Glenn Cemetery Postcards

 

                                                        9 June 2025

    "Grief is weird" is a phrase I have heard a lot recently. I think it is being used to excuse some crappy behaviors, mine included.

    I suspect it's exacerbated by the country on fire and the joy of Dealing With Dad's Trailer and Dad's Car. There's also other stuff like lack of money and summer jobs and heat and hate and car issues and the shifting sand baseline of government hate for me and my children's simple existence.

    But I digress.

    Shocking.

    The original plan with my cousin, Lisa, was to simply combine scattering dad with her mom, dad's sister, who had passed two years ago. Lisa and I and my sister were in agreement to simply driving out with immediate family and scattering. Quietly. No pomp and circumstance. No headstone. No service. Plain and simple, like the farm and the cemetery itself. 

    All we had to do was have Genoa, Harp and their partners meet my cousin and I at the house at 9 am. Drive to Virginia and Bob's to meet my sister and Ed, and caravan to the Glenn Cemetery with dad's ashes.

    I did not sleep well, and got up at 6. Lisa got up at 8.20. At 8.45 she wanted to go get coffee at Dutch Brothers. On a Saturday. Being in an altered state and not wanting to cause more conflict, I did the complete opposite of what I would have- had my brain been working. I said "Sure".

    The trip put us behind schedule. 

    Please remember I am a theatre kid: An hour early is on time, half hour is late and on "time" is fired. Translated to early is on time, on time is late and late is fired.

    So Anxiety Party of One was joined by unwanted friends.

    I love Lisa. And she moves at the speed of global warming. Two things can be true. She always has been both slow to move and chatty---a lethal combo when trying to leave any event. Or house. It's never been an issue until Saturday, when suddenly I couldn't imagine how she functions and I got frustrated. She kept saying "It's a Wyckofff thing" and I responded every time with "I am a Wyckoff, so no, this is not a Wyckoff thing." I am not social, I hate family gatherings. I love the people, but I don't chat.

    We were heading back to the house from Dutch Brothers, and Lisa slowed down at the various garage sales cooing "Ooooh, what do they have there?"
.     I snapped "No, we have a time table."

    Of course she has to use the bathroom when we get to the house. I came in right behind her and she was at the top of the stairs chatting up G and H and their partners. I waved my arms and used my director-fussing-to-chatters-in-the -wings  "Lisa! Seriously? Move. We're going."

     The Wyckoffs are notoriously social. It is not a trait I share. I am aggressively introverted. That's why I'm in theatre----give me a script and I'll analyze and delve and create and perform another person with great googley glee. But make me attend a neighborhood cookie exchange and I'll sit in the corner with a glass of wine and scare away humans attempting to connect with me by spewing highly controversial political and social news items.

    I have no social skills.

    I yell. I direct. I project, I teach. I analyze. I discuss politics, religion and history in depth.

    I do not small talk. I do not chat. I do not "visit".

    The Wyckofffs talk, chat and Dear God Do They Visit.

    This has never been an issue, just a fact. My dad wasn't particularly chatty, he liked to listen to people visiting. I think that's what I inherited. I'm the audience in my own real life and do my talking, chatting,  and visiting in my work. I watched my Uncle Reggie at their homestead gathering and he does the same thing. I mean, he's probably 85 and has hearing aids, so it may be contingent on opportunity. His son Josh is the same quiet way at first, but if you give him an opening, he will absolutely chat you you up. 

    Case in point, we were sitting at the table outside on Saturday. I hadn't talked much, I'm listening. But I'm tracking two conversations, as everybody talks over each other. My cousins. All five talking at once. I remember when I was a kid, sitting at the table on the farm, listening to my grandparents talk at the same time, like two radio stations fighting over the same number on the dial. Then were were joined by my aunts and I had to get up and walk the property.

    Back to running late...

    We were late to Virginia and Bob's, and Bob---who is  in his 80's and functions like I do, meaning he has no patience for the "Wyckoff Visiting Trait" which means he hates lingering, chatting and visiting when it interferes with leaving on time. When we arrived, he stood at the bottom of the stairs with the door open. Because Lisa had to pee. He just rolled his eyes and stood with the door remaining open, glaring at Virginia who was chatting with Lisa.

    No judgement. Just facts.

    It's one hour and fifty five minutes to the graveyard in Genoa. We wagon trained, because someone somewhere said the country dirt roads were not on google. So we followed Virginia, who was raised on the farm. Bob was driving. Bob drives at the speed of his age---one MPH for every year of his life. Pedal to the metal. Impressively determined. Yet he would pull over when he got too far ahead for a turn.

