Visiting with my parents' the other day, my dad revealed that a journal he had written in every day from the time he was 12 until he was 18 was locked in a trunk in the attic, and that he intended to burn it at the next opportunity. "It was never intended to be read," he insisted.
I felt it would be such an awful waste to burn a record like that, but I also could understand if he really didn't want anyone who knew him to read it. So I thought of a compromise: what if he let me hold it in trust, promising never to read it, to be passed down to grandkids, or my sisters' and my grandkids?
My dad considered this possibility, even coming up with a date. "So no one will open it until, let's say, 2050. You'll be dead by then, right?"
Ouch. Ok, so my dad has always, and without any emotion, talked about his own passing and how do divy up the estate and things along those lines. It makes all of his children (but not his wife, I've noticed!) cringe. It's awful and we hate it. I suppose, however, that his pragmatic and unemotional approach to most things in life extends also to those things associated with death. Even mine (as long as it was a natural death in old age). He concluded that I may not be dead by 2050, so we'd better put the open date at 2077. I couldn't make it to 100, right?