Obits fascinate me. I assume they interest everyone, but perhaps I'm wrong. There's a standing joke in New York City. Because of the lack of desirable apartments, one must peruse the obituary pages to find a vacant apartment. After making note of the address of the deceased, cab it over to the building ASAP to submit an application.
I read obits in The New York Times. I read them in my hometown newspaper. I read them in newspapers I've never read before. I don't need to know the deceased to find it interesting. Each obit reveals an untold story.
Do you ever wonder what your obit would say? How many lines would you rate? Who would write it? Are you so famous (or will you become so famous)that bookmakers take bets on when you'll die?
Reading the obits in the 1980's and 1990's, it seemed remarkable to be born in the nineteenth century and die in the twentieth. Now, we are all in that category, straddling two centuries. For one's life to touch three centuries though. That feat alone makes a person fascinating. There aren't many of those obits.
Death notices of babies, children, and teen-agers are just plain awful. A premature death is a death of dreams and plans that will never come to fruition.
When a deceased has served in the military, I hope they were given the respect they deserved throughout their lifetime. They did more than the rest of us, regardless of what we have accomplished.
All obituaries are informative, but The New York Times obits have status. Even as these people exit life, they get Andy Warhol's "fifteen minutes" in death also. Only the most accomplished in their field rate space in the Times--politicians, ex-cons, actresses, writers, scientists, professors, painters, athletes, retired military generals, cartoonists. I'm familiar with some of the deceased names, but only once did I have a connection to someone in these pages.
On the other hand, my hometown newspaper brings back a host of memories and emotions when I read the death notices. I learned a lot about my Grandmother from her obit. It made me wish I would have known her better when she was alive.
Recently, the paper published my fifth grade teacher's obituary. In her 34 years of teaching, she taught a lot of children. One of the things I recall about Mrs. Horwege was her reading Rudyard Kipling's, "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" to my class. As she imitated the mongoose's voice, over and over, "rikki-tikki-tavi, rikki-tikki-tavi" a line of saliva was ever present, seemingly connecting her upper and bottom lip together. I still love that book today.
My older brother, of course, has a different recollection. He sees her standing in front of the classroom, shaking a three pound text book at the class. "You'll come back to thank me some day for making you outline this entire geography book," she declared.
I think this one death will cause all her pupils to pause and reflect for a moment about her, about their elementary years, and even their hometown. In her obit, it told of her childhood, riding with her father and brother on snowy, cold days to get to school. I wonder if she ever shared that with the class and I just forgot.
An obituary is an exclamation point at the end of a sentence that you've written. It's rainbow sprinkles on top of a frosted chocolate cupcake that you baked.
Enjoy life.
Along the way, you'll do good deeds.