    Road M, Road R, CR 2, turn left at the T section, turn right at the cow, look for the tree...we did this years ago for Bryon's memorial, and in 2010 for the 100 year celebration, which is A Very Big Deal. There is now a sign outside the homestead identifying it as a registered landmark.

    https://www.historycolorado.org/location/wyckoff-farm

    So we didn't even need to follow Virginia and Bob.

    We're all going because my Aunt Arlene -Lisa's mom, dad's sister- died two years ago and was cremated. Lisa was waiting to scatter her with her husband who passed last fall. I proposed we scatter them and dad on the same day, less travel stress on their remaining siblings. But that meant that Arlene's husband's family, Lisa's family, my cousin Josh and his dad Reggie...and suddenly my idea of just chucking dad's remains over the cemetery fence had been hijacked. Also there was a headstone he would not have wanted that caused a lot of angst among his daughters. But that doesn't matter.

    My Uncle Bob. 

    My Uncle Bob Jaramillo has been a sassy Latino fixture my entire life. He has said a lot of very funny things that would be considered racist today, yet they are part of my imprint of the man. He and my dad were besties. They were the  central two of their Old Man's Club. Breakfast Queen on Wednesdays, brunch on Fridays, bowling back in the day, driving to Wyoming so my barber brother in law could cut their hair. Hooligans.

     You are lucky if you get one best friend in this life. I know Bob was my dad's. And I suspect he was Bob's.

    Bob knew my dad for who he was, and he knew he was too kind and occasionally taken advantage of. Bob looked out for him and understood him as only a best friend could. After dad died, we found a receipt for a paint job on his vinyl Town Car roof, clearly the work of someone who had swindled my dad. Because why would anyone paint a vinyl roof? Bob said "I told him not to do that, shit, Gary, you're an old man whaddya need a new paint job for?" Dad was both easily duped due his kindness, and slipping mentally the last few years. The news of the paint job seemed to send a knife into Bob's heart.

    Bob stood at the gravesite as we scattered dad's ashes. He clung to the edge as my brother in law buried a few ashes. As he did so, Bob reached down-leaning on his cane- and took a rock and placed it on the gravestone. He stood stoic. When Todd patted the final dirt, Bob saluted as they do in Honor Guard---Bob was not in honor guard.  But Bob knew how much it meant to my dad, and he was determined to honor him. It was too much. I still tear up thinking about it.

    Uncle Bob is the sassiest, Judgeist  man I know. I never even considered he had a heart. He was hit by a car (he is 82 years old) in January, and is still using a cane, but drove 80 MPH out to the cemetery. He hobbled over to us after we scattered dad from the cremation box.

    "Gimme that box, " he croaked.

    I tried to hand the empty box to him, but he indicated the wanted it on the ground. I obliged.

    He knocked at it with his cane. "Dammit, Gary, it was your turn to pay." He looked up at me. "It's not fair. I want to beat the shit out of that box."

    After almost everyone had left, my Uncle Bob stood staring at the gravestone. His wide brimmed black hat, black coat and cane cutting a stunning portrait of grief.

    You're lucky if you get one best friend in this life. My dad was the luckiest man I know.

    I can't write any more.

   Maybe later...

   

 The chicken coop

old wheat silo

                                                              sign on the door
    

                                                                 My Uncle Bob
    

  

Act 2, Scene : 3 Dad's Car

 

                                                        5 June 2025

        For deeply psychological reasons that are becoming increasingly evident, I really needed dad's car  "done" before the end of this school year. DPS ends 3 June.

       This district has two non student "check out days". I've only had one check out day in previous districts/buildings, so this seems extreme. They also make you strike your room and admin has to check it off. 

        And they give the last morning to breakfast and Year Pins--- here is your five, ten, fifteen, twenty year pin -- and they honor the retiree(s). The para has been in the district 20 years. The teacher  has 30 years in the district. they gave him a glass red apple. He gave a speech. Everyone listened. Some people cried.

        What planet is this?

        I was in Littleton 17 years. I received a pin the first week I worked there, and didn't let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.

        Hinkley did A Whole Thing with pins and years and retirees at the last awards of the year---but only that first year I was there, which was COVID. 

        But I digress. Or do I? Digression or part of my storytelling style; is it a digression or character development? Or regression?

        I couldn't get an appointment at the Taj Mahal (the Big Jeffco Offices in Golden) before the 19th, so I decided to sign up at a small Jeffco DMV in Arvada. Because the 19th was after the school year was over, and I needed to be done by 3 June.

        I have a physical title to the land yacht with my mom's name on it. My mom has signed the back, I have signed the back. I just need a clear title with MY name on it. Which the Arapahoe DMV would not do because I live in Jeffco.

