Every week, our paper takes one person's obituary and delves a little deeper into that person's life. The reporter contacts family members, friends, neighbors, colleagues and teachers to get a feel for what that peron was like.
What made them tick?
What made them a valuable asset to the community?
Why did you like being around them? Why didn't you?
It's simply called the Sunday Obituary, and when I work Saturday nights, it's my job to lay out the Sunday Obituary.
Every time I do that, I'm reminded of one funeral that sticks out in my memory. Not because it was a friend or family member (it wasn't), and not even because it was a neighbor or someone I'd interacted with (I'd never met this man in my — or his — life).
I was a member of a service organization that helped family members feed their funeral guests after the services were over. It was my duty that day to make and serve coffee.
I, coffeepot in hand, headed over to a table full of crusty old salts, bantering back and forth about this and that.
"More coffee?" I asked, poising the pot over his styrofoam cup. He nodded, then shook his head, looked at the table, smiled, took a breath, and spoke:
"You know, I can't believe Ol' So-and-So is gone," he said. The other Old Men at the table nodded their heads.
I waited, sure that some gem was about to be spoken, and that even though I hadn't known the man whose passing this group was mourning, I'd be glad that I had heard this one tale of his life.
To this day, I'm glad I waited.
The Old Man continued:
"He was the meanest sonuvabitch I ever knew. And I mean, the meanest."
I waited, thinking perhaps more would follow.
None did.
The other Old Men just nodded their heads some more and drank their coffee. I filled another cup and walked away.
Trust me: Old So-and-So, the meanest sonuvabitch the Old Man ever knew wouldn't have been a Sunday Obituary.
But I kind if wish he had been ...
