my own.

It’s funny the memories an invoice for $13.61 can stir up. My parents took out a life insurance policy in case I died and they needed the money. I didn’t, and as long as I’ve got more time, I’m going to spend it doing more with less and making new friends along the way.