        After check out, I loaded my last bag---including my coffee cups---into my trunk. Which is where I had put the key to dad's car and the title with my mom's name on it, signed over to me.

        I arrived at the DMV on 3 June at 12.45 for a 1 pm appointment. Immediately, the network comedy began when a teaspoon of coffee had spilled through my bag and onto the title. When I picked it up, the Apple Tag on dad's keys went off as well. The studio audience went  wild over the low hanging humor fruit.

        Nonplussed, I walked into the DMV. They do not have QR code scanners like the others, just humans to  do check in. This human was tied up with a couple who had paid for license plates that never arrived, and the human could not even find the order. So the security guard kindly said he'd check me in. 

        I gave him my name.

        He asked for my confirmation code. I showed him the email.

        He handed my phone back "This is for the 10th. Today is the 3rd."

        Blank faced, I took my phone back, leveled my voice, met his eyes with as much humor as I could muster and said "Of course it is. Okie."

        I did not cry. I was not flustered. I'm resolved now. This Is My Life.

        He said "Lemme do you a solid, we're slow," he punched a plastic machine and handed me a ticket number. "The folks with appointments will go first, but you'll get in."

        I was called inside of five minutes to clerk #8. I get that number a lot. 

        She was maybe 30, and wanted to know what was spilled on the title. Because...it matters? You're printing a new one, anyway. I said "Coffee" and she weirdly replied "Good, Ok, at least it's not baby food."

        HUH?!!!!! 

        You're looking right at me friend. I do not have a baby.

        She couldn't project through her plastic barrier very well, which was a me problem apparently, so I riveted my eyes to her for our entire exchange.

        "Is the car still gold?"

        What a weird question. Arapahoe county cared naught for the color.

        Also, when I signed the back to switch the title from mom, I dicked up writing the "9" in my address. Arapahoe county cared naught.

        Jeffco was bent about it and I had to sign a "Statement Of Not Fraud" explaining that I have terrible handwriting, but that does not make me a criminal.

        Then she charged me $7 for the new title, handed me the receipt and said "It will be mailed in two weeks."

        WTF? Is this because you don't have any blank titles on hand, or because I botched the "9" or because you're not authorized to print new titles?

        I just shrugged. I took my receipt and left.

        I did not have dad's car wrapped up before the end of the school year.

        But I have a receipt that says it's done. So Sunday we'll scatter his ashes, Monday I start at the pony school.

        Maybe they'll mail the new title and I can sell the car to my neighbor.

        Maybe OPM will mail me information on being the beneficiary for dad's post office retirement.

        Maybe the VA will mail information on mom being the beneficiary for dad's Navy retirement.

        Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.

                                Scene

Act 2, Scene 2: Dad's Car

 

       Determined to have dad's car "done" before the end of the school year, I scheduled a time at the DMV in Arapahoe county---where he registered the car--at 2 pm on 2 June, 2025. 

      I've never done checkout in this building, which is two weird days, so I was swinging wide believing I could get out by 1 to go pick up mom in Lakewood and Schlep her to the DMV. I was able to leave as nobody seemed concerned about checkout and there was a BBQ at noon----

      A moment. I am not doing great.

     Submitted as evidence: I contributed salsa to the going away nacho gathering for a retiring Para. I walked to the room after delivering said salsa and` awkwardly stood there, watching everyone. I spoke maybe two words to another teacher. It was like a switch was flipped. I didn't want to walk away, and I couldn't form words. I still think I had a stroke. When the Para asked if I was going to have any nachos, I stepped over to her to awkwardly hug her, spoke word salad and left the room.

    Today, as I was leaving the classroom to take napkins to the BBQ--- a stack pawed from a Costco tower, one of three we found in dad's trailer--the teacher across the hall grabbed my arm and said "Let's go to the BBQ!". I stated flatly that I do not like to be bullied, but allowed her to drag me to the courtyard, where I dropped off my napkins, hyper aware of how awkward it was to carry 100 unwrapped paper napkins, and sulked at the table. She sat with me and another sped teacher, both on their phones, occasionally talking to one another. I said "I could kill everyone here and it wouldn't bother me" and neither of them flinched or looked up from their screens.

     The BBQ was to begin at noon, but by 12.30 food was not imminent and I was becoming someone I didn't recognize. I hated everyone, spat out short  answers to questions about my children and stared at the wall. Gratefully, my STL texted to say my room had not passed inspection, giving me a reason to exit. Which I did. Without saying good bye.

     That is Not Like Me.

--------------------------

      So I fixed my room and headed out to pick up mom for our Arapahoe DMV date, at which we hoped they would remove her name from the title of the car she Did Not Purchase and Did Not Want.

