When my husband D. died while diving in the Atlantic Ocean, it was a complete and unexpected surprise. And not a good one. In September, unknown to me he had sold his beloved Saab car to a young man who was home on vacation from an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I did not really pay attention to the sale as he had purchased a new car, and I knew he needed to get rid of the old one. What I realized was that the Saab was no longer parked in the driveway. Then D. died in October that year.   

In the early summer around June, the young man who had purchased the Saab, showed up at my door and said that D. had never given him the title to the Saab. He explained that D. let him take the car with the registration papers, and said that as soon as he could find the title, he would call the young man and turn the title over to him. In the meantime, the young guy had gone back to work on the oil rig and was home once more on vacation. 

Right away, I turned the house upside down, but never did find the title to the car. I called the young man and said that I would get a new title, but I needed the registration papers, which he promptly brought to me. I asked a friend who sold used cars what I needed to do to get the title, and he advised me to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles. The next morning, I went to the DMV and sat in line for almost two hours, while numerous young people were there getting their driving tests for their licenses. In those days one did not make an appointment, but showed up, and it was first-come-first-serve. Finally, it was my turn, only to be told that they were not the ones to issue a new title. The woman helping me advised me to go to the court house to the records clerk. 

The next day I was at the courthouse before ten o’clock. It was the days prior to 9-11, and there was no checking in or having my purse searched for weapons. I made my way to the basement and to the records clerk. Only to be informed by a grumpy employee that I needed to go to the first floor to room 123.  (Here I am making up the room numbers because I cannot remember them at this point of my senior citizen life.)  Mr. Grumpy did tell me to be sure and get two copies of D.’s death certificate.   

After going to the proper room for the death certificates, I moved on to room 123 only to be told once again that I was in the wrong place.  A kind employee directed me to the second floor to room 223, and I climbed the stairs to that room to get the old news that I was in the wrong place.  In the meantime, I was carrying around the death certificates which reminded me of the terrible days following the news that D. had died.  Once again, the instruction was to go to the third floor to room 323 and to be told that they would certainly be able to help me. 

By then I was exhausted and extremely emotional. I arrived at 323 where four older ladies were busy at their desks with various typing tasks.  When I explained to the woman who offered to help me what I needed, she said they did not issue vehicle titles, and that I needed to go to Raleigh.  At which point my emotional control gave up, and putting my head down on the counter, I sobbed.  I said, “I cannot do this, I just cannot do this.  I need this title, but no one is helping me.” 

Immediately one of the women spoke up and said, “Melva, we can help her. Put her in the back room, give her a cup of tea and a cookie, and we can take care of this.” 

The next thing I knew, I was seated in a comfortable chair with a hot cup of tea and some ginger snaps.  From the office I heard one of the women say in what I took was a British accent, “Aye, just like a man to leave a poor little girl with his business unfinished. You can never trust a man when he is alive, and you surely cannot trust him after he has gone and died and left you.”   

I never did figure out what she meant by not trusting a dead man, but in a matter of minutes I was handed the title to the Saab. “Fax machines are a great invention,” was the explanation I was given for the quick service.   

Once back home, I called the oil rig guy and handed over the title and the registration papers. Then I contemplated what I could give the four sweet ladies who went out of their way to help me. I knew I could not give them a monetary gift as that would be against the law. However, I thought I could give them something to eat to replace the ginger snaps that I had eaten. Thus, I purchased a huge box of assorted cookies from a local bakery and attaching a thank you note to the gift, I carried it to room 323 in the court house. I never did find out why you can’t trust a dead man, but I did not care as those women had given me the kindness of their hearts, simply because they looked beyond their immediate jobs and helped me out when I needed it most.

Image by Mikes-Photography from Pixabay