I, Mitchell Ryan Magnuson, born February 2d, 1959 in The city of Joplin, Jasper County Missouri, declare this Document to be my last will and testament; there being no others.
Being of sound mind and unbelievably unsound body do herein state:
1. My attorney, Norman Atchison, is the executor of this will. He shall serve without bond and has discretion in the execution of this will.
2. I require of my executor that he arrange for my burial at the Grainger, Kansas Cemetery. Norm, I'd like a plot near the old cedars, something overlooking the lake if you can swing it. Pine coffin is fine. See if you can find a piper to play "Amazing Grace." Have the preacher read the 73rd Psalm and say a prayer. Oh, and Norm, I want a Cadillac Hearse; I don't want to go to my final resting place in an SUV, some damn Chevy Suburban out- fitted to carry the dead. No sir. Cadillac. Black.
3. All my earthly possessions I give to Ms. Angela Holbrooke of Kansas City, Missouri, on the following conditions:
a. When Angela returns to the States, after she has had time to deal with her grief, if any - just joking, my lover - she is to visit my grave site alone.
b. Norman will arrange for her to be alone and for final instructions to be delivered to her on that day. She is to follow the instructions in the final letter.
c. Upon completion of these two requirements, Norman is to deliver my estate to her less his fees and expenses and whatever encumbrances that the State and Federal Government attaches. Oh, and by the way, perdition to the IRS.
4. I realize that holographic wills are likely not legal in the state of Kansas, I don't know. But to the probate court judge that will probate this will, I declare that at the time of this writing I know that I shall die probably before the ambulance reaches me and this is all the time I have. I declare to the court that there is no ambiguity in my last wishes. Norman Atchison, Esquire, despite his profession, has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Angela Holbrooke has been my lover, my concubine and I suspect, under the laws of the State, my common law wife for the last 10 years. My estate, such as it is, is neither small nor overwhelmingly large; just a guess, but in round figures, I'm probably worth about a half million. Norman can figure it out.
By My Hand, 10:12 PM CDT, This the last day of July, MMII, anno domini In my residence in Mission, Johnson County Kansas.
* * * * *
"It's what's called a holographic will. He wrote it in his own hand with no witnesses. It was beside him when they found him.
"Mitch was right. Kansas doesn't recognize holographic wills but I think I can get this one probated anyway due to the circumstances - you are, by virtue of 10 years of cohabitation, his common law wife."
She read and re-read the paper in her hands; the attorney's voice was a hollow echo in the back of her head.
When Norman Atchison saw tears dripping on the page, smearing the ink, he quickly but gently removed the will from her hands and sat it on his desk.
He held her as she sobbed.
* * * * *
The funeral was a simple graveside service. The last remains of Mitchell Ryan Magnuson arrived in a 1974 black Cadillac hearse, mint condition.
The stained pine casket rested above the open grave.
The sky was dark purple in the southwest with an approaching late summer Kansas thunderstorm.
In attendance, the old preacher from the town, Norman Atchison, a few of Mitchell's closest friends, the sexton and a 69 year old Scottish bagpipe player in full regalia who played not only "Amazing Grace" but "Scotland the Brave."
Norman smiled when the piper broke into "Scotland the Brave." The old Scotsman was strutting his stuff. Mitchell would have been proud to be at his own funeral. Norman just wished that Angela was here.
Angela Holbrooke was an anthropology professor doing work somewhere in rural China. It would take the U.S. Embassy the better part of three weeks to find her and get her on a plane back to the States.
Her lover had died of a massive heart attack and did indeed die before the ambulance arrived.
Norman was the last one to leave the grave, save for the sexton waiting to complete the burial process. He smiled again, looked at the dark purple threatening skies, the lake about a mile across and below from the cemetery and the old cedar trees on the ridge of the knoll that was the Grainger Cemetery.
He touched the casket, "Rest in peace my friend. I got you a nice place here. You come back and haunt me and I'll get the Ghostbusters on your ass."
He handed the sexton an envelop to be given to Angela whenever she arrived.
* * * * *
It was mid September before Angela could bring herself to drive the 100 miles south to the rural cemetery. She fought back tears half the trip and then got exceedingly angry the other half.
They had argued about this; where he would be buried when he died. He insisted upon being in this little rural cemetery. She wanted a nice "quiet" plot in the city. They had argued about it the night before she left for China and because of that argument she slept alone in their bed and he slept on the sofa. Damn him and his bullheadedness! Damn him! She didn't expect him to die any time soon but then, who does expect their loved one to die suddenly.
She pulled into the cemetery about 6 PM. She was met at the gate by the sexton who handed her an envelope and then he left, locking the gate behind him and giving her the key. He pointed across to the town, "You can drop the key off at the Quiky Mart, 'cross the way. Oh, I'm sorry, go to the top of the ridge, along those old cedar trees, he's there in that row. Nice place."
She stood before his tombstone, kicked dirt on it and cursed. She held her hand to her forehead and fought back tears then she tore open the envelope.
My dearest Angela,
Rotten luck, eh? You somewhere half way round the world and me, lying on the couch, this 1000-ton weight on my chest. Don't think the ambulance is going to make it - at least I hope not, not that I want to die and leave you alone, but you know I wouldn't want all that crap in the hospital keeping me alive.
