The Will That Couldn`t Be Probated
By Hal Haralson
[Hal Haralson practices law and religion in Austin, Texas and is a regular contributor to Christian Ethics Today.]
As Judy and I walked out the door of First Baptist Church, Austin, I heard someone call my name.
"Hal, I need to talk to you."
I turned to see Louise Denham, wife of Dr. Bill Denham, who was then pastor of the church.
She approached and pulled me over to the side. "Can you probate Ramsey`s will?"
"Of course," I replied, and we made an appointment for the next Tuesday.
On the way home, we talked about Louise and Ramsey Yelvington, her first husband.
Ramsey Yelvington was a well-known drama teacher and playwright at Southwest Texas State University in San Marcos. He was a friend and contemporary of J. Frank Dobie.
I thought I recalled that it had been several years since his death but didn`t give that any more thought.
Priscilla Denham, Bill`s first wife, died while he was pastor of First Baptist Church Austin. Bill told us in a small group how he waited an appropriate length of time after his wife`s death and then made a list of three women he thought he might be interested in.
First was a high school girlfriend. He called her and found she had been married 40 years and had 8 grandchildren.
Second on the list was Louise Ramsey, the widow of Ramsey Yelvington.
He never got around to calling the third one.
On Tuesday, Louise sat down in my office and began talking, something she was good at.
"How long" I asked, "since Ramsey`s death?"
"Seven years" was her reply.
I didn`t tell her but normally we probate wills a little sooner than that. I figured I could find a way around this problem.
"Did you bring the will?"
"Yes," she said as she pulled it out of her purse.
The "will" was a piece of motel stationery that had typed on it, "I leave everything I have to myh wife Louise." It was dated and signed "Ramsey Yelvington." No witnesses.
There is in Texas a valid handwritten will. It`s known as a holographic will. It must be totally in the handwriting of the testator (the one making the will) and may not have any typewritten statements on it. This is because you couldn`t tell whether someone else had added something after the will was written.
This "will" missed every qualification for a will I had ever heard of.
I told Louise I would set a hearing to admit the will to probate in San Marcos and get back to her.
The "will" lay on my desk for two weeks. I didn`t know what to do with it. (That`s called procrastination).
Finally, I set the hearing and got Louise and her daughter in the office. We went over a long list of questions I planned to ask them in order to "prove up" the will.
The day of the hearing came. We were seated at a large table when the Judge came in. He was a large man, about 50 years old, wearing cowboy boots and a black robe.
He looked at the file and read the will. Then he looked at me.
"Mr. Haralson, you may proceed."
I had just started my first question when the Judge held up his hand.
"Just a minute, Mr. Haralson."
I had that feeling in my viscera that a body gets when a Judge interferes with what a lawyer is planning to do. Could I have messed up this quickly?
The Judge looked at Louise. "Is this your husband`s will?"
"Yes, it is," she responded.
The Judge turned to me and stated emphatically, "Ramsay Yelvington is the only man who ever gave me the lead in a play. The will is approved."
As I drove back to Austin, I realized there was a lesson in this experience. Act like you know what you are doing and proceed. You never know what the other side is planning. Things might work out for the go.