    Mom was dazzled and puzzled by how much has changed at the DMV. I had to check in with a QR code that I was sent after registering on their website. "You have to have an appointment?" she shouted, watching my face closely. Her hearing aids are controlled by her phone, which vexes her, and she doesn't always change them to match the ambient noise fast enough, so she watches faces and "reads lips".

    Once she marveled at the QR code entry, we entered the waiting room. With her cane and her bemused look the security guard----someone I know well from Act 1: Dad's Trailer---asked if we had an appointment. When she saw me, and I scowled at her while holding up my ticket number and she just nodded. I was a joy the last four times I was here, and now I've brought an elderly, mostly deaf woman whose cane could be used as a weapon. She kept a close eye. I do not blame her.

     We took our seats, while I explained the illuminated callboard to her. "When our number comes up, they'll also announce it so you'll hear it." She clicked her teeth "I am glad I never have to do this again."

     Clerk #15 drew the short straw today.

     My mom wants to know why she's on the title, but I told her I'd already had that conversation with the last clerk. They can't explain it. Just take his name off, create a title with her name only then switch it to me. Donesies.

    Nope. We can only take off dad's name and get a title with her name, because I LIVE IN JEFFERSON COUNTY. I refer you to Act 1: Dad's Trailer, and my county of residence being the cause of much misinformation or incompetence, causing me my current PTSD issues with all DMV's.   

     Mom looked at my face and said "What?" I said loudly "I think I have to take you to Jeffco DMV now----" #15 interrupted, "No, just you. You have her title and she signed the back over to you. All you have to do is go to Jeffco to get a title in your name now."

      I smiled at him. Which I promise did not look friendly, because my eyes were screaming "All I HAVE TO DO...is jump through more hoops but YOU PEOPLE LET MY DAD PUT MY MOM'S NAME ON THE TITLE WITHOUT HER PERMISSION!"

    We left, and decided to go to lunch. "How about Garramones, mom?"

     We drive to Garramones. It's Monday. If you know, you know, and we didn't even think about it. Because mom is old and I'm not doing great. 

    So we went to Moose Hill instead.

     I did not drink.

                                    Scene

           

Act 2, Scene 1: Dad's Car

 

           Friday 30 May, 2025

           I waited until the last day with students to begin Act Two: Dad's Car.

           Why? Because he put my mom's name on the title.

           Why? Nobody knows.

           He bought the car in 2018. They've been divorced since 1982.            

            I'll let you math that.

            Why did I wait? Because I knew this would be Another Whole Thing.

           So I wanted to wait at least a month after my last appearance at the Littleton DMV to have a crisis moment in the Littleton DMV. My return engagement. Back by Unpopular demand, as Act One: My Dad's Trailer left so many unanswered questions.

            Even though I see it coming, it's going to trigger me.

           When I saw her name on the registration, my heart sank. "This will not be easy" is what that sinking feeling said. I had the trailer title signed by him before he died, and I still made six trips to three different DMV's to get it completed. And that should have been easy. For God's sake he signed the title before he died.

             This will not be easy.

             First, we don't have the title. We had to dig the registration out of the car. The Car: his current land yacht, a 2004 Lincoln Town car. Broken console and the passenger door doesn't open. But the tires are brand new and it runs beautifully even though the dome light does not turn off.

           All of these are features of any of my dad's cars.

           I looked up what I would need to change the title, and became concerned that the car is not insured. Because he died and we weren't going to keep paying insurance. However, it appears that is not a concern when someone has died and the car is sitting in front of your house looking abandoned. Which one must say with an iambic emphasis: a-ban-don-ed.

             What is a concern is that the dead man somehow put his ex wife's name on the title without her signature or permission when he was still alive.

             Dealing with the DMV as I have this spring, it is shocking to me that they would allow a man to just add someone to the title of his car without that person being present. Then I can add my dog to my car title. Right?

             I assumed mom would have to sign something to say she didn't want the car, but I figured going to the Littleton DMV for recon first might be the best strategy. I mean, I just want his name taken off. Leave hers on. 

             It was also an opportunity for me to slam my face into my palms and raise my voice at the messenger.  

            The security guard recognized me from Act One: Dad's Trailer.

            Clerk #8's supervisor stayed close by, as my voice took on a sharp tone.

            They recognized that tone. I don't yell, I Tone. And I'm not going to be monotoned about this because...

            My Mom Did Not Sign Off On Ownership Of That Car.

            Clerk #8 looked up the title to confirm that my mom's name is listed as owner.

            When I asked "How is that possible, she was not with him when he registered it. She did not even know he bought a car, they've been divorced 43 years...How Is That Possible?" 

