Lockport Union-Sun & Journal — Last week I wrote about traveling to my hometown, Ogdensburg, N.Y., where my wife and I have a modest spot along the St. Lawrence River. We own a camp/cottage on property that my wife inherited. Or, more correctly, is in the process of inheriting.
She (my wife) and her eight siblings have been trying to pound out an agreement — equitable to all — to divide the family-owned property since the “Old Testament” was simply called “The Testament” and its authors were available to sign copies of the book.
The litigation and such has been dragging on because there is the laborious task of finalizing any arrangement that is agreed upon. That has been done several times. Several fruitless times, if I may emphasize. That’s because after all the work is done, there’s always someone who has the habit of changing her mind regardless how disconcerting that is to the majority.
When my brother, Tim, and I were young we would build a hockey rink every winter. It wasn’t easy to get the surface smooth. No matter how hard you tried there were always holes in the ice. And when you skated over them, you’d fall hard. They were literal pains in the butt. Building that rink was a great lesson in life. There are parallels.
No matter how hard you try to smooth over the speed-bumps in everyday life, there’s always some ice-hole out there just waiting to trip you up.
But I digress. (A common feature of this column.)
I have three of the greatest brothers-in-law in the world. I couldn’t ask for better. (If John, Joe and Bill could please stand and/or raise their hands so the reading audience can see you! Thank you. That’s not to slight some great sisters-in-law.)