Defined benefit and defined contribution are the two main types of employer retirement plans. Defined benefit plans were at one time the mainstay of
A comparison of defined benefit, defined contribution plans. Definitions, differences, pros, cons,, the history of pensions, 1K's discussed.
(Inspired by NM)
Joyce Carol Oates was on CSpan's Booknotes this weekend, and she went into a short discussion of a little known essay by William Gass. The essay concerns the death of Gass' mother, and his mother's descent into dementia fueled by alcohol and a slow spiritual suicide. Oates was ambivalent about the article. On the one hand, she couldn't deny the literary power of the piece, but on the other hand, she couldn't help but wonder how someone could write such a sharply unflattering and humiliating piece about such a close member of their own family. Gass does paint his mother as a grotesque. I'm very familiar with the essay, and it's brutal.
My own uncle died in early January. He was just shy of 60. He was a troubled man, with alcohol problems of his own; he was a talented writer, but also a veryand his life had been a long series of failures and disappointments. He'd been shot in the leg in his youth, and had a permanent limp, had been in the same theater class with August Wilson, both as aspiring young writers in Pittsburgh, and he fathered three children by a woman who went insane, and ran off with the kids to be homeless down south somewhere.
My mom, his sister, called me the morning of my 31st birthday, and told me he had died. I made plans to get out to Pittsburgh for the funeral, took the Amtrak out through the gorgeous snowy hills of Pennsylvania. I felt half dead myself. I had a stomach infection which prevented me from eating anything solid; I couldn't drink; couldn't smoke; almost like the spirit of my uncle's failures were haunting me throughout his funeral.
When I got to Pittsburgh, I had no idea how much politicking I'd walked into. My was depressed, naturally, and somewhat annoyed by the whole thing. My mother was anxious, energetic, and the services, nothing fancy, were being held across the hall in the banquet room on the first floor of my grandmother's apartment building in Carnegie. My mother prepared the services, printed up the booklets memorializing him, and even included a memorial of her father, who died about 20-some years ago, and had never had a service of any kind, at his own request.