I always seemed to have to defend my fighting title in elementary school. My older brothers had earned the family a reputation for toughness, and a good fight just seemed as natural as saying "hello." My dad grew up in a Halifax orphanage and later rode the rails across the country during the Great Depression. There were times when he was literally fighting for his life, and we relished his stories of survival against men twice his size.
This all changed the year I turned 14, when I grew several inches without gaining weight appreciably. I kept fighting, but soon lost my weight advantage, and with that, lost a few bouts in a row, spending literally six consecutive months with two black eyes. Fighting was no fun anymore. It made my face hurt.
By this time my dad was in his early sixties, and no longer brought terror to his enemies, despite his still fiery temper. One afternoon we drove up to a gas station in Burnaby, only to be ignored by the attendant. Dad ignited. He stormed inside the store to set the record straight with the snotty young man.
I waited in the car, wondering if I might have to drive home. Soon he stormed back to my window, his eyes ablaze, his fists clenched, shaking with anger. "Follow me!" he demanded.
I walked with him inside the garage. My feet were too big, and my hair too long. I was all arms and legs and no meat. The only thing about me that might have been in any way menacing was the fact that I was a bit ugly. As we walked through the door, I was supposed to be the enforcer of my father's rage, but I just stood there, making nervous mental notes at the size of the other guy's arms, and the complete lack of fear in his eyes. The beefy, calloused attendant looked me in the eye, and hissed: "What!"
My dad looked at him, then back at me , then back at him again and finally saw the mismatch and spitefully threatened: "My other sons would eat you!"
It was probably true, but not this son, and not this day. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, both my dad and I were trapped inside bodies that no longer powered in step with the family temperament.
As we battle through mid-life into old age, eventually our bodies can no longer keep pace with our passions. Unless we die young, at some point even our minds may no longer function well.
A Power of Attorney (POA) is a tool that should be considered carefully as a key part of a financial plan in case you should become incapacitated and cannot perform such routine tasks, as paying bills and managing your investments, or fighting with your banker.
However, there is the possibility that the authority you give may be abused, resulting in the mismanagement and depletion of your assets (and by then you will be in no position to fight). To minimize this kind of risk, it is important to understand how the POA is created and the nature of the authority you are giving.
The crucial question is: "Who would be an appropriate attorney?" Trustworthiness is by far the most important matter here.
Other considerations include:
n Do you wish to appoint multiple attorneys in case your primary attorney can't fulfill their duties?
n Do you want to compensate your attorney? If so, how?
n Do you want your attorney to have the option to delegate his or her authority?
If you do not address these issues in your POA document, your attorney may face challenges carrying out his or her duties and third parties may be reluctant to accept direction from him or her.
Mark Ryan is an advisor with RBC Wealth Management, Dominion Securities (member CIPF) and can be reached at [email protected].
