Death and taxes...

Benjamin Franklin had it almost right. "'In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes and that Myrtle lost her keys in the move."

I told the story again and again and again.  The ONLY thing I lost in my move here was my spare set of car keys.  I looked and looked and looked.  I even contacted my old writing student, because she was the last person to drive my car (other than me) before I moved.  It was a long-shot, for she is most fastidious and never would have held onto my keys.  

Over the past three and a half years, as I have downsized, I make the rounds for where the keys could be.  And I regularly crawl about my car.  Some time ago, when having a bit of a clear out in the attic, I found the valet key to the car.  Although it has rather limited function, I was immensely relieved.  I mean, who just has one set of car keys?

Over the past three and a half years, not only did I bore others with the lament of my loss, but I pondered aloud the rather enormous expense of getting another set.  After all, it is a security key and a remote entry.  I was worried about having just one set of keys, especially with my failing memory, but spending hundreds of dollars to replace them was not something I could stomach.  So, I was glad to find the valet key as it fell out of one of the pieces of luggage that I was donating.

Yet, I keep looking.

And I lamented my loss.

Who loses their car keys in a move??

For a while, I had someone nearby who helped me out from time to time, as I did her.  So, I gave her a set of house keys.  Her life moving in a different direction, I asked for my keys back.  Maybe it is because I am single and essentially alone, but I someone to be able to enter my house if need be.  

Marie has keys.  The Texan in me just loves how free she is in using them.  Marie will come on in and help herself to whatever she needs, especially when I ask her to start her freezer cooking without me so that I can get a tad more sleep.  Even asleep I still want her to come as early as possible.  

[My!  What a loss it will be when she moves next year!!]

When she is gone, I will want someone else to have keys.  Often I have toyed with the idea of giving my neighbor a set, but her son has made some poor decisions—including having agents in their home and making his way onto the FBI watch list—whilst being led astray by those willing to take advantage of his autism.  So, the idea of having my keys at her house unsettles me.  I have wondered if the church would keep a set.  I mean, it seems like that would be a neighborly thing to do in caring for a member.  But folk can be kind of odd about keys.  At least those outside of Texas ... and those not named Marie.

I just don't want to be the woman whose bloated body is found weeks (or months) after her death.  And if I am stricken ill whilst away, carted off to the hospital and separated from my personal effects, I want someone to be able to come rescue Amos from starvation.  Clearly, my puppy dog would have absolutely no problem using the brown "grass" upstairs to tend to his needs.  And he feels utterly free to help himself to water from the toilets.  However, he would need food.

I also don't want to be the woman who loses her home to an unpaid bill.  The most recent tale that haunts me is a widow who struggled with the paperwork her husband had tended.  Her tax bill was late.  She paid that.  However, she did not pay $6.30 in interest.  Yes, she was given notices in the mail, which is all the law requires.  But don't you think that someone from the county ought to have shown her a bit of compassion and picked up the phone or visited her to make sure she understood that tiny amount, left unpaid, could lead to the forced sale of her home??  The auction of her home to pay that minuscule amount netted her—after the ridiculously low sale price, fees, and such—less than half the value of her home.  

So, I was really, really, really relieved when the real estate tax transaction showed up in my online account today.  Taxes were due yesterday, and I fretted all day and most of the night waiting to see that mine had been paid via the automatic payment I set up.  This was the last of all the financial automation I have worked on to try and protect myself from my own cognitive failings.

Death and taxes.

And keys.

I have been in ... shock ... since receiving my keys back.  Marie actually got them for me, and when she held them out toward me I was dumbfounded.

Those are not my keys.

Those couldn't be my keys.

Those keys include a set of car keys.

Whilst Marie was talking to me—despite the fact that I recognized my very odd, very old lock front door key—I reached past her to insert the house key into my lock to see if it worked.  It did.  Only a very little part of me remained with Marie in our conversation until she left.  Given what we were discussing, that is remarkable.  And sad.  And probably wrong.  I simply couldn't grasp that the keys I had loaned out included my lost spare set of car keys.

After she left, I sat down on the bottom step of the main stair case and studied the car key and fob.  At first, I thought that perhaps they were a replacement set.  Why such a purchase would be made was not even on my mind.  But close inspection of both proved they were old.  Used.  They just couldn't be my keys.

The woman who had them does not drive a Toyota.

Surely someone in her family drives a Toyota.

The keys have been mixed up.

I finally took myself, my puppy dog, and the keys out to the garage.  The fob unlocked my car.  The fob locked my car.  The fob set off the panic alarm.  The key opened all the doors.  The key started the engine.  The key opened my glove compartment.  The key set fit my car.  But they still could not be my keys.  My spare set of car keys were lost in the move!

Nothing.

Nothing is certain to me anymore.

Somehow, I managed to find the keys that I spent years (or was it months) looking for, loan them out, and then forget both that I had found them and had given them to someone else.  I remembered that I lost them. I remembered the guilt and the shame and the worry over doing so. I know I told the story of that loss over and over and over again.   I know that I looked for the keys over and over and over again.  In fact, I looked for them just a while ago when I washed my car, taking out all the mats and peering beneath the seats with a flashlight, and folding down the third row seats I've never used.

Nothing is certain to me anymore.  Not where my death will lead.  Not if my taxes will be paid.  Not what I have lost.  Or have not.

Nothing.