"You don't really know someone until you've shared an inheritance with them." This ominous quote, from a former acquaintance (of the extreme negative type) has been ringing in my head of late.

"Not MY family," I protest silently, or even verbally,
to anyone who will listen.

Sadly, it's true. When your last parent dies, personality traits can burst out of your grown siblings like snakes from a duffel bag.

My father knew it was true. "You don't know what you're in for," he would chuckle at my brother, after naming Gary Executor. Dad had lived through it with his sisters, back in 1976 when his father followed his mother in passing. My dad, being the male child and the eldest, was also Executor of his parents' modest estate. Most of the inheritance consisted of memorable knick-knacks and a few pieces of nice furniture. Evidently, two of his sisters had their eye on the family's dining room table. It was a nice table. I remember distinctly it had claw feet, like lions feet to me; I admired them as I played underneath it at holiday dinners.

Anyway, my two aunts couldn't agree on which of them should receive the table and had some words over the issue. My father decided to take matters into his own hands and put the table up for auction with the rest of the household goods. Someone from out of town outbid the sisters and carted off their family heirloom.

For years, my sisters and I lived in fear that our father would require us to purchase ALL of the household goods from an auctioneer in order to "inherit" any of our parents' belongings. This was finally put to rest after our mother's death when Dad told us that Gary would be Executor, and that things would be dispersed agreeably amongst ourselves, or by the flip of a coin. We all felt this rule to be fair, but exclusive of those items which had already been designated. For example, my oldest sister and I had written names on the backs of paintings that my mother wanted to go to us four children.

But Gary, my brother, had developed some trepidation in the past five years as he visited my father regularly and they discussed Dad's final wishes. I can just hear Dad, with his gleeful chuckle, "Oh, you don't know what your sisters are going to put you through." So, shortly after Dad died, Gary called each of his sisters (there are three of us; I'm the baby) and asked us to send him a list of those items from the house that we would like to have. If any of us wanted the same thing, Gary would ask us to come to a decision or would use the flip of a coin to determine which one inherited the disputed item. So, just send him the list and he would UPS the items to us and then he'd sell the house.

But, wait...

We hadn't gotten together yet, as a family, to mourn our father's death. Granted, Dad didn't want a funeral. Yet the three of us daughters wanted and needed to return to our childhood home to say good-bye to the physical surroundings and to look at the items in the house the way they were when Dad died. The way they had been the last time we had visited.

I wanted to smell the smells of my home, to see the view from my bedroom. I wanted -- no, I really needed -- to say good-bye to my parents' essence and my childhood.

Gary 's idea was practical and pragmatic. But his plan would not meet the emotional needs of his sisters.

After a brief tug-of-war regarding dates and details, my siblings and I spent two-and-a-half days together sorting through the stuff that was our lives for many years.

These trips to the homestead for the last time can bring out the worst in people. "I could tell you horror stories," lamented Betty Kime, a liquidator here in Toledo who helps families sell their belongings. "Families who got along famously have literally come to blows over the most stupid stuff -- and it's just stuff!" says Betty.

Recently, I have had two clients move out of their homes into apartments, and had to help them decide what to take and what to give away and what to sell. These decisions are agonizing, and can take an emotional and physical toll on the person making them. In both cases, relatives literally "came out of the woodwork" to claim items of furniture, coin collections, family heirlooms. The liquidators have asked me not to call them any more -- until the families have been through the house, at least. What started out as a large quantity of sellable items can end up a pile of leftover junk, which doesn't help the person who just moved out and needed to glean some revenue from the furniture and other items that could have been sold.

One friend of mine told me she had all of her parents' belongings in her basement for the longest time until all of the relatives could gather at one time. They each took a turn picking out one item at a time until everything was gone. The next request my friend had was that they now remove the items from her basement. "This is not a self-storage unit!" she exclaimed. Evidently, no one argued over anything, which was fortunate.

So, my siblings and I gathered in Southeast Kansas at the place where I grew up. The first day we dealt with the most important things. My father had given several of my mother's paintings to the local art gallery, and my sisters and I had to negotiate with them to retrieve what was rightfully ours. We reached an agreed price and arrived at the art gallery, only to discover that several of our pieces were not present. A quick tour of the tiny gallery revealed my mother's precious artwork stuffed between other articles in the back room.

That afternoon, we gathered around my parents' kitchen table and Gary brought out the jewelry box Dad had put into his safe deposit box after Mother died. There, in front of us, in living color, was the sum total of my mother's estate. Her platinum wedding set. Mother had once told me that she wanted my sister, Bette, to have one of the rings, and for me to have the other. Bette protested, "I don't think the set should be split up," she explained. "Let's share it," was her solution. "I'll keep it for five years then give it to you to wear for five years." I thought that was a workable solution. We assured our other siblings that the rings would not travel by freight, but be hand-delivered during a visit with one another. I was comfortable with that.

The rest of the jewelry was divided piece by piece, kind of like my friend's family did. We each took a turn picking a piece and were very pleased with our ability to compromise.