            Clerk #8 sounded annoyed--he also had A Tone in reserve for People Like Me- but stayed cool headed as his supervisor was right behind him "I am only telling you what I see. Her name is on the title."

            He has no answers. His job is to follow the script and type keys to reprint titles, register newly purchased vehicles, fetch license plates and wish he could afford to pay his rent.

            So what we have here is...male entitlement?

            Any man can register a car and add a woman's name without her permission?

            This is the only answer. Mom not only did not cosign anything for that car, but she doesn't even know when he bought it. Because. Divorced 44 years.

            I'd love to tell you I have no idea what he was thinking. But I think I do. He still loved her and in his own way, he thought he was leaving the car to her by putting her name on it. It's possible he put her name on all of his cars over the years. We'll never know. We do know that he tried to "give" her the trailer the same way, but she refused. 

            He did not ask her about the car.

            Which brings me back to my thesis, which is Why Are Men Allowed To Do Whatever They Want? Which is not the thesis I began with when I started writing this, but who cares? I'm not a very good writer.

            So Monday, 2 June, I have to schlep mom from Lakewood to Littleton so she can tell Clerk # Whoever  "I never signed for this" and have the title flipped to me. At which point I will sell the car to my neighbor, who is willing to take it off my hands and restore and resell it.

            Sunday, 8 June dad's ashes will be thrown to the wind of Genoa, Colorado.

            And...we're still not done. OPM has to send me beneficiary paperwork and Social Security has to fetch the weird deposit they made into his savings account.

            

                        Scene

              

            

            

Shit I Have Done Since My Dad Died

 

    I don't care how well you or your parent(s) have The Will and Trust Arrangement tied up- something will go wrong. Be prepared. Just...breathe. And drink about it. I recommend drinking.

   Because the Federal Government is on fire, and nobody knows what's going on, or what their job is and they are trying to train new people because those who knew their shit were bullied out. 

    FIRST Close the bank accounts. Don't be nice about it, and think you only need to block anyone from removing rent (because they will). If you leave it open, the Flaming Federal Government will continue to deposit Social Security, and pensions. Even after they've been notified of his death. And then...they'll want it back. Which is fine, nobody committed fraud, it's just a mess for the bank. Close them all. Immediately. Move the money somewhere else and wait for whoever or whatever to ask. Put it under your pillow. In your underwear drawer. Up your nose, the fridge, the Ficus. But Close The Accounts Immediately.

    Do not put your children on the account, make them beneficiaries. They become liable for your loose ends and debts if they're on the account. This made sense when you were alive  which is why you put them on the account in the first place, so they could help you manage should you be unable to. Nope. Don't Do It. 

    Today is the end of April. I still do not have the title for dad's trailer moved to my name, let alone his car. 30 April 2025. Dad died 28 February.

    He left a signed title to the trailer.

    Which he owned, but the trailer is on a rental plot. Nobody can have the trailer unless they are first approved to rent the plot. I cannot begin to tell you what a pain in the ass that is.

    So that took a month to determine that nobody in his trailer park wanted to follow through and buy the trailer. Then we have to figure it out. A realtor is not a person you would think of for a trailer on a rental plot, but one has signs in his trailer park. So we call her.

    Side note, we've called and emailed the rental management company at least a dozen times. As of today we still have not heard back from them, but they put his March rent through his checking account. Awesome. He died 28 Feb. We know Matt the Handyman, he's the only one that was around while we were digging out the trailer. He was also the one checking messages and forwarding them to management. He asked every time he saw me if they'd called  me yet. I said "Nope". Looking confused, he told me they had told him they had spoken with me. Huh. Liars? Nooooooo...not possible.

    Then the Merry Go Round of DMV began_______________________

     A realtor is willing to buy dad's trailer even though it's on a rental lot, but I have to pay his taxes and get the title changed to my name. Because even though he signed the title before he died, she can't sell it unless it's in my name, or whoever is still alive's name. I'm alive. Whooo Go Me.

    Five visits to three different DMV's in two counties later, I still haven't crossed the finish line.

    The realtor said to go to the Aurora DMV for Arapahoe County because Littleton is unprepared for Mobile homes. Nobody takes walk ins, and the link to make an appointment is  hidden. So trip one--taking a morning off---to drive to Aurora for recon. No appointments that day, no walk ins, sucks to suck. But, located the appointment app.

    Trip Two was to Littleton, to avoid driving to Aurora. They said I needed paperwork they could not provide me, nor direct me to. 

    It went like this: Clerk #8 at the Littleton DMV got through part of the paperwork and said "You need an XK(73 Banana Form from upstairs. Go get it and then come right back here." She fully expected me to return with said form, which means she believed it existed.

