When I’m dead, I want my old truck donated to science. It has hundreds of thousands of miles on it. Every time I take the ratty thing to the mechanic, he says something like, “I don’t know how this thing keeps going, man.”
Maybe, scientists can figure out the secret, then bottle it up and sell it.
Also: I’d like to give all my money—every cent of it—to the children’s choir for at-risk teens. Most of them come from broken homes that make my life look like Windsor Palace.
I once drove three hours to see those kids perform at a high school in Alabama. I was one of twenty in the audience. Those children danced and sang for two hours until their clothes were sweaty.
For the life of me, I don’t know what they have to be so happy about. Whatever it is, they deserve more of it.
Take my house and give it to a worthy cause. Maybe a place for abused women. If you put bunks in each room, you can sleep roughly sixteen. I’ve done the math. You’re going to need a bigger kitchen.
And sixteen more bathrooms.
I’d like my Superman statue to go to my sister, since she picked it out. I’d like my accordions to go to any fool dumb enough to want to play accordion. Give my fishing rods to a boy who doesn’t have a daddy—unless you plan on taking him fishing yourself, in which event: go ahead and split them. Give my piano to Mama.
Give my coonhound, Ellie Mae, to someone sad. This dog knows how to revive them. She’s done it a hundred times.
In a safe deposit box, I have a bunch of letters, written to folks who’ve done me wrong—and to people who I’ve done wronger. I want them passed out. And with each of these letters there comes a Snicker’s bar. It’s easier to talk about hard stuff while eating a Snicker’s.
If the box is empty, that means I worked up enough courage to send out these letters before dying.
In that case, good for me.
Take the rest of my junk and burn it. My tools, my camping gear, my clothes, my boat, my coffeemaker, my computer, my beer-fridge, my books, old photographs. I want everything in a pretty bonfire. Make it a good one. Because none of it is worth much where I’m going, anyway.
Come to think of it. None of it was even worth much down here. Not compared to people.
Let me know what the scientists say about my truck.