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Smith Says

Published Tuesday, June 01, 2010 4:37 PM

By Julie R. Smith
Summerville Journal Scene ®

If you’re under 40, you can skip today’s offering, which is about The Big Croak, aka Buying the Farm, aka Passing On, aka Going to Glory, aka Meeting Your Maker.

Dead and gone is our topic today--and, no offense to Gen Xers, but I suspect that people who don’t have arthritis or acid reflux, don’t think much about dying. If you’re 25 and you do, great! Welcome to my neurotic world.

I think about it all the time. It scares me to death, no pun intended. But, being nothing if not responsible (read: controlling), I have mortgage and life insurance and a last will and testament (which lists the readings, hymns, officiant and preferred flowers for my funeral, as well as the menu, caterer, beverage list and background music for the reception.)

I’ve also made my wishes abundantly clear to Widdle Baby: “You make REAL sure I’m toast before you pull the plug!” Hell hath no fury like a woman prematurely unplugged.

Widdle has no fear of death, partly because he is certain of salvation and partly because he’s too busy enjoying life to ponder death.

I have a hunch dying isn’t easy, but they say we all have to do it. (My father accomplished it with a grace that astounds me even now, 25 years later.)

Maybe I’m not as worried about crossing Jordan as I am about the legacy I’ll leave behind. Or that I won’t leave behind.

I have no children; have never written a best-seller; established an endowment; created sculpture, paintings or other art; saved a life; won an Academy Award; run for public office; or served my country. I haven’t made a quilt or an amazing discovery, run a marathon, studied Arctic ice formations, climbed a mountain or swum with dolphins.

I have cute feet and make yummy fudge, and that’s all she wrote. Immortality, I fear, will elude me. (I do have a handwritten thank-you note from George H.W. Bush, which I’d frame if I could find it.)

Another thing that bothers me is my obituary. I may be vain, but even I’m not crass enough to write my own glowing obit. Thus it’s what my loved ones might say—or not say—that worries me.

I read every obit in the newspaper every day. Last Sunday, I saw several heart-warming phrases: “To know her was to love her.” “Her smile lit up a room.” “He loved to serve his God.”

My obituary will not say “Her smile lit up a room.” It will say:

“She skipped church if her eyes were puffy.”

“She claimed her silk flowers were real.”

“She was smug about being an organ donor.”

“After two glasses of wine, she claimed to be a gymnast.”

“She re-gifted.”

“She cried at weddings and fell asleep at funerals.”

“She owed overdue fines at four libraries.”

“She pretended to be a vegetarian.”

“She hated travel and only stayed long enough to buy magnets.”

“She managed to kill knockout roses.”

“She lied about Botox.”

In the end, it probably doesn’t matter what’s in my obit. As long as you read the words, “beloved wife of Widdle,” it’s all good.

Julie R. Smith, who will try to bargain with St. Peter at the pearly gates, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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