08/18/2025
Words to die by
Things were going along smoothly when I was 6 or 7. I was breezing through carefree youth and too young to listen to or care much about the news of the world. Grade school was OK, except I was too shy to raise my hand and I pooped my pants right in the middle of the Pledge of Allegiance.
Was it my first rebellion of many more to come against authority – being forced to stand and pledge by monotone rote? I was fine with swearing allegiance to the United States. It was my home. I had no idea what “the republic for which it stands” meant, though. And what about, “with liberty and justice for all?” No one should have expected a first grader to understand how problematic that phrase would be later.
It was none of that. The Great P**p Incident of First Grade was very likely caused by the fried Spam and Pork & Beans we had for dinner the night before. The most devastating shock of my life was to come soon after. A classmate, who was obviously further along than me when it came to understanding the ways of the world, casually uttered the phrase, “When we die, blah, blah, blah.”
I’m blank on his words beyond “die” because at that moment my idyllic life, my spark, my “Oh boy, let’s see what’s coming next” screeched to a halt, or a “full stop” as the political commentators say on the TV news channels after their own “blah, blah, blahs.”
After attending more funerals and memorials of family, friends and acquaintances than I care to mention, my brain still comes to a full stop now and again with the question, “Really? All of this is just going to end one day?” The world will wobble along just fine. But for me, no more hugs from loved ones and unwanted hugs from strangers who don’t understand what personal space means? No more smells of hot coffee in the morning, afternoon and night (well, decaf for me now; doctor’s orders)? No more lifting a frozen lid off a (still a half gallon) Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream carton and digging in with a table knife when it’s too frozen to use a spoon?
No more laughs?
Well, I’m going to fix the “no more laughs” element if it’s the last thing I do. Come to think of it, it will be the last thing I do. I’ve long admired stories about famous people saying funny things and getting a last laugh just before they die. Of course the classic is “Dying is easy, comedy is hard,” although actor Edmund Gwenn (“Miracle on 34th Street”) really said, according to historians, “Not nearly as difficult as playing comedy” when asked if dying was difficult.
So, that’s what I want to do. I’m dying (sorry, going for a cheap laugh) to go out with a memorable, funny moment of my own. Just before the eerie squeak of death’s door sounds the end is very near, I want a loved one, or friend, or nurse or janitor to help me lift my arm and point my index finger to the heavens.
I will be weak and weary. But with my dying breath, I plan to say, “Line!”
Full stop.
