I have not mentioned this, but before I left for CO I did a job for my rental management company client and it was a monster.
The elderly tenant had died and his ex wife moved into the home and brought her boyfriend with her. They didn’t pay any rent for 4 months, not answering letters or calls and by the time that the RMC found out what was happening it took time to evict them.
They had ransacked the house, stuff was literally strewn everywhere. My client tells me that the ex thought he had left a life insurance policy and money in the house…turns out he had neither but his cremation and service were paid for.
The “family” was given 2 weeks (after the eviction) to clear the house of belongings and keepsakes.
They didn’t take photo albums, awards the man had won or anything personal he owned it seemed. It was just flung about the house and this man’s entire life was laying in this old home for me to clean up and haul off.
It took 4 dump trailer loads to get it all. I felt horrible about disposing of his stuff like this but what else could I do?
I gave a few things to people who could use them, I always try to pay it forward when I can. Most however was taken to the landfill and discarded.
Then, in the last room on the last load, we found his ashes, in a cardboard box, in a corner of the bedroom closet. My sister was helping me and she gasped when she realized what she had discovered.
I can’t describe how I felt that of the many different photos of children, nephews, nieces and siblings that no one had taken his remains. My sister and I cried. How can family fling a man’s possessions all over and rifle through his things looking for money but just leave him in a closet?
I called the RMC and was informed there was no information on the family. I decided that if “family” would not, I would do right by this man.
Today I brought Mr. Woodard to my retreat home in the Smokies and I buried him beneath one of my apple trees. I cried, I spoke to him and explained that while I was not his family, I cared. I told him that I didn’t know him, or what kind of man he was but that it didn’t matter, I was doing what I knew to be right.
I hope that one day I will meet Mr Woodard. I hope he likes it here among these mountains and oaks. Each year when the apples grow…I will remember his name.
The elderly tenant had died and his ex wife moved into the home and brought her boyfriend with her. They didn’t pay any rent for 4 months, not answering letters or calls and by the time that the RMC found out what was happening it took time to evict them.
They had ransacked the house, stuff was literally strewn everywhere. My client tells me that the ex thought he had left a life insurance policy and money in the house…turns out he had neither but his cremation and service were paid for.
The “family” was given 2 weeks (after the eviction) to clear the house of belongings and keepsakes.
They didn’t take photo albums, awards the man had won or anything personal he owned it seemed. It was just flung about the house and this man’s entire life was laying in this old home for me to clean up and haul off.
It took 4 dump trailer loads to get it all. I felt horrible about disposing of his stuff like this but what else could I do?
I gave a few things to people who could use them, I always try to pay it forward when I can. Most however was taken to the landfill and discarded.
Then, in the last room on the last load, we found his ashes, in a cardboard box, in a corner of the bedroom closet. My sister was helping me and she gasped when she realized what she had discovered.
I can’t describe how I felt that of the many different photos of children, nephews, nieces and siblings that no one had taken his remains. My sister and I cried. How can family fling a man’s possessions all over and rifle through his things looking for money but just leave him in a closet?
I called the RMC and was informed there was no information on the family. I decided that if “family” would not, I would do right by this man.
Today I brought Mr. Woodard to my retreat home in the Smokies and I buried him beneath one of my apple trees. I cried, I spoke to him and explained that while I was not his family, I cared. I told him that I didn’t know him, or what kind of man he was but that it didn’t matter, I was doing what I knew to be right.
I hope that one day I will meet Mr Woodard. I hope he likes it here among these mountains and oaks. Each year when the apples grow…I will remember his name.
