Trevor, You've surely married into my wife's family also. Tinkerer, I've misled you. You don't want to be my neighbor. I won't loan my chainsaw, weed eater, & probably not my tractor. Nothing I have is for sale. Last time I sold something I grieved for two years. I told my wife of these conversations. She said to inform you all that she has three things on speed dial on her phone. They are: The insurance man, the undertaker, and the scrap metal dealer. I know what she has planned. At the foot of our driveway I own two cemetaries. I plan to be in the newer one. In a hole dug with the auger on the back of my tractor. My ashes will be in a half gallon Jack Daniel whiskey bottle which is downstairs in the kitchen cabinet. Guests will have to empty it first. My wife will have friends out on the day she plans to drop me in the post hole. At the same time the scrap metal buyer will be hauling loads out of the driveway. She'll at least want my cold gray ashes, sans two gold crowns, to witness the dispersal of my life's collection. After her friends have left she'll go behind one of the out-buildings where there is a couple of old commodes. She will place it over the freshly dug hole in the cemetary as my tombstone. She'll visit with me any time the need
arises. In a metal waterproof box, beside the tombstone there will be my collection of hot rod magazines which start in 1956. She'll peruse through them & wonder all the time what I saw in them that made me take so much time in the bathroom. Then she'll use them one last time. My only joy will be knowing that Hot Rod was always printed on slick paper. It's nice, calming, and comforting to know that I have provided for my wife & her future happiness. Packratc