See You In The Funny Papers

When I pick up the morning paper, I first scan the front page, then go off to the sports section to see what creative method the Minnesota Twins have discovered to orchestrate another loss, and then I head to the obituaries.  As long as I don’t find my own name in there, I know it’s going to be a good day.

            There are long obituaries and short obituaries, plain-spoken obituaries and eloquent obituaries.  There is no apparent relationship between what the deceased accomplished in life and the length of the obituary.  Some great lives are compressed to a few words; while those whose claim to fame would be that they were related to somebody else wander on and on.

            And then there are the pictures.  Now when one is nearing the end of the trail, one is not likely to arrange for a new photo, a photo with breathing tubes or emaciated face, so we can take it for granted that these photos, for the most part, at least, will not be brand new.  But some of them are really old, and it is unlikely that someone who has just known the deceased for thirty years, say, would recognize them from their high school yearbook photo or the shot taken of them when they were in the Navy.  Who picks out these pictures?  Are they trying to show the person when they were “at their best”?  Maybe, but when I find out that the beautiful blonde woman in the picture was 98 when she died, it still seems like false advertising.

            When the day comes I do make the obituary pages, I do not have the need for my picture to be on display there.  But if my loved ones should decide to put it there, I hope they will take a pass on my high school graduation photo, in which I look like an overweight, grouchy Fonzie, and stick in something more recent, depicting me as what I really am: an overweight, cheerful chrome dome.  If they want me to have my Twins cap on, that would be just fine.

            I hesitate to make fun of grieving people, but I also find the personal messages planted on there half poignant and half hilarious.  “Leon—still missing you, even though it has been fifteen years.  Gertrude.”

            Gertrude, your love for Leon is touching.  But do you really think that somewhere out in the great beyond Leon is still subscribing to the Star-Tribune (just to keep track of the Vikings) and will be checking the paper to see if you have left a message for him?  I’m not convinced.

            One of my uncles used to say good-bye with the expression “See you in the funny papers.”  Don’t bet on it.  But one day you will see me in the obituaries.  I’ll be the guy in the Twins cap.  I hope it is after they win their next World Series.