Then came the diamond necklace. Mother had picked it out in the 1980s when she came into a small inheritance of her own. It was a beautiful solitaire teardrop of several carats and appraised at several thousands of dollars. Dad had talked to me about it right after Mother died in 2000. "Bette tells me that Mother wanted you to have her diamond necklace," he said. I was surprised; I hadn't heard that before. "It's a rather pricey piece," he went on. "Would you think it would be more fair to put the piece into the estate for sale so you all could divide the asset?" he asked. I thought about it for less than a minute and told him, "Whatever you think is fair, Dad." He put it into the safe deposit box and said nothing about it again.

For the past five years, I have to admit, that the diamond necklace had been calling to me. I would wear it with such pride, I thought, as a symbol of my mother's love and her independence at being able to purchase such a thing with her own money. The price of it would tug at my guilt strings as I would consider different ways to divide the estate more equally -- perhaps I would pay my siblings the difference for the privilege of owning it. Perhaps they wouldn't ask me to do that. Perhaps...

The diamond necklace came in a beautiful box, with a photograph of it and the appraisal paperwork. It sat in the middle of the kitchen table for a moment and then Bette said, "Mama said Debbie should have this necklace." I was torn. Then surprised when my other sister said, "Well, I like diamonds, too."

The rule was ... if there is a disagreement, we'll flip a coin. Gary got out his lucky coin. My sister called heads. She won. My heart fell. It was such a beautiful necklace. But I bit my lip and complained only once, the next day when Gary brought in a document for us to sign with regard to the agreement we had made in dividing up the jewelry and other valuables. My brother asked what we should do about the disagreement, and I said, "Never mind. I do not want an object to change our relationship." My sister came up with her own way of resolving things a bit -- she told me she would indicate in her Will that I should receive the necklace from her own estate.

The next few days were spent going through drawers, closets, and attic boxes. We discovered memories we had forgotten, and laughed about some of the things our parents had chosen to save. By the end of the last day, I felt like I was looting my parents' home as I loaded up my van with knick-knacks and memorabilia.

When I got back home, I e-mailed some friends of mine, relating the story I've just told you. I was surprised to hear back from one friend, with this note: " I just read this not more than hour before receiving your email with the diamond necklace story in it.

It is the tale of the old Zen monk who found a raw diamond nearly a foot in diameter. It was a good size for a footrest, so he took it back to his cave. The word spread through the town that the world's largest diamond, a jewel of inestimable worth, rested unguarded in the old monk's cave. Then a man thought "If I could get that diamond from the old monk, I would have treasure beyond my wildest hopes!" So he went to the cave, to try and find a way to trick the old man out of the diamond. But the old monk saw him staring at the diamond.

"Do you like this rock?" asked the monk.

"Oh yes, oh yes, I like it very much!" the young man replied.

"Then please take it, as a gift," said the monk, and handed the priceless diamond over to the young man. "I can always find another footrest."

Overjoyed, the man ran down the mountain with the diamond, and stayed awake that night guarding the jewel and thinking of all the things he could do with his newfound wealth. But the next morning something began troubling him. And after spending a second sleepless night, this time because of the troubling feeling within him, he arose early on the third morning and carried the huge diamond back up the mountain to the old monk's cave.

"I have taken the wrong gift," he said, setting the diamond back in its place. "I would have you teach me instead how you could let go of this so easily."

I cried like a baby when I pulled out of my parents' garage for the last time. It is such a feeling of finality. How do you let go of your childhood? How do you let go of the home where you grew up?

You don't. You take it with you in your memories. They will never go away. What you do have to let go of is the stuff. Objects have no meaning if their ownership causes pain. You can't take it with you.

So, don't let anyone tell you that you can't go home again. Maybe the physical place will belong to someone else now. You have to let go of that. But, we don't have to let go of the memories. In the stories that we tell our children, that we write down so that others will read them, we will always be able to go home.

RESOURCES

Free Grief & Bereavement Resource.
Find Information & Support Groups.
www.CaringInfo.org

Letting Go of Grief :. Accepting the changes resulting from a loss. Letting Go of Dependency:. Accepting personal responsibility for your life and releasing ...
www.coping.org/ grief /let go .htm

Tips for Letting Go and Helping Others to Let Go as well

• Sit down with your parents and ask them to write down what they want to go to whom...
  explain to them that this is a loving way to provide for their children

• Keep things in perspective -- stuff is stuff and can always be replaced; feelings are sometimes not as easily repaired

• Talk with your siblings before the time comes and come to an understanding of what each expects with regard to inheriting family heirlooms

• Love each other now and spend quality time with people that you love; once they're gone, regrets can overcome your grief process

• Keep a journal of your thought process; writing this series "Going Home Again" has been a tremendous help to me. Thanks to my readers for providing this opportunity to share with you.

Debra Sorensen, MSW, LISW, CMC, is a professional care manager and owner of Debra J. Sorensen & Associates Inc., a private geriatric care management company serving Northwest Ohio and Southeast Michigan. She can be reached at 419-367-8835 or e-mail Debra@professionalcareforyou.com.