I love obits. Not the ones that make The New York Times—not even the ones deemed notable enough for coverage in my local newspaper. I love the notices composed, placed, and paid for by the family, accompanied by a picture that’s often 40 or 50 years old. I live in a fast-growing Northern California city that still retains a lot of its small-town, ranches-and-orchards charm and flavor, and the old-timers here seem to have been a hardy lot—every day I read of the passing of nonagenarians over my morning tea. And what lives those ancients led!
Here’s Grace, a rootin’ tootin’ woman born in 1918 who outlived three husbands and left behind great-great grandchildren from Maui to Boston. She and husband #1 established the first general store in an agricultural backwater that’s still a backwater, ran a summer resort in an isolated foothills town, and hiked and backpacked across Central America, Canada, Alaska, and the Lower 48. In the 1950s she worked three jobs to support her passion for flying the J-3 Piper Cub that she salvaged and rebuilt in her backyard. I felt like quite the weak sister by the time I got to the part about her paragliding in her 80s. Go Granny go!
And move over, nouveau artisans: here’s Antonio, born in Portugal 94 years ago, who worked for 30 years as an ornamental iron worker in Oakland, relocated to the now-chic Anderson Valley where he made homemade wine on his ten acres, loved fishing and camping, and donated fresh fruit and vegetables to the Oakland soup kitchen. Nowadays this guy would have a foodie blog and an arts council grant.
Faye met her husband at a roller rink, married in Vegas before he shipped out to war, and held down the home front as a Rosie the Riveter at Douglas Aircraft. She loved playing the organ, baking, watching old westerns, and dancing with her hubby. Does she sound like fun or what?
How about our local “Ranger Rick” who, when he wasn’t busy being a Cal State Park Ranger, designed some of our best-loved beer labels (Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Ale!)? He died too young, only 59, after a life that was full to bustin’ but not epically lengthy.
The younger folks’ deaths are sad, of course, but there’s a comforting wash of shared humanity in grieving for a stranger, if only for the duration of morning tea. (And in a smallish town like mine, they often turn out to be related to somebody I know).
As for those colorful characters who made it into their 80s and 90s, affection for them pours forth from these capsule bios written by loved ones left behind: “She loved weenie roasts by the river.” “She enjoyed little rides around the area.” “He continued his love of boats by floating them in the Lindo Channel when there was water.” I’d rather spend my mornings with them than with any old world leader, captain of industry or big-time genius.
