Consummated

As of Thursday, April 8, 2010, the giant money-transfer is at long last consummated.
When I disability retired from Regional Transit after my stroke in late 1993, I departed with a fairly substantial deferred income account.
I hadn't been contributing the maximum to it, but had been doing so for years.
When I retired from the mighty Mezz a little over four years ago, I had been doing the same — a deferred income account, but contributing the maximum.
A third money-pot was an IRA I had started while at Transit, a money-market fund that kept growing.
We had contributed equal amounts amounts to two different funds, both recommended by a fellow bus-driver into financial stuff.
But mine kept outpacing my wife's, until the recent economic downturn, when it tanked.
About 6-7 months ago a guy pulled in our driveway as I was finishing up the lawn.
He introduced himself.
He had just started a financial service in nearby Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oy”).
He was fishing for clients.
Uh-ho...... Try to be diplomatic.
Thank goodness my wallet is in the house.
“Well, I'd like to consolidate,” I said.
“I have three separate money-pots I'd like to consolidate into one.”
“We can do that,” he said.
Followup ensued.
But there was a large load.
We backed off.
My wife had consolidated all her money-pots at little expense into one online account.
He much later proposed a fee-based consulting service, that avoided the load.
We still put him off.
We were trying to survey all our options, but months were passing with no research.
Finally, “Gotta get off the dime,” I said.
I called him and proposed a meeting.
We set up a fee-based account that consolidates all my money-pots.
“You're getting the business because we never have time for research,” I said.
“Now to transfer all your funds,” he said. “I'll call them up.”
“Welcome to ?????????. For your safety this call will be recorded.”
We had it on speaker-phone.
“I need to verify your identity,” the representative said.
I yelled at the speaker-phone. “My mother's maiden name was ?????????.”
“Now for your deferred income account from Transit,” he said. “This may be our biggest problem.”
“Please take your phone off speaker-phone,” the officious representative said.
The phone was handed to me.
Identity verified, “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada........”
“Can you please say all that again but a little slower so I can follow it? I'm a stroke-survivor,” I asked.
My doing this is always a bit unreal, because of the lack of all my gray matter.
But I don't worry about it. We're not hurting for money, and can survive on our Social Security and pensions.
We haven't had to dip into those accounts yet, and don't expect to.
“Behind all this is my consideration that I ain't dead yet,” I said.
“I expect to last a while; but those accounts will probably outlast us.”

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993. If something is said too quickly, my mind locks up.