We buried Bill yesterday. It was a pretty good crowd. Bill was a man o many parts, all o them good, steadfast parts. He was an Eagle Scout, a basketball coach, a competitive shooter, a retired educator. His widow asked the shooting club to wear our regalia and serve as "honorary pallbearers". Of course, we were honored to do so.
I am a decrepit old man. A lifelong smoker with a body wrecked by years of service on armored vehicles, along with the attendant bad habits that characterizes cavalry service. Yet, when it came time to bear the pall, there were not six o his healthy friends who could lift a casket. I was pressed into service as a pall bearer.
Later that afternoon, stirring a roux, I was struck by the irony that I have recently carried three healthy men to their grave. I'm not complaining, you understand, simply stuck by the irony that "healthy" friends are dyeing off. The last two did it right. They had a good day, enjoyed a pleasant evening, kissed their wives good night, then rolled over and went to sleep. No lingering, no drama, just went to sleep. That is the way to do it.
I hope, when my time comes, that is the way I'll go. I also hope that I have enough chain-smoking, semi-alcoholic friends to carry me to the hearse. Those "healthy" folks can't seem to carry the burden.
