Parents Leave Us Many Things

The note on the counter said, "12 lis tgs." It was in my late father's handwriting. It freaked me out a little bit. When did he write this? Then I remembered. The reminder to get my 2012 license plate tags had been written the night before - by me.

Last week, my family and I combed through 50 years of my father's and mother's belongings. Since Dad's death in April, we've been trying to sort out our inheritance - investments and property, and less valuable items such as dishes and photos and Christmas decorations.

We inherit a lot of things from our parents, some of it material, some not. My handwriting is a genetic inheritance - perhaps the shape of my hand bones and the way they hold a pen.

I like to think I have the best traits of both my parents. From my mother, I have a sharp sense of justice and a deep well of common sense. From my father, I have a love of teaching and reading, and I can cook pretty well. From both of them, I have a good sense of humor.

Inherited traits are not always something to be proud of, however. For example, I have received my dad's total lack of athleticism, stunted mechanical ability, and general absent-mindedness.

Some of my traits I don't think came from either parent. For example, neither would ever forget to renew their license plates.

Sometimes, we go out of our way to be not like our parents. The worst thing you can say to a spouse during an argument is, "You sound just like your mother." I took great offence once when this insult was hurled at me. I am way more reasonable than she was when arguing.

I don't have any grand conclusions to make from this, except that inheritance isn’t just about money and stuff. You also get the benefits and pitfalls of someone’s genes - and if you're lucky, a sense of humor.

The Get Off My Lawn Guy

When I was a young man, I was the cool gay guy. People would ask me how they should decorate their homes. I never had any idea, but it was nice to be asked.

Now, I've become the older, less attractive, "get off my lawn" guy. You know - the grumpy old man who lives on the corner and has a fit whenever neighborhood kids cut across his lawn while they are playing. No matter how much he yells, the kids ignore him and keep running across his grass while he grumbles about the downfall of society.

Ok, I live in a condo instead of a house, and I'm not on the corner. But I still seethe just inside the screen door until I can take it no more.

I hear the whispers of the children. "Stay away from that door. That guy doesn't like kids."

In my defense, I don't hate kids. Or more accurately, I like most kids but not all - just like other people.

It's not the simple act of children playing and laughing outside that sets me off. A happy child is a joyous thing to see.

It's when, for example, they start screaming that I begin to get irritated. Here's a question: do little girls scream all the time because they are socially conditioned to or is it somehow biological in nature? In any case, during all the running around, there's always one little girl screaming her head off. It literally hurts my ears.

But what really gets me out of my recliner and on the front step is rock throwing. Thanks to brilliant landscaping around the condo, the bushes are planted amongst decorative stones which fit perfectly in a child's hand. Most conveniently, these bushes are right outside my ground level, breakable, windows.

Aside from being grumpy, I really have no recourse with the children. Their parents aren't supervising and I'm not allowed to. After I recently advised a herd of young people that throwing rocks at my window is not ok, I was visited by an angry mother who felt compelled to protect her child from me. I don't know where she was during the actual rock throwing.

Maybe she was supervising some of the other neighbors.