Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. We're back. It was a very quick
trip. We spent less than 6 hours in Detroit, having arrived
at Margrit's apartment house at 11:30 a.m. on Thursday, 
by 5 p.m. we were on our way home, the minivan packed with
boxes to within 12 inches of the ceiling, leaving just enough
space that a look into the rear-view mirror would show me the
monster truck preparing to push us off the road. We took the
Turnpike across the Ohio plains into the Pennsylvania darkness,
finally giving up at 11 p.m. in Clarion PA, at a "Quality Inn"
close to Interstate 80. Finding the driveway was somewhat of a
challenge; the access road was under construction, with poorly
marked lane closings and impromptu barriers, no illumination,
no signs, as if only the convenience of the natives who were
familiar with the construction mattered.

The Quality Inn turned out to be a truck stop. The parking lot
jammed with long trailers, and on the ground floor, abutting
the lobby an impressive fitness emporium with three very large
exercise machines, intended I suppose to satisfy the needs
of truckers who spend their days encapsulated in the enormous
rigs that they pilot across the landscape. Bare concrete inside-
stairs with metal balusters led to a long dimly lit second floor
hallway, such as always reminds me of the access corridor to
rows of prison cells. Our room for the night was comfortable
enough, styled with the cheap elegance of newly built motels.
Having spent five hours lifting boxes of books onto a dolly,
rolling them through the parking lot, then stacking them into
the van, it didn't take long for me to capitulate to the nightly
dress rehearsal of death.

In the morning there was a sumptuous, free "Continental breakfast"
to satisfy the appetites of truckers. Margaret and I garnered our
share. I picked up the overnight luggage, and as I approached the car,
I saw that the right rear tire was almost flat. No, the very obese
dark-haired woman who womanned the front desk could think of no
local establishment from which one might summon a mechanic to
change and repair or possibly replace the tire. Ordinarily I would
have taken pride in a Do-It-Yourself tire change, but to get access
to the jack, and especially to the spare tire, I would have had
to unpack at least part of the load, not once, but twice, first for
the initial tire change, then for extracting the damaged tire for
repair. A performance for which I had no stomach. There was however
a maintenance man with a portable compressor who would inflate the
tire, and if we were lucky we could make it the quarter mile across
town to the Walmart tire center. And we did.

At Walmart we were greeted by a sprightly uniformed automobile
receptionist, a young woman agile with a hand held computer which
recorded make, model, mileage, and even the Vehicle Identification
Number of our disreputable looking minivan. With an obvious sense
of humor, she seemed to enjoy her work. You'd be surprised, she said,
how many flat tires I get from that motel. What did you do wrong? Did
you complain to them that the bed wasn't clean or the coffee was cold?
A mechanic drove the car into a large workshop with two lanes,
one for oil change, the other for tire maintenance. From the outside
of a low chain-link fence, I watched the progress of the repair.
Everything was planned, everything programmed for optimum efficiency,
including, of course, the employees. They were mere automobile doctors,
but I saw them as prototypes of physicians of all kinds, implementers
of computer programs that controlled their diagnostic thoughts and
prescribed their therapeutic efforts. I wondered how, if I had it to
do over again, I would preserve my spontaneity and sanity. Relieved
that I had had my turn, I arrived at no conclusions. 

The repair didn't take long. It was only a thin nail that had
punctured the tire; the wound was easily plugged. The fee,
a mere $10 plus 50 cents tax. In Cambridge MA, one couldn't
even shake hands with a mechanic for that kind of money.
Thanks to Walmart, we were soon on our way, through mountainous
landscapes covered with gleaming expanses of snow of varying
depths. The highway itself, however, was completely dry. At 
Hazleton, Interstate 80 interstects Interstate 81, our usual
route from Virginia. We were now on a road every turn of which
was familiar. As night began to fall, we crossed the Hudson
at Newburgh; then drove north on the unlit Taconic State Parkway,
constantly being passed by impatient wealthy denizens of New York
City, eager to get to their country houses for the weekend, and
contemptuous of speed limits that are essentially unenforceable
in the dark.

We ourselves arrived in Belmont at 11 p.m. There I was confronted
with a letter from Concentra Financial Services of Saskatoon,
Sasketchewan, who informed me that Margrit's Registered Retirement
Income Fund had a value at the date of death of $9606.84.
She had named Harold Atkinson, the patriarch of the anti-family
to which she had defected, as beneficiary. Unfortunately Harold,
who had been a mathematics professor at the University of Windsor
had predeceased Margrit by five years.  He had died on December 23,
2004.  Now the assets she had meant to leave to him become part of
her probate estate, over which I expect to have some degree of
control.  Concentra also reported that distributions of $1080 were
processed subsequent to Margrit's death. Their letter of condolence
concluded: "Please forward a cheque in the amount of $1080 to the
Estate Payout Unit at your earliest convenience."

In addition to Concentra Financial's condolences, there was a
grumpy letter from Kimberly Saillant, to which I started, soon after
we returned, to draft a reply that is intended to be self-explanatory.
I finished yesterday morning. Tomorrow early, I'll take the bus
and the subway to the John Adams Courthouse and offer seven copies
to the Appeals Court clerk. If you're interested in what I wrote,
you can find it at:
http://home.earthlink.net/~jochenmeyer/litigation/20100306_letter.pr

You mentioned your concern about David's not having a will. I don't
know if my comments are of any value. If he and Manuela aren't legally
married, and he wants to leave probate assets for her, then a will is
indispensable. On the other hand, assets held jointly with right of
survivorship, and bank or brokerage accounts with a designated beneficiary
are much less expensive to settle at death and take precedence over
bequests in a will. In my own estate planning, I have relied almost
entirely on inter-vivos trusts, with the primary beneficary as trustee
or co-trustee even during the lifetime of the owner. My sister was very
cooperative in placing the half-interest of my parents' estate which
she inherited, the house in Konnarock and substantial personal property,
into trusts of which Klemens and I are co-trustees. The settlement of
the trust portion of her estate now requires nothing more than a change
in the taxpayer identification number. Given the feckless incompetence of
Margrit's lawyer, without the trusts, settlement of her estate would have
been a nightmare. You should know, incidentally, that holographic wills,
i.e unwitnessed wills entirely in the handwriting of the testator, are
legal in Kentucky. In Ohio, they are not. Obviously, I'm a believer in
Do-It-Yourself lawyering. Remember the Home Depot motto: You can do
it, we can help.

Within the next two weeks, Margaret and I will make a second, and I
hope, final trip to Detroit. This time we may indeed return by way
of Konnarock, not, obviously to save mileage, but to make it possible
for me to qualify as administrator of Margrit's estate. I'll keep you
informed of our everchanging plans. I wish you an Ned a happy week with
David and Manuela.

Jochen