    I went upstairs. Gum chewing Brittney In A Box stopped talking to her friend long enough to look at me. I told her I needed the XK(73 Banana Form to take back downstairs.

    "We don't have that. It has to be notarized."

    Please rise above the stereotype, Brittney, and help an old lady out.

    " Why would #8 send me up here for paperwork, and tell me to go back downstairs with said paperwork if you don't have the paperwork to give to me?"

    Shrug. "I think a lawyer has that form."

    "I don't have a lawyer."

    "Like probate."

    "This isn't in probate.

    Shrug. Pops gum. Twirls hair.

   I try again. "Can I get it online?"

    "I dunno."

    I exit the building. I do not return to #8 at the DMV due to blinding rage.

     I had to get my afternoon classes covered and waste my time. Again. And I think "Well, the realtor was correct. Littleton has no idea what they're doing. Shame, since they are infinitely more convenient than Aurora." I go home to drink about it.

    Trip Three was another morning off to drive to Aurora who -according to the realtor- know what they are doing. Clerk #7- who is the same guy who had to check me in because the QR code on my phone didn't work- has me sign the title.  Great! Good step, no additional paperwork, I'm feeling positive. Maybe Aurora is better at this. 

    Taking my ID he then says I have to go to Jeffco because I live in Jeffco. 

    The trailer is in Arapahoe County.  I'm not moving it.

    No matter. Go to Jeffco. We can't do this here.

    Waste of more time off, which I am now OUT of, and subbing to make up the lost income which limits my flexibility even more since all government offices are open 7am to 4pm.

    Trip Four To Jeffco clerk #10 who said "Aurora is wrong. Why would they send you here? It's the county the trailer is in, not your physical address." 

    I'm in the wrong place. 

    More specifically, I've been deliberately sent to the wrong place.

    She gives me a form where she has highlighted the words (paraphrasing) "You're an idiot for sending her here, you were supposed to do this where the trailer is located, Dumb Ass." I have no intention of ever returning to Aurora, but sure, I'll take the form.

    I demanded at least a duplicate title in case I choose to nail it to the management company's door---not unlike Martin Luther on the church door. I'm now thinking of surrendering the trailer, and I don't want my name on anything. A duplicate title with dad's name and his death certificate should be enough to stake to the Management Company's door with "SURRENDER #7" written in red. Or black smoke. You get me.

    Jeffco also gave me the notarized paperwork that Littleton said I needed but did not provide. 

   BUT please note the Jeffco clerk NOTORIZED THE PAPERWORK while I was there. Unlike Brittney, who apparently was not aware that the DMV has a Notary Republic in house ( I've always called them that, its sounds better than "notary public". No idea why.)Or of necessary paperwork for these transfers. Or of her job description. Do Better Brittney.

    Trip Five Back to Littleton. Now I have the paperwork they said I needed but Brittney could not provide. I can't get there until 3.15. Clerk #12 has "Associate in Training" on his window. I take a deep breath, but he moves everything along. I have to go upstairs to two offices. At least there's progress. An older version of Brittney who is aware of her job whips through the paperwork. Done-largely because form XK(73 was filled out and notarized in Jeffco. Taxes stamped "No taxes". I paid $10 for them to stamp "No taxes". Told to go back down to DMV and see the exact same guy you started with-station #12.  It's 3.40pm .They close at 4pm. #12 is deeply entrenched in refinancing somebody's loan --so it seems. At 3.50pm I release my inner Karen (I like to believe I have her in me) and I demand to talk to someone, I'm so close to the finish line please just somebody record and print this. #10, under duress, agrees to help me at 3.55 pm. In my distress, I hand her the stack of papers---including both titles.

     She has no idea why this wasn't done the first time since dad signed the title before he died. She's also confused about why I have two titles, which means filling out a different form. It's not a problem if it's 3pm, but at five to four the whole thing has to be resigned and re-registered and why is everyone incompetent, and "Why do you have any of this paperwork, his signed title was enough"...all of this is my fault for doing as I was told at each DMV...#10 wants to go home and I'm keeping her and apparently I'm the incompetent one in this scenario, not the previous four clerks....and.... 4 pm. 

    Ding.

    They're closed. Like closed. The County Is Closed. They can't even take five minutes to finish this and log it, because the computers are all on Super Secret Auto Lock that is beyond their control. Super Secret Auto Lock arms at 4pm. All county computers will explode if you try to log on after 4pm.

