I hate cooking for one.

But I fixed myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios anyway.

I had a college roommate who poured Cheerios into his mouth and then drank milk directly from the carton. Ladies, he was a catch. He hated washing dishes, particularly bowls. He probably thought he was the Cheerios Kid. The Cheerios Kid was a mainstay in Cheerios TV commercials. The iconic Kid, after eating Cheerios, quickly dealt with whatever problem was presented in the commercial. He connected the “Big-G” with the “Little-O” to get “GO” power.

Back to my encounter with the Honey Nut Cheerios.

I got out a newspaper. I like to read while eating. Books are great, but newspapers are better at sopping up spills. I start with the front page and work my way back. The only variance to this procedure is that I read the comics immediately after reading the obituaries. Growing up, I was told that I’d live longer if I read the comics before the obits, but I find that I often need some cheering up after reading the obits. I take solace in the fact that I’ve known so many wonderful people, but I miss them terribly after they have shuffled off this mortal coil.

A female elder in my family sometimes resorted to reading the newspaper obituaries in order to quell the mischievousness of youngsters. It worked. It was difficult to be up to any serious monkey business while hearing about surviving family members.

I know someone who writes newspaper obituaries. She does it as one of the ways she makes a living. She is very good at it.

I haven’t written many obituaries. I have given many eulogies — obituaries of the spoken word in a story form. A eulogy supplements an obituary. Its stories add a personality. The obit might say that Dwight Eisenhower played 800 rounds of golf while he was President. The eulogy might tell how he reacted when his favorite putter was stolen. A eulogy connects the disconnected. It’s an obituary read by the light of a story.

Years ago, I took a writing class in which the first assignment was for each student to write his or her own obituary. It was creepy, but fun at our young ages. It isn’t such an enjoyable writing exercise after the miles have piled up on the odometer.

In that class, I wrote an obituary claiming that my untimely death had come about at the age of 105 when I’d been shot by a jealous husband. I threw in a couple of quotes that didn’t apply to my demise just to reach the required word count.

Clarence Darrow said, “I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.”

Mark Twain wrote, “I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.”

I’m a member of the Ferry Tale of the Year Club. Each year, I take a couple of trips on a ferