(Potemkin Village in November. Photo PV.)
The journey continues. I crashed with pals at a magical place over in scenic Leland on Sunday night so I could talk to the Broker on Monday morning and try to unscramble the finances.
He informed me that things could be managed until summer until we are down to the tax-free municipals in the account, which they had never intended to sell. In order to continue the orderly dissolution of the estate, I need to find the basis point of the funds.
“I can’t do it here,” said Sam, looking out the picture windows that frame his magnificent view of the Mission Peninsula jutting out to bisect the gray green waters of the east arm of Grand Traverse Bay. He was in a sober dark suit, crisp white shirt and rep tie. He radiated confidence, which I pointed out was sort of insane with the real possibility of sovereign debt tanking in Europe and the whole banking system melting down.
“It is possible,” he said slowly, not comfortable with this line of conversation.
“I am not going to stop investing,” I said. “Though I think that a balanced portfolio should include silver or gold to trade for things, ammunition and canned food.”
“I agree with the ammunition,” he said. “But historically, precious metals have not performed at these levels.”
“I am not sure that history has anything to measure this against,” I said. “At least not for seventy years. Grandma used to nag my Dad to pick up lumps of coal by the railroad tracks when he came home from school.”
“The only lumps of coal around here are the ones we should mail to Congress,” said Sam.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that Super Committee thing. The automatic spending cuts in Fiscal 2013 are going to slash the budget of my government customer, and I don’t know how any contractor is going to escape significant contraction if they occur.”
“You haven’t had a recession back there,” he said. “I have a shirt-tail cousin in the custom home business there in Bethesda and he said he is still building away.”
“Yeah, maybe that contributes to the air of unreality there. I haven’t thought about the Fall of the West since I got on the plane at Reagan National yesterday.”
“We don’t spend a lot of time with it here. It is what it is.” Then he suggested I plow through Mom’s records and find the basis point for those Municipals.
I sighed. “Mom has every piece of paper she looked at since 1948. I will get on it, if I can find the right generation of files. At some point she ceased to file topically and went to chronological, with a month’s worth of bills and statements in a folder stacked by when they arrived. All the stacks have been moved, of course, so it will be an adventure.”
“You have a few months to get through it,” said Sam, and then we looked at the specific performance of the PIMCO funds in my portfolio.
The nice people at Hertz- Jerry, actually- had upgraded me at no charge to a Jeep Grand Cherokee for the week’s ride. All leather, four wheel drive, and I held it mostly to the speed limit heading north through Acme, Indian River, Charlevoix and finally into the Little Village on the south shore of Little Traverse Bay.
I glanced at the phone and saw I had missed a call, unknown origin but with the local area code prefix. I punched the screen to return it, and it was the desk at Potemkin Village. Big Mama had been down, a little frantic, about where the people were. “Apparently someone is supposed to be here,” said the desk lady.
I told her I would be along, presently, thankful that I was here, and not back in DC trying to live my own life. I tapped the accelerator on the Grand Cherokee coming out of Eastport and squirmed a little on the leather seat. Seems like everything is for sale Up North- maybe it is the time of the season with the Fudgies gone with the temperate weather, or maybe this is just a profound malaise in the Michigan tourist economy.
The house was still standing when I rolled into the driveway, so that was a good start. I started charging all my devices- the three phones, the iPad and computer, and then drove uptown to deposit the check Sam’s gal had provided. It is an fusion that should last until February. Sam had kindly offered to set up a means to do it without appearing in front of Stacey, the bubbly Rubinesque teller behind the only open window at the Bank.
I stopped at the market and got some stuff to gnaw on around the big feast on Thursday, and then realized I had to get on with my version of Village Reality.
The Ladies (one gentleman) were seated in a semi-circle in the lobby and looked at me with suspicion as I strode across the lobby. Time for the Game Face, and I put it on and gave them a big “hello.”
Some acknowledged my greeting. Others did not. That is life in The Village.
I arrived on the third floor with the elevator’s due deliberation, and Big Mama gave me a bit of a start when I used the knocker to announce that I was coming in the door. The television was on, though not tuned to a channel, and there was no one watching it. I looked in the bedroom and she was there, curled on her side watching the other flat screen from the king-sized bed that dwarfs her now that Raven is not there.
She was happy to see me, and we caught up on her delusion. “I was very concerned,” she said. “I tried to get your number.” She showed me the white-board from the kitchen with all of the emergency numbers plainly written. She could not find her address book, and it looks like outbound phone calls are now a bridge too far.
In a nutshell, she expects Annook and Spike to appear momentarily. Spike had talked to her on Sunday, according to a note from him on the iPad, and he detected rising agitation. I think I got her calmed down and got her a glass of wine with sparking water to cut the impact.
Kirk Douglas was on the Paths of Glory on the television, and Big Mama was completely clear on the Adoph Menjou’s identity, though she did not know if he was playing a German or a Frenchman. At the appointed moment, one of the assistants stuck her head in the door to tell us to go to dinner.
“Mom, you are showing a little more cleavage than usual.”
“I can’t get the button to work,” she said.
“I know. That is probably because you have it on inside out.” She gave a merry laugh.
“You could be right, Bill.” I was gratified that she disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a new top and short-sleeved sweater. At least that is not gone yet. I took her to the table she had occupied at mealtime with Raven for fourteen months.
Liza waved us off, informing us that Big Mama now sat with Hazel and Pat and a much younger woman who apparently had Downs Syndrome.
Hazel was quiet and deliberate with her meal, a half grilled-cheese and bacon sandwich. Pat was something else. I understand that photography of the residents is a matter of privacy, and I respect that, though I have snapped shots of Raven and Big Mama on the Grand Decline.
Pat is something else. She has a wild mane of silky gray hair and an excellent van dyke moustache and goatee of wispy white. She is an astonishing vision across the table, and also has a wicked wit. She must have been a pistol in her time. She wanted Big Mama’s parfait dessert, and there was no objection in passing it over.
The meal reached some sort of general conclusion and Hazel drifted away, and the Down’s Syndrome gal bustled off with some energy, announcing she was just “going to give the place a try, maybe for a year,” and she could be visiting friends in Gaylord. I told Pat I was pleased to meet her and would see her the next day. She snorted. “May as well,” she said, dismissing us and looking for an RA to wheel her back to her apartment.
Back on the third floor, I got Big Mama settled on the couch and talked with her as she eased into the Turner Classic Movie. I told her what the plan was for the week for the seventh or eighth time, and she seemed happy.
It is a big morning, I thought, walking out to the Cherokee. I have to be over across the Bay for Raven’s initial consult- and then I have to speed back and take Mom out shopping- for books, I thought, large type editions and see if she will try reading again.
It is all quite interesting. I can’t tell if she is worse than she was a month ago- half the time I am her husband and the other half her oldest son. This slow-motion progression is very strange.
Half and half makes a complete whole though, and I suppose that is likely as good as this is going to get.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com <http://www.vicsocotra.com>