    At my wit's end, I just start to cry. How very Un Karen of me. I cannot believe any of this, and nobody has apologized for wasting my time and essentially costing me money*. Why am I surprised this government agency is so broken? #10 stares at me the way my Intro students stare when I'm teaching iambic pentameter, and she gruffly makes an appointment for me at 7.10 am on Thursday. She does this because I've started to cry and she needs me to leave---did I mention it's four o'clock and they close at four o'clock. 

  She makes an appointment which I really shouldn't be able to make due to my schedule, but I can as it's an early release Thursday. Her begrudging attempt to help makes it worse, and I cry more, creating a spectacle after 4pm at the Littleton DMV for the few remaining tellers and the security guard. You're welcome.

  So that's still not finished.

  30 April, 2025, Respectfully submitted, Douglas C Neidermeyer.

     Update 1 May 8.15 am. At 7 am I marched into the Littleton DMV armed with everything signed. Today's clerk is #12, but a different guy, I guess they're not married to their station. How nice for them, they are free to move around like nomads with no possessions of their own identifying their station. He was a nice, chatty guy whose dad died three years ago. He gets me. He had me sign more forms, pay $7 for the title, walk over to records to pay $13 to record the trailer and handed me a title with my name on it. Unbelievable.

   Even with his chatting, I was out in 20 minutes.

  I texted the realtor to let her know I need the next step and I have every reason to believe something will go wrong and I'm gonna end up owning this trailer. Burning it down is not an option, I like dad's neighbors. But today I finished the Trailer DMV Marathon 2025. I can't drink about it 'cause it's 8 am and I am at work.

    My next DMV adventure is being pushed into June when I don't have to work. Which is a lie, I'm going to have to work. But it's a different teaching gig and should be more flexible. My dad weirdly put my mom's name on his car title. They've been divorced for 43 years. We can't find the title, we can only find the registration. His car is parked in front of my house because I don't have the time or energy to again embark on anything at the DMV. I think all I need is the registration and his death certificate to get a new title printed, then we'll just tell mom what we're doing and she can sign off on the title. But you know it will not be that easy, even if it is really just that easy.

                                                     ___________

Social Security was sent his death certificate but still deposited $7k in his account 6 March. His Social Security was not ever $7k monthly. Nobody's is.  It makes no sense. It was deposited in his savings, not his checking. Now they want it back. Which is fine but...why is it there? Fraud? What? Incompetence under fire. My sister thinks disgruntled exiting employees are doing things like this. I support them, I just wish it was done and SS didn't find out. I wouldn't use the money, I just think it's funny to let it sit there and rot for years. I assume even with the MuskFire still burning, eventually they'd find it and want it back. Whatever. So that's sitting there waiting to get sucked back out, with nobody explaining why would you deposit that much money in my dad's account? Also, it was not deposited in his checking but his savings. WTF. Cue circus music.

                                                            _____

    I called the OPM, who are in charge of his post office pension, every day for two weeks. The outgoing message said "We're busy, good luck getting someone- Do It Online". Turns out they were doing the MuskFire Reshuffle. But you can't do anything online without an account number...or Double Secret Code which I do not have. When I called again at the end of March, there was magically a menu to choose from. None of the choices were 'Report Your Dad's Death, Please Stop Paying His Pension". They are for "Reporting Fraud", "Tell Us How Great We're Doing" and "Apply For A Job". When you make a choice, there is more AI and buttons requiring account numbers you do not possess, or a person who cannot help you unless you wish to report fraud or apply for their job, because they just started and they're over it. I finally just mailed them his death certificate. They'll want their money back as well. It's there. I'll wait. I refer you to step one: Close All The Bank Accounts Immediately.

    Again, sending the retired mail man's death certificate through the mail to tell the post office he's dead is a clear circle of life thing. I also received his cremated remains through the US Mail. I see you, dad. Love you. And you're right, USPS is shit since you left.

    I'd like to take this moment to say His Death Certificate Was Sent To Social Security And The County The Second Week Of March. None of these agencies TALK to each other, or even check websites. The VA knew immediately, they are connected. 

                                                        _________

    The VA---who I had been playing tag with since December, trying to get them to approve a day nurse or in home assistance for dad-responded when I called a smaller phone number. When visiting their website to report my dad's death, I foolishly called the large print phone number that said "Call here to report a death", which took me to the I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP  People who want to give me a free devise that will cost $200 a month to monitor. After hanging up on them, and finding the correct phone number, the actual VA were great, had everything ready and already knew he had passed because they talk to social security. That was Monday, 2 March. They don't much care about the living vets, but they're on it when they can stop paying benefits after their death.

                                                    ________________

    He donated his body to science, and was cremated. Which involved the coroner and Science Care and the Sheridan police not understanding how that worked, resulting in my sister and I sitting in his trailer in a panic trying to find the paperwork. In the end, my father, the retired postal worker, arrived at my house via USPS in a box with an orange banner screaming  "CREMATED REMAINS".  The retired mail man was delivered through the mail.

