Remembering when
Iteach a once-a-year writing class at the Levan Institute and conversation was slow recently until we talked about writing our own obits.
Death. Your own. That will get your attention.
Some became pensive, others got fired up, and a few grew indignant at what their families and friends might write if left to their own devices. Students (I took a turn, too) concluded it might be safer to write their own obits and the subsequent assignment afforded a trial run.
Debby Hoyt wrote, “Debby had a stroke at age 118. She wanted to live another 30 years because she wasn’t done potting, painting and writing. She wrote her obituary but it was too long. We couldn’t afford it, so we had to condense it to 500 words.”
Mine went like this: He wasn’t as funny as he thought he was (an editor once told me that) but no one had the heart to tell him (she did). He was semi funny. He was semi a lot of things.
He was a decent athlete. Strength did not come naturally to him. He was strong for a weak person but not strong for a strong person.
He was handsome early on but his looks became complicated after absorbing too much valley sun. His dodge was to wear hats that covered his expansive forehead but the hats made his ears look larger and as if he might be capable of flight.
His kids thought he was brilliant. His kids thought he was a fool. Who knows what his kids thought. That would require cracking the kid code and good luck with that.
Ditto with his wife. He was impressed with how much he did around the house. How much he did and was capable of doing. Without him, the house would have crumbled. He was a house hero.
His contribution to the community was immeasurable. Immeasurable and invisible. The community will never be the same. Better perhaps, but not the same.
He never judged anybody for who they were. Unless who they were was somebody he disliked or for whom he had no respect. Then he did nothing but judge, usually behind their backs and often long after they were dead.
He was not a hoarder. All that stuff in the garage that his heirs will sift through on several long weekends in August is valuable, important, and if you keep looking, you might find a $20 in his paint pants, but don’t be surprised if it’s also an old receipt from Floyd’s.
He will be missed forever and be forever in our hearts. At least until next week, when basketball heats up or when Apple TV releases the next season of “Ted Lasso.”
He did his best. Almost his best. Decidedly below both his best or that of anyone else.
He gave freely and took mostly. He preferred taking. It required less effort and it was more fun.
He wore his clothes well. He wore his clothes too long. He looked homeless.
He was an interesting employee. He was a team player. He was a personnel problem with a large file.
No flowers please. If you want to contribute, bring something to the potluck following the service. He loved a good potluck especially when somebody brought homemade brownies and those tasty little Vienna sausages. Don’t be afraid to go back for seconds. He did.
I encourage readers to write their own obits and email them. I found it therapeutic as did the students. I’ll include the most memorable passages in a future column.