This is not a gruesome post, but is about death. As a rule, I don't read the local rag, so I normally don't check obituaries to find out who has passed, and depend more on word of mouth. But good writing is good writing regardless of the subject matter, and I do enjoy a well-written obituary. And no paper does it better than the New York Times.
Difficult to pinpoint my age at the time, but we were old enough to take the Route 4 bus across the George Washington Bridge to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I typically traveled with H, a classmate and good friend . The timeframe is early 1960's, so that I guesstimate our ages at 13 or 14. It was a time when parents were not protective in the same way parents are and need to be today.
From Port Authority, we were able to access the New York City Subway. At that time the subway was a bit simpler, essentially three distinct lines, BMT, IND and IRT. Today, the MTA system is greatly expanded, and a bit more confusing, a gumbo of letters and numbers.
Any of the three subway lines would get us to our usual first destination, Times Square, and the start of our explorations, typically museums, but generally walking, eating, inhaling the sights and sounds. New York City was like a candy shop for a 14 year old.
So how does the morgue come into this? The connection is the New York Times. This was pre-digital and the Times was printed using Linotype machines. Articles were written, reviewed, edited and finished on paper, then brought to a typographer, who would copy the finished article on the Linotype. H's father was a typographer.
Occasionally, we would visit the New York Times building and visit H's Father. On one of our excursions, we were invited to see where the dead bodies were stored. Well, hell, yes! And off to the morgue we go.
The New York Times dates back to 1851, and at the time of our visit, the morgue consisted of drawers and cabinets of news clippings and photos, many drawers and cabinets. This was pre-digital, a morgue of paper. A place where the dead come back to life and the source material for a New York Times obituary. An interesting part of the process is the writing of "advanced obits", assembling the pieces of a life prior to the final passage.
Why leave writing an obituary to others? Who knows you best? I'm not sure if leaving this important task to someone else is the correct approach, even relatives. This New Orleans Times-Picayune self-written obit is among one of the best ever:
"He assures us he is gone.
William Ziegler escaped this mortal realm on Friday, July 29, 2016 at the age of 69.
We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election.
He leaves behind four children, five grandchildren, and the potted meat industry, for which he was an unofficial spokesman until dietary restrictions forced him to eat real food.
William volunteered for service in the United States Navy at the ripe old age of 17 and immediately realized he didn’t much enjoy being bossed around. He only stuck it out for one war.
Before his discharge, however, the government exchanged numerous ribbons and medals for various honorable acts.
Upon his return to the City of New Orleans in 1971, thinking it best to keep an eye on him, government officials hired William as a fireman.
After twenty-five years, he suddenly realized that running away from burning buildings made more sense than running toward them. He promptly retired.
Looking back, William stated that there was no better group of morons and mental patients than those he had the privilege of serving with (except Bob, he never liked you, Bob).
Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but wellwishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Schaefer Light beer can and drink it in his honor.
He was never one for sentiment or religiosity, but he wanted you to know that if he owes you a beer, and if you can find him in Heaven, he will gladly allow you to buy him another.
He can likely be found forwarding tasteless internet jokes (check your spam folder, but don’t open these at work). Expect to find an alcoholic dog named Judge passed out at his feet. Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends. He assures us that he is gone. He will be greatly missed.
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