When a parent passes, especially the last one, the list of things to be handled is long, unexpected, and tortuous. When Mom passed, most of the efforts were helping Dad through the process. Sure, there were a few things to dispose of, but Pops stayed in the house they’d lived in since the year I graduated high school. The transition was easier because there was so much less to deal with.

When Pops passed in March of last year, there was a laundry list of things to deal with. It became a list of priorities, each paved with tough choices and mixed emotions. Selling off everything in the house, most of which meant a lot to him, but apparently little to anyone else, was tough. “Nobody wants old brown furniture anymore,” the estate sale team warned me. Sure enough. The antiques my folks had spent a lifetime collecting didn’t sell. I had to beg a nonprofit to come get them for nothing.

The act of going through every closet, every drawer, every nook and cranny felt like a violation, something I had no business doing. But.of course, I did. All of a sudden, it was my business. I had to close out the estate. Seeing strangers walk out the front door with things I had grown up with was surreal. Yet, I didn’t have a need or the room for them. I envied my sister living out of town and not having to deal with it. It was easier going to the cemetery for the first time than it was vacuuming Pop’s house and locking the front door for the last time, leaving the keys for the realtor.

The last task, the one I’d been putting off longest, was going to Prairie View State Bank to clean out the safe deposit box. Getting the notice I was about to be charged for another year of rental, I couldn’t put it off. I dreaded opening my dad’s ‘treasure chest’ and rifling through the contents. Once in the tiny private room just off the vault area, I opened the box with apprehension, not having a single clue just what he and my mother might have stored in there all those many years. Maybe I’d find out I was actually adopted, something my sister had whispered in my ear for decades. Maybe there was some Berkshire Hathaway stock certificates that’d been inside since the 60s that Pops had forgotten he’d ever purchased, or just wanted to be the biggest, best surprise of all time.

So, with a certain level of apprehension, a small sense of excitement, and more than anything a strong desire to just get it over with, I made my way to the bank. The young banker wearing a polo shirt and khakis led me into a small room after watching me open the locked door and pull out the massive steel box. He showed me to a small private room with a tiny Formica desk while I wondered how long it had been since bankers quit wearing suits. He shut the door behind him as he left me alone with the box full of mystery. With a deep breath, I opened the box and looked inside. No Berkshire Hathaway stock certificates, unfortunately. I mean, those would have been on the very top, right? No adoption papers either, so I guess it could be considered a win. What was inside inside were all the receipts for every one of the expensive antiques I had just begged someone to take for free. Every paystub for both parents dating back to the 50s. Dozens of Susan B. Anthony dollars, each wrapped in plastic to make sure they held their value. (Sure enough, each one was still worth a dollar.) 

Then I came across a yellowed envelope containing a letter from the Pecos County District Attorney’s office, addressed to my mother and dated December 12, 1963.

I unfolded it carefully, trying to remember how long it had been since I’d held a hand-typed letter, afraid it was going to fall apart in my hand. My mind raced. Based on the date, was dear ol’ Mom wanted for questioning in the Kennedy Assassination that had taken place just two weeks earlier? Was she in the sewing circle with Marina Oswald? Was she in Dealy Plaza that morning, the famous “Umbrella Woman” never fully identified? This could be bigger than not being adopted. If there was other, non-public information held in the box, as well, it could even be worth more the the Berkshire stock.

“We regret to inform you,” it stated, “the check you wrote to the Piggy Wiggly in the amount of $3.68 on November 19, 1962 has been returned due to insufficient funds. A warrant for your arrest will be issued if this matter is not cleared up within the next ten days.” Mom was a hardened criminal and I never even knew it, and not because of her part in a history-changing event. She passed a hot check at The Pig. If I had been privy to that information while still a youth, so many arguments would have been so different.

Underneath the correspondence from the DA was the sales contract from Frontier Ford for the 1967 Ford Mustang Pops purchased in January of ‘67. Apparently my folks’ financial situation had changed by then, without Mom even doing time. They were able to finance a brand new Ford Mustang despite her criminal record.

What I didn’t understand, is why he would have kept only that particular contract. He’d bought a dozen cars prior to the Mustang, probably two dozen after that. Maybe more. What was it about the ’67 Mustang that was worth saving the memory? He only kept it two years, the lack of air conditioning making it unbearable in the summer months, once we’d moved to Fort Stockton. By then, Mother Nature had conspired with the salted roads of Minnesota to rust out the rocker panels of both front fenders, anyway. A man of reasonable faith, he could never resolve how a loving God allowed June, July, and August in Texas to take place, but willfully traded for a Pontiac Catalina with air conditioning. But then, it turned out he’d married a criminal, so I’m sure he struggled with many questions before shuffling off this mortal coil.

I was with him when he bought the Mustang. Still remember the turn signal indicators in the hood scoops, even though I can’t remember where I put my keys an hour ago. Loved the car as a kid, but never knew it meant that much to him. Why didn’t he just have air conditioning installed in it instead of trading it in on a Pontiac? So many questions.

Those two documents alone were worth more than anything else in the box. Mom’s threatened arrest and Dad’s Mustang contract. I almost left the bag of Susan B. Anthonys laying on the counter as I pondered the possibilities and headed back home.