Because my wife knows she doesn’t need to buy me anything when she travels, I wasn’t anticipating any gift(s) when she returned from New York recently. But even if I had been expecting something, it wouldn’t have been what she brought: An ancient-looking, yellow envelope she got from my cousin Amy and her husband Jim, who she saw on the trip.
Inside the package was a reasonably legible, two-page letter, along with 16 smaller, sealed envelopes.
Twenty-six years ago, I decided to join the Peace Corps. That involved both forfeiting the prestige of coaching two sub-varsity sports at the high school where I also served as a special education tutor and giving up handsome weekly paychecks of nearly $200 (before taxes). But I was young and idealistic, and trying to help alleviate poverty and suffering in a Third World nation seemed like a good idea at the time.
During the application process, I learned that bad things occasionally happen to Peace Corps volunteers. Two of them had expired in Guatemala shortly before I was assigned there, and even though each had died as a direct result of trying something foolish (attempting to score drugs at 3 a.m. in one case, a miscalculation involving autoerotic asphyxiation in the other), there was actually a small bit of risk involved.
That’s why I decided to make clear what I wanted done in the unlikely but possible event of my own premature demise. Toward that end, I wrote brief notes to 16 important people in my life, addressed and sealed each one, and stuck them in a 9-by-12-inch yellow envelope, which I left with the folks who were kind enough to let me live with them at the time: Jim and Amy.
I also tucked a letter inside for Jim, which was to be opened only in the event of my untimely death. It contained explicit instructions regarding the dispersal of my worldly goods, and also very specific directions concerning the accessing and distribution of the funds in my modest bank account.
I had long since forgotten about that two-page handwritten missive, which was dated June 23, 1987.
Until my wife brought it home two weeks ago.
That 26-year-old document now constitutes a time capsule, which thanks to a combination of good health and good luck I’m still around to enjoy reading. The letter designated my siblings and cousins as official divider-uppers of all my possessions, a chore I knew they’d perform with dispatch and without conflict. I had chosen four specific friends to receive my collection of sports books and old baseball cards. I also figured out, to the penny, how to distribute the four-digit sum of money I had accumulated in my savings account. It was to be divided 16 ways, and in various amounts. And in appreciation for doing all that grunt work, I had designated Jim and Amy to be the recipients of my Peace Corps insurance policy, instructing them to take whatever the grand sum was and, “”¦ pay off part of the mortgage, take a trip, whatever ”¦ you deserve it.”
I have no doubt my relatives would have appropriately and expediently handled my affairs had I succumbed to food poisoning, an auto accident, malaria, a snake bite, or any other unavoidable tragedy while in the Peace Corps. The odds of my not returning in one piece were, in retrospect, probably pretty low, particularly since I had promised myself I wouldn’t try purchasing drugs at 3 a.m. or dabbling in any autoerotic experiments while I was in Guatemala. Since I ultimately returned from Central America in one reasonably healthy piece, no one will ever know for sure how things would have gone following my premature expiration, but that’s OK with everyone involved, particularly me.
Seeing what I had written to my cousin 26 years ago was a sweet trip down Memory Lane. I couldn’t wait to open the 16 individual notes addressed to the people I considered special enough to write to 26 years ago on the off-chance I might not see them again.
Then I reconsidered. As far as I know, everyone I wrote to (four college pals, three boyhood chums, three ex-students, two cousins and four ex-colleagues) is still alive, although there are at least eight of them I haven’t seen in at least two decades.
Ultimately, I decided not to open those envelopes. Instead I’m going to try to track down the intended recipients and send them their notes now, with an explanation. If each message gets to an addressee who receives half the charge out of reading it that I got out of seeing what I had written to my cousins more than a quarter-century ago, it’ll be well worth the effort.
— Next week, Andy Youngwill return to begin his 12th year of teaching English at a local high school.
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