Reading obituaries makes me sad. This, of course, is not an unexpected result of that particular activity. However the reason they make me sad is probably not the reason you think they might.
No, what actually saddens me about obituaries is how rote and mechanical they tend to be, how they take all the depth and complexity and richness that is a human life and beat it down to something resembling a job application. The meager handful of standard-issue bullet points — birth and death dates, names of parents and spouse(s), number of children, a note of military service (if any), positions held in the church (common in Utah obits), and maybe a mention of a well-loved hobby or career — do nothing to convey the flavor of the deceased person. I guess that’s more the job of the eulogy than the obituary, though. The obit is simply an announcement, and you have to go to the funeral to get some substance.
Still, it seems to me the final public summation of a person’s lifetime ought to reflect at least a little of the deceased’s personality, their philosophy and basic attitudes, their sense of humor, their resilience (or lack thereof) in the face of the life’s challenges, the adventures and experiences and preferences that defined them and that actually meant something to them. Every once in a blue moon, when somebody is willing to pay the exorbitant cost of an extra few precious column-inches, you’ll see something like that. And those exceptions to the general rule tend to linger in the memory… at least in my memory. For example, I still recall an obituary I read years ago, when I was in college. I didn’t know the deceased, but her obit made a big impression on me, for a number of reasons. She wasn’t much older than myself, for one thing; when you’re in your early twenties, hearing that somebody from your age cohort has died tends to really grab your attention. It’s profoundly unsettling to have mortality forcibly demonstrated to you at a time of life when you feel effectively immortal. Another thing that stood out was that this person had obviously written her own obituary — she’d had cancer, if I remember correctly, and had the time to prepare and see to the details herself — and I don’t recall that I’d ever seen that before. She’d been a very good writer and done a fine job of saying her farewells beautifully and eloquently. And of course, she’d been a fellow Trekkie, and had framed her thoughts around the familiar themes of that media franchise. I no longer remember exactly what she wrote — I wish I’d thought to clip this one and save it! — but I remember that she hoped her human adventure really was just beginning, and that she would be able to continue exploring the universe in some fashion. I remember getting a tight feeling in my throat as I read this stranger’s final statement because I understood so clearly what she was feeling, and I knew that had I ever actually met her, I would’ve liked her. I remember hoping that, when my time eventually and inevitably comes, I could have such a personal and effective send-off.
I still hope for that, actually, even as I fret that my grown-up life just isn’t that interesting, and that my bullet list of accomplishments isn’t long enough. That I wouldn’t like my answer to Jim Morrison’s famous question: “Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on?”
But I digress… as I’m wont to do. Sorry about that.
I bring all this up because I’ve encountered another of those remarkable obituaries like that one I read back in college. This one has been floating around the various social media subnets this week, but I’m going to repost it here in case you’ve not seen it elsewhere. Again, it’s for someone I didn’t know, never met, never even imagined… until I read a few paragraphs that paint a vivid picture of a man who was funny, crotchety, contrary, sly, and entirely human. A man who lived a good life, a life worth mourning the loss of, even as we rejoice in its colorfulness. I don’t know if he wrote this obit for himself, or if it was done by a friend or family member. I don’t even know if it’s at all true. Regardless, it’s a real joy to read. And like any good movie trailer, it makes me want to know more about its subject… a man named Harry Stamps.
[Ed. note: I’ve edited this slightly to cut out the logistical details. If for some reasons you want to read it in its entirety, you can find it here.]
Harry Weathersby Stamps, ladies’ man, foodie, natty dresser, and accomplished traveler, died on Saturday, March 9, 2013.
Harry was locally sourcing his food years before chefs in California starting using cilantro and arugula (both of which he hated). For his signature bacon and tomato sandwich, he procured 100% all white Bunny Bread from Georgia, Blue Plate mayonnaise from New Orleans, Sauer’s black pepper from Virginia, home grown tomatoes from outside Oxford, and Tennessee’s Benton bacon from his bacon-of-the-month subscription. As a point of pride, he purported to remember every meal he had eaten in his 80 years of life.
The women in his life were numerous. He particularly fancied smart women. He loved his mom Wilma Hartzog (deceased), who with the help of her sisters and cousins in New Hebron reared Harry after his father Walter’s death when Harry was 12. He worshipped his older sister Lynn Stamps Garner (deceased), a character in her own right, and her daughter Lynda Lightsey of Hattiesburg. He married his main squeeze Ann Moore, a home economics teacher, almost 50 years ago, with whom they had two girls, Amanda Lewis of Dallas, and Alison of Starkville. He taught them to fish, to select a quality hammer, to love nature, and to just be thankful. He took great pride in stocking their tool boxes. One of his regrets was not seeing his girl, Hillary Clinton, elected President.
He had a life-long love affair with deviled eggs, Lane cakes, boiled peanuts, Vienna [Vi-e-na] sausages on saltines, his homemade canned fig preserves, pork chops, turnip greens, and buttermilk served in martini glasses garnished with cornbread.
He excelled at growing camellias, rebuilding houses after hurricanes, rocking, eradicating mole crickets from his front yard, composting pine needles, living within his means, outsmarting squirrels, never losing a game of competitive sickness, and reading any history book he could get his hands on. He loved to use his oversized “old man” remote control, which thankfully survived Hurricane Katrina, to flip between watching The Barefoot Contessa and anything on The History Channel. He took extreme pride in his two grandchildren Harper Lewis (8) and William Stamps Lewis (6) of Dallas for whom he would crow like a rooster on their phone calls. As a former government and sociology professor for Gulf Coast Community College, Harry was thoroughly interested in politics and religion and enjoyed watching politicians act like preachers and preachers act like politicians. He was fond of saying a phrase he coined “I am not running for political office or trying to get married” when he was “speaking the truth.” He also took pride in his service during the Korean conflict, serving the rank of corporal–just like Napolean, as he would say.
Harry took fashion cues from no one. His signature every day look was all his: a plain pocketed T-shirt designed by the fashion house Fruit of the Loom, his black-label elastic waist shorts worn above the navel and sold exclusively at the Sam’s on Highway 49, and a pair of old school Wallabees (who can even remember where he got those?) that were always paired with a grass-stained MSU baseball cap.
Harry traveled extensively. He only stayed in the finest quality AAA-rated campgrounds, his favorite being Indian Creek outside Cherokee, North Carolina. He always spent the extra money to upgrade to a creek view for his tent. Many years later he purchased a used pop-up camper for his family to travel in style, which spoiled his daughters for life.
He despised phonies, his 1969 Volvo (which he also loved), know-it-all Yankees, Southerners who used the words “veranda” and “porte cochere” to put on airs, eating grape leaves, Law and Order (all franchises), cats, and Martha Stewart. In reverse order. He particularly hated Day Light Saving Time, which he referred to as The Devil’s Time. It is not lost on his family that he died the very day that he would have had to spring his clock forward. This can only be viewed as his final protest.
Sounds like the sort of man to whom I’d like to say hello every morning as I slip onto a favorite stool at a comfortable neighborhood greasy spoon. The sort who’d have a different issue to discuss or story to tell every day… and for whom I’d be willing to be late for work, because it will surely take several cups of joe to get through it all. The sort whose life would make a decent movie, Jim Morrison.
I hope someday someone will say the same of me.
(Hat tip to Talking Points Memo.)
