Contributed by Duncan Fremlin. I read the obituaries every day. They’re the only part of the newspaper I can rely on to be truthful. I even read the obituaries in my hometown newspaper in Sault Ste. Marie, just in case I see the name of an old high school pal. It has happened. Leonard Lidstone died at a young age. We were pals in public school. I smoked my first cigarette with Leonard. He had facial hair (peach fuzz) before any of us.
I expect to be around for some time but I’m writing my own obituary. I’ve been planning this for some time. I’m already at page 58.
I told my family that I have certain expectations after death. Spare no expense with the obit… every newspaper, lots of photos and content. They can even make stuff up if they want. I won’t care. I’ll be dead.
I can never understand why we’re buried in only one place. I spent the first 18 years of my life in Northern Ontario so I figure part of me should be buried there, near Pumpkin Point Road. It’s a quaint little cemetery. My ancestors are buried there. The rest of me can be interred here in Toronto. I’m thinking my demise can be mourned in numerous locations.
One more thing. No cremation for me. I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know many crimes were solved after a body was dug up. Science being what it is today, I know that more tests could reveal an unexpected cause of death. Don’t laugh. I’ve pissed off a lot of very smart people. I’m a candidate to be a murder victim.
I’ve read a couple of great books on this subject, one by the late Christopher Hitchens (Mortality) and the other by a very alive Julian Barnes (Nothing To Be Frightened Of). Both men are my age and both write eloquently about this aging (dying) thing. I’m just sayin’.
