By John Carlson—
Even if you are one of those nearly brain-dead, thoughtless husbands whose wife complains you never listen to her, here’s a verbal exchange guaranteed to get your attention.
“Honey!” Nancy hollered at me recently. “Have you written your obituary yet?”
All I could say to that was, “Uhhh …”
So to be clear, writing our obituaries is a thing we’re doing these days at Casa del Carlson. We’re not getting any younger, you know? But the fact we’re writing our obituaries doesn’t mean we’re planning to jointly kick our proverbial buckets anytime soon, either. We just think, if you want your obit to reflect who you figure you were in life, nobody knows you better than you do.
In fact, the same day she yelled at me, I was looking through my iPad for some column inspiration and spotted an entry slugged this: “Nancy’s obit facts.”
Yep. She’d written hers.
Naturally, I couldn’t help but read it. Having done so, I was shocked. I’m admittedly prejudiced, but Nancy is the wisest, most dynamic, most selfless woman I’ve ever known. She just plain is. But unlike some practically book-length obits I’ve read in the newspaper, hers was succinct and modest, not the glowingly poetic tome I’d have penned had that unfortunate task fallen to me.
It also made me think, sheesh. If that’s all she wrote about herself, what the heck am I going to write about me?
My first thought went back to an old newspaper buddy who once expressed his satisfaction with this simple epithet for himself: “Famous Expert.”
And hey, I admired it, too, but didn’t qualify. So I guessed I could write about my amazing record as the leader of fifteen fresh-faced, gung–ho Tiger Cub Scouts back in Yorktown years ago. What was so amazing, though, was that after six months under my inspiring leadership and tutelage, a total of NONE decided to join the regular Cub Scouts.
So much for being a molder of American youth.
Then there was my vow to make a name for myself at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. By that, I meant by becoming the first five-time Indy 500 champion or something. But my claim to fame happened on a rainy race day in 1986 when, carrying a soggy paper bag of Micky’s Big Mouths across the path between Gasoline Alley and the pits, the bag ripped open spilling my beer bottles onto the pavement. Right then, whistles signaled to clear the path as Bobby Rahal’s race car was being towed to the track! As I dropped to my knees, desperately scraping up glass shards from the frothy foam, hundreds of surrounding race fans began calling my name to encourage me. Well, they would have been calling my name to encourage me, were I named “Dimwit!” or “Dumb Ass!” or something that sounded a lot like “Twit Head!”
Would I want that little episode in my obit?
Nope.
Lately it has struck me that, if I wanted an impressive and exciting obituary, I should have started planning for one years ago. And it’s not like, instead of climbing Mt. Everest, I spent my time studying to become some brilliant academician whose passing would light up the obituary pages. All you need know about my scholastic success at Taylor University is that my first post-college job was operating a Tilt-a-Whirl.
Also, while my years spent indulging my love of flying and motorcycling deserve mention, I pursued neither to what you’d call an extraordinary extent.
But, sure, amidst all this gloom there’s a ray of hope. The fact I am writing my own obituary means I’m not dead yet. Therefore, there’s still time to do some stuff to make readers of my obit exclaim, “Wow! Was this guy hip or what?!?!”
The problem, of course, is that at seventy years of age, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Competing in the Boston Marathon? Paddling across the Atlantic Ocean on a blow-up swimming pool raft? Beating that dude Joey Chestnut by downing eighty weenies to his seventy-six in Nathan’s National Hot Dog Eating Contest? It ain’t gonna happen.
As for planting my country’s flag atop Mt. Everest? These days, I consider it a minor triumph to plant my tush atop a bar stool at The Fickle Peach.
Of course, this always leaves one last-ditch option for coming up with an extraordinary obituary.
Lying.
It’s not like many people are familiar enough with my personal history to critique my obit for truthfulness. So who’d care if I stretched the facts a tad? I can see it now …
“Ace, the nickname by which Carlson was known to millions, burst onto the national scene when he founded Ace Hardware as a precocious ten-year-old, right before inventing Ace Bandages. Later, moving to Liverpool and joining the Beatles, he rode the wave of mop-top mania for ‘John, Paul, George, Ace and Ringo!’ before leaving the band because McCartney cut his kazoo solo from “Yesterday.” Eventually credited with inventing McDonald’s popular Big Ace, which he graciously agreed to rename the Big Mac, he then …”
Anybody gonna buy that kind of malarkey?
Yeah, I don’t think so either.
John’s weekly columns are sponsored by Beasley & Gilkison, Muncie’s trusted attorneys for over 120 years.
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A former longtime feature writer and columnist for The Star Press in Muncie, Indiana, John Carlson is a storyteller with an unflagging appreciation for the wonderful people of East Central Indiana and the tales of their lives, be they funny, poignant, inspirational or all three. John’s columns appear on MuncieJournal.com every Friday.
