August 17, 2026
Out of the blue, my elderly Aunt Ro once asked a friend, “Would you speak at my funeral?” The woman was so gobsmacked that all she could say was, “Are you planning anything soon?”
Thankfully, Ro lived a full, happy life for many more years before leaving us when she was almost 99. Also thankfully, I have no reason to believe I’ll shortly be joining her in the choir invisible. However, the funeral chapel down the road is pushing us geezers to clear the decks for the Big D. They recently invited me to a “seminar” on how to arrange one’s exit in four easy steps. If that’s not enough to get me in the door (hopefully not the pearly gates), well, I can sketch out my departure and tank up on calories at the same time!
Talk about food to die for! This is what we’ve come to: our final farewell, the gathering of those we’ve loved, the moment for grief, memories, and reflection, is being marketed like a timeshare or some other real-estate scam. Only now, what’s going in the ground isn’t the foundation for a McMansion.
This event gives a whole new meaning to “box lunch.” I guess the chapel must have some stiff competition (now cut that out!). One could argue they’re simply doing what my aunt did. Sorry, there’s quite a difference between a phone call to a friend and a sappy mailer trying to bribe me with chicken and peas. What next, DoorDash at the graveside service?
I’m not ignoring my mortality. In fact, my advancing age magnifies my awareness of time and change. I noticed when the early-morning air turned cool for a few days and the first falling leaves drifted into the yard. I’ll be ready for autumn. I will not waste a summer afternoon fighting over the dessert table while some clown tries to sell me a home for my remains. I’d rather hang out at the home I already have.
