Last week, one of Sharon’s cousins died. He was roughly her
age.
A few months aga, the wife of one of our cards- playing friends
died at the age of 68.
Over the last 5 years, I have lost a number of cousins (Frank,
Tom and Mary) and none of us are getting any younger.
This spring, we went to a seminar at a local restaurant that
focused on end-of-life planning, and in June, a representative came to our
house to discuss our end-of-life decisions, like cremation, death certificates,
and other details.
One of the best obituaries I have ever read was the one
written by the late Mike Royko in November of 1979, shortly after his wife
died.
Here it is:
|
Editor's note: The Chicago
Sun-Times published this column November 22, 1979. Royko wrote it
several months after the death of his wife, Carol. In 1985, he married
Judy Arndt. Mike and Judy Royko bought a vacation place together, on the
water in Florida. The two of them first started spending weekends at the small, quiet
Wisconsin lake almost 25 years ago. Some of her relatives let them use a tiny
cottage in a wooded hollow a mile or so from the water. He worked odd hours, so sometimes they wouldn't get there until after
midnight on a Friday. But if the mosquitoes weren't out, they'd go to the
empty public beach for a moonlight swim, then sit with their backs against a
tree and drink wine and talk about their future. They were young and had little money, and they came from working class
families. So to them the cottage was a luxury, although it wasn't any bigger
than the boat garages on Lake Geneva, where the rich people played. The cottage had a screened porch where they sat at night, him playing a
guitar and her singing folk songs in a sweet, clear voice. An old man who
lived alone in a cottage beyond the next clump of woods would applaud and
call out requests. One summer the young man bought an old motorboat for a couple of
hundred dollars. The motor didn't start easily. Some weekends it didn't start
at all, and she'd sit and laugh and row while he pulled the rope and swore. But sometimes it started, and they'd ride slowly along the shoreline,
looking at the houses and wondering what it would be like to have a place
that was actually on the water. He'd just shake his head because even on a
lake without social status, houses on the water cost a lot more than he'd
ever be able to afford. The years passed, they had kids, and after a while they didn't go to
the little cottage in the hollow as often. Something was always coming up. He
worked on weekends, or they had someplace else to go. Finally the relatives
sold the cottage. Then he got lucky in his work. He made more money than he had ever
dreamed they'd have. They remembered how good those weekends had been and
they went looking at lakes in Wisconsin to see if they could afford something
on the water. They looked at one lake, then another. Then another. Cottages they
could afford, they didn't like. Those they liked were overpriced. Or the lake
had too many taverns and not enough solitude. So they went back to that little lake. They hadn't been there for
years. They were surprised to find that it was still quiet. That it still had
no taverns and one grocery store. And they saw a For Sale sign in front of a cedar house on the water.
They parked and walked around. It was surrounded by big old trees. The land
sloped gently down to the shore. On the other side of the road was nothing
but woods. Beyond the woods were farms. On the lake side, the house was all glass sliding doors. It had a large
balcony. From the outside it was perfect. A real estate salesman let them in.
The interior was stunning -- like something out of a homes magazine. They knew it had to be out of their reach. But when the salesman told
them the price, it was close enough to what they could afford that they had
the checkbook out before they saw the second fireplace upstairs. They hadn't known summers could be that good. In the mornings, he'd go
fishing before it was light. She'd sleep until the birds woke her. Then he'd
make breakfast and they'd eat omelets on the wooden deck in the shade of the
trees. They got to know the chipmunks, the squirrels, and a woodpecker who
took over their biggest tree. They got to know the grocer, the old German
butcher who smoked his own bacon, the little farmer who sold them
vine-ripened tomatoes and sweet corn. They were a little selfish about it. They seldom invited friends for
weekends. But they didn't feel guilty. It was their own, quiet place. The best part of their day was dusk. They had a west view and she loved
sunsets. Whatever they were doing, they'd always stop to sit on the pier or
deck and silently watch the sun go down, changing the color of the lake from
blue to purple to silver and black. One evening he made up a small poem: The sun rolls down She told him it
was sad, but that she liked it. What she didn't like was October, even with the beautiful colors and
the evenings in front of the fireplace. She was a summer person. The cold
wind wasn't her friend. And she saw November as her enemy. Sometime in November would be the
day they would take up the pier, store the boat, bring in the deck chairs,
take down the hammock, pour antifreeze in the plumbing, turn down the heat,
lock everything tight and drive back to the city. She'd always sigh as they pulled onto the road. He'd try to cheer her
up by stopping at a German restaurant that had good food and a corny band,
and he'd tell her how quickly the winter would pass, and how soon they'd be
there again. And the snow would finally melt. Spring would come, and one day, when
they knew the ice on the lake was gone, they would be back. She'd throw open
all the doors and windows and let the fresh air in. Then she'd go out and
greet the chipmunks and the woodpeckers. And she'd plant more flowers.
Every summer, there were more and more flowers. And every summer seemed
better than the last. The sunsets seemed to become more spectacular. And more
precious. This past weekend, he closed the place down for the winter. He went
alone. He worked quickly, trying not to let himself think that this particular
chair had been her favorite chair, that the hammock had been her Christmas
gift to him, that the lovely house on the lake had been his gift to her. He didn't work quickly enough. He was still there at sunset. It was a
great burst of orange, the kind of sunset she loved best. He tried, but he couldn't watch it alone. Not through tears. So he
turned his back on it, went inside, drew the draperies, locked the door and
drove away without looking back. It was the last time he would ever see that lovely place. Next spring
there will be a For Sale sign in front and an impersonal real estate man will
show people through. Maybe a couple who love to quietly watch sunsets together will like it.
He hopes so. |
https://michaelsherwood.com/RoykoNovember.html
The irony of Royko’s column is that it was published precisely
6 days after our daughter was born.
My dad died on October 31 of 1994 – the exact same day that
her cousin Tim welcome a new daughter into his family.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Royko
Mike Royko lived roughly 18 years longer after his wife Carol
died. Long enough, in fact, that he
married again 7 years later.
None of us know when our time on this planet is going to end.
For that reason, it’s important to savor the good times when they occur, and to
shrug off the times when things go bad.
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