One who does something for the sake of their legacy is doing something for all the wrong reasons. Certainly we should act out of concern for how we will be viewed in the future. A concern for legacy clouds one’s thinking. As an example one might reason which good thing should I do? Which would contribute most to my legacy? That’s a selfish concern. Sure we want to be remembered well after we’re gone, but which is better doing good or being remembered for good. Both are the same. There are things such as unrecognized legacies. Are they any less important? The greatest legacies are those of ones whose names we will never know.
I sometimes think that one who leaves a legacy might rethink the effort they went through while living to create it if they could foresee how it would be used. Once you die your legacy is often in hands of less principled people.
Nevertheless, here’s my short story for the day:
Albert In Charge
“Albert is not used to waiting,” Aunt Wilma said.
“He’s driving me crazy,” Charles whispered to Aunt Wilma.
“It won’t be long, Charles,” Aunt Wilma said loud enough for Albert to hear. “Albert can’t her us anyway. He’s in another world. None of us are in it.”
“Than can I just say he’s crazy,” Charles said.
“Shhh,” Aunt Wilma’s finger struck a pose over her clamped lips.
“You said he couldn’t hear us,” Charles said.
She whispered. “You never know when he’ll snap out of it.”
“Has he ever,” Charles said. “I don’t remember him being anything other than crazy, just sitting there.”
“Shhh,” Aunt Wilma said and tightly pressed her finger over her tightly pressed lips. “That’s unkind.”
“I can’t wait till he goes,” Charles said. “I’m tired of entertaining him. He just sits there and does nothing and the second I get up he screams like I’m beating him. He’s a phony I tell you. And I’m glad he’s going.”
“We should be more understanding and compassionate for those who have a gentle nature,” Aunt Wilma said.
“Shhh,” Charles said and held his finger to his pursed lips mocking Aunt Wilma. “He knows that gentle nature and crazy are the same thing.”
“No he doesn’t,” Aunt Wilma insisted.
“Albert is just acting this way to keep from going to boarding school,” Charles said. “Can’t say as I blame him. The only difference between boarding school and hell is that hell’s caretaker has more compassion.”
“Rubbish,” Aunt Wilma said. “Boarding school is good for young men of breeding to continue to be bred with those who appreciate the finer things life has to offer.”
“If I had the verve of dear ole Albert, I’d put on like I’m off my trolley for awhile and I could spend a few months at the loony bin by the sea.”
“It is such a small task to endure,” Aunt Wilma said.
“You try sleeping in the same room with a teenager who wets to bed, craps in the closes, and wipes with my shirts.”
“We all have our cross to bear,” Aunt Wilma said.
“Well my burden is about to be lifted,” Charles said as he spied out the window as the van pulled in the driveway to transport Albert.
Albert heard the car door shut and immediately he looked at the clock on the mantel. He pulled his sleeve and set the time on his watch. He looked over at Albert and winked and gave that famous smile; one side of his lip pulled back ever so slight just enough to indicate he had won again.