My father always said the worst thing about getting old was watching
your friends die. Second worst was diminished distance off the tee.
Now that I’m over sixty, I can attest he was right on both counts.
Nonetheless, even death and the rituals that accompany it, somehow
never fail to offer up a little comic relief. On the other hand,
there’s nothing funny about losing yardage.
Of course, the memorial services for friends in show business
are always filled with laughter because on those occasions you have
talented, funny people telling stories about other talented, funny
people. However, non-pro deaths offer their own moments of black
comedy. As cases in point, I offer the following two examples.
After my mother died, my father, my sister, her ten-year-old son and I
went en masse to buy her tombstone at a place called Swink Monument. I
have no recollection exactly why we picked them, but price may have
been involved. Their office was in a mobile home surrounded by a
concrete slab, on which various markers were displayed. (In case you
haven’t guessed, this is in North Carolina). My father, following
through on his philosophy to the end, picked neither the grandest stone
nor the plainest. Then, we went inside to fill out the paperwork,
except for my nephew who remained out doors, skateboarding through the
monuments.
Dotsie Swink, the heavy-set woman who was assisting us, took down the basic information, then asked a question I’ve never heard before or since: You want slick on top?
It wasn’t often that my dad was in charge of making supper, but every once in a while my mom would hand preparation of the last meal of the day off to him. His motto in the kitchen was, "the simpler, the better." He’d open a can of Campbell’s bean with bacon soup, mix it in a pot with some water, then slice up a couple of hot dogs and toss them in. He had supper on the table in no time at all. And, I think we liked it. Ugh.