Last will sometimes last laugh

Divvying up can be dicey

In my line of work, I deal with the subject of death on a daily basis, just like Perry Mason and Ben Matlock. Year after year, they would draw out the real killer on the witness stand to the delight or dismay of the viewing audience, all while wearing an impeccably pressed suit. Year after year, I draw up last wills and testaments to dole out Beanie Babies and grandma’s china to the delight or dismay of heirs left behind, all while wearing a slightly disheveled blouse and dime store heels. The similarities are uncanny.

And just like on television, most of the drama goes as you’d expect, with the majority of folks happily leaving everything to their spouse or kids. But there are others who make you understand why Jessica Fletcher had so many murders to write about in the idyllic yet homicide-prone town of Cabot Cove.

“See here, I love my son, but he hasn’t been the same since he married that harlot. She spends ever’ last nickel my boy makes, and I’ll turn in my grave like a rotisserie chicken before I let that woman spend a dime of MY money!”

“My kid ain’t been sober since Reagan was elected. Have him tested. If he’s clean, he can have the Corning Pickle Company stock and the grandfather clock.”

“We got seven kids. I got three by Cletus and Jethro, and my husband’s got one each with Earline and Gertrude, and then we got two that are actually the neighbor’s but we tend to ‘em. Now, I want everything of mine to go to my ex, Bobby Joe.”

“I have 87 Snowbabies. Do you know about Snowbabies? They’re porcelain figurines, and they’re precious. I have 87 of them, did I tell you that? Here are pictures of each. I want this one to go to my granddaughter and this one to go to my cousin, Edna, and this one …”

“When I die, I want my ashes put in an urn with my picture on it, and I want you to set it on my wife’s nightstand. That way, every time her future husband turns her way in bed, he’ll see my face looking over her shoulder.”

“I want all my pets euthanized when I die because no one will care for them the way I do. When I die, they die – even the goldfish. You mix their ashes with mine and bury us together.”

I wish I were kidding. This may explain why a lot of lawyers drink, or seek jobs at Wendy’s, or think about their own demise in a different light. I leave home and often wonder what folks will say about my house if I don’t make it back alive. (Why is there lip liner in her freezer and books in her dishwasher?)

Eh, let them wonder. They’d figure it out eventually. I hear where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Lisa Kelley-Gibbs is a Southern storyteller,lawyer and country gal living a simple urban life in downtown Bentonville. Email her at Lisa@ArkansasAtty.com.