Lifestyle
To Die For
Texas obituaries hold a fatal attraction for me. A good one can make me laugh out loud or roll my eyes—or even mourn a person I never knew.
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The second paragraph of the obit generally enumerates survivors: spouse, parents, children, and grandchildren. But the notice for an Austin woman listed, after her own five kids, “a number of ‘virtual children’” (surrogate sons or daughters? cyberpals?). Often a spouse clings to the belief in a celestial reunion; a Central Texas wife’s obit noted that she “watches over and waits for her soulmate.” A Houston widow rhapsodized that “no one will ever love in the same way after us” (and, in the picture of her late husband, a long-nailed hand possessively clutches his shoulder). Of course, couples don’t have to be heterosexual; a gay survivor can be variously described as a “lover,” “life mate,” “longtime companion,” “best friend,” and—in one Austin case—“the finest husband a man could ever hope to find.” Sometimes the family envisions the recently deceased’s reunion with other family members—a Houston man’s obit announced that he “entered into Heaven escorted by both parents hand in hand.” For sheer number of generations produced in a lifetime, the winner might be a Borger woman who left 6 children, 34 grandchildren, 55 great-grandchildren, 7 great-great-grandchildren, and 6 great-great-great-grandchildren. (She was 85, so each generation started reproducing at an average age of 17.)
Family favoritism often comes through loud and clear. One man left several daughters, one of whom was singled out as “dedicated, devoted, and caring” (wonder who wrote that obit?), and a 63-year-old was “survived by a granddaughter, ‘her darling’”—mentioned by name—and then, perfunctorily, “eight other grandchildren.” But the bereaved don’t have to be human. Often “left behind,” to use the vernacular, are cats and dogs. A Houston man’s five relatives were outnumbered by his “beloved pets, Reginal, Romeo, Gypsy, Precious, Genevive, Pandora, Sambo, and Max.” Another obit listed the recently deceased’s “beloved TR-6” (a British sports car), yet another his African violets.
The real substance of any obituary, however, is the biographical information. This is often the best part, if occasionally a less than factual one (see “Funny Papers,” October 1996). The highlights that survivors choose to immortalize can vary from impressive to comical. An Austin man was remembered for being “instrumental in helping to restore phone service to Lampasas after the great flood of 1957”; another “sold the first Singer [sewing machine] in Milam County”; and one was labeled, in boldface type, “A Man to Remember” for accomplishments that included teaching “the world’s first graduate course in plastics technology.” One Austin nonagenarian had been “a midwife and dresser of the deceased” (bet she could tell some tales), while an Elgin man liked to “play 42 and talk Swedish.” The obit of one Clyde C. Williams, dead at 83, noted that he was “saved from the electric chair” and went from “murderer’s row to pulpit” (give me details!). Some juxtapositions are jarring, such as a man identified as a “member of the Church of Christ & Sheet Metal Local #54.”
Military minutiae are especially commonplace. In Central Texas one veteran had won three Purple Hearts; another had enlisted at age fourteen; and a retired colonel had once been in charge of condensing information for General Douglas MacArthur, who “would only read one page of reports.” A Houston veteran “survived after his ship sank by holding on to an oil drum for two days.” Many families proudly announce the decedent’s ties to this or that pioneer family, but sometimes the departed are downright royal: a San Antonio woman was revealed to be an Osage princess, and an Austin cancer victim was declared “sixth in line from King Arthur” (did he own a round table?). Many loved ones are associated with food. “Life will never be the same,” lamented an Austin family in their mother’s memorial, without “that good dressing.” A family catchphrase or the decedent’s favorite expression often closes the obit: “Peace, Dad”; “Ride on, Bro”; “I love you more than you love me, Pop-Pop.”
The character of the deceased and his family always asserts itself. A 67-year-old Lakeway man died during his daily run. “Though surprised and saddened,” his obit said, “the family admits it was the way he would have wanted it, as jogging was his favorite activity.” A Central Texas octogenarian “left this world while comfortably reclining in his beloved chair.” A Luling rancher appreciated “good well water.” The obituary for an elderly bookkeeper noted that “the casual way in which her nieces approached their bank statements was a source of consternation to her.” A Houston man was recalled as a “beloved rascal and ne’er-do-well.” One Austin man is a contender for the most forceful personality award: His entry began “Martin S. Cramer was brought into this world on October 28, 1941, without his knowledge and consent. He died against his will on July 21, 1996.” An Austin restaurateur’s obit revealed that the last words written in his journal were “Somebody call a cab.” But possibly my favorite obituary of all time belonged to Helen Francis Rutherford Shaw of San Antonio, who, among other accomplishments, “was known for making a particularly wicked jalapeño sweet pickle,” “delighted in getting the generals’ wives to make silly fruit hats and enjoy it,” and “never panicked, even when the dog munched most of the ham.”
Plentiful scriptural references are a given, but obits may offer nuggets from other literary sources, from William Shakespeare to Thornton Wilder. Snippets of songs are common, too—notably (and somewhat curiously) “More Today Than Yesterday,” a 1969 hit by the short-lived pop group Spiral Starecase. Florid doggerel appears often; especially popular is “God looked around his garden and found an empty space / He then looked down upon this earth and saw your tired face.” But the true gems are original verses penned by the bereaved, such as “I reached for the phone to call and say hi, then I remembered you’re up in the sky.” A poem for a child is doubly painful: “My little boy, I think of you often / Such a short life, such a small coffin.” One family, however, obviously recognized its poetic limitations and settled for a stanza that says it all: “Roses are red / Violets are blue / We wish you were here / ’Cause we miss you.”
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