    I hope it's him, as after he was picked up by Science Care, I was made aware of another similar organization committing fraud. They were using the donated bodies for public science fairs and sending cremated remains of...someone else, or raccoons or whatever...to the family. So the image of my dad pinned to a piece of carboard like a biology frog and being leered at by Las Vegas visitors lingers in my mind. Thanks for that. Also, now you get to see it. You're welcome.

                                         ________________________

   In conclusion all in all to sum up...even if you've been "downsizing", giving away things to your kids/grandkids before you die you've not done enough. Unless you sell your house and car and everything in it, turn off the power and internet and close your bank accounts before you die, you've not done enough.

    Whether you know it or not, you've made an unspoken agreement with your children to get sick and go to hospice and then die, or get sick and go to the hospital and die there. Car accidents and dying at home were not part of the agreement, and nobody's prepared. Particularly to walk into your home and find you there. Do better.

                                        SCENE

   * I switched districts in December. I do not have bereavement time off. I have only four sick days. They dock my pay if I take time without the sick day, so I'm subbing to make up the difference. Which means I can't leave early or come in late because of a DMV appointment because I'm subbing. So I'm trying to wrangle around when the DMV hours are the same as my teaching hours.

    

Who Do You Think You Are? A Breakfast Club Essay Staring Down The Barrel Of 60

 

            You will write an essay telling me who you think you are. And I mean an essay,  not one word written a thousand times.

            Ok. So I assume I am writing a thousand words.

            First, I wish I had done this at 18. For all I know I did, and the motorcycle accident concussions, teaching trauma and current Country On Fire Circus have wiped it from memory. Who I think I am is a difficult question, as I feel I'm still trying to figure that out myself. But I can authoritatively write about the roles I have played and how they inform identity: wife, mother, teacher.

            I am not someone who ever wanted to get married. I did not wear toilet paper veils or design bedsheet wedding dresses as a child. I liked horses, I wanted a horse, I learned about horses and never got a horse. I attempted to perform at a talent show in third grade only to bail at curtain because I had not prepared anything. With no understanding of performance outside of choir class, where the songs are given to you and rehearsed in class, I foolishly believed I could show up and just do something. Natalie Last Name Forgotten took ballet, and she performed before me at the talent show. 

        And I did not.

        First lesson in rehearsing, planning and commitment. And also realized I was on my own, nobody was going to help me or enroll me in ballet or piano. I have vague memories of asking but those additional classes cost money. The closest I came was a "Tumbling and Trampoline" class at the rec center, where I epically failed at executing a simple cartwheel. In third grade, however, my great good friend Debbie Rice and I did short skits for Mr. Weisheit's class. He was a great Oak tree hippie of a man who fostered our creative needs.

        I got married because Jim asked, and I didn't know what else to do. I loved him, and he seemed like he had a plan for his life. I loved theatre in high school, but the idea of New York scared the crap out of me. I'm not a great wife---I don't cook, I'm not particularly sexy or can even stand to be touched and I hate sports. Because of his influence, I went to college, kept myself employed and learned what support actually is.  Like Forrest, that's all I have to say about that.

        I never wanted children. I was quite vocal about this fact. I had not had a nurturing childhood so to me, kids were something you had because you were supposed to, and the baseline was to raise them by guilt and keep them alive. I had no interest in repeating a family cyclecurse. But Jim pushed the issue a bit, and I relented. I am not a great mom. Many of my poor decisions were based on listening to voice of my own mother in my head because I have no idea how to parent. I have a lot of regrets, and no feeling of success. My children are amazing despite how I raised them.

       I started teaching because I failed at theatre. Since "Those who can't do, teach" is a common quote I have heard, it seemed a logical progression to follow. I gave up time with my family, missed warning signs with my children's mental health and flirted with alcoholism in the name of running a strong department. Whether I was successful is highly subjective, and depends on who you ask. I failed first at Littleton, run out because I could not keep my mouth shut about the inequitable and racist choices the principal was making, only to fail again at Hinkley after four years through Covid. I am now at Kennedy, building a baseline for the next person to succeed. 

      Proofreading these 557 words, I realize I could have written one word a thousand times and had the same impact: failure.

      I bet if I had done this at 18 it would have been infinitely more positive, had more passion or fire. Anger. Frustration. Something. Anything. I identified with Bender in Breakfast Club,even though I was likely more Allison in hiding myself in fear. I did such an impressive job, I cannot even answer the question "Who do you think you are?"

      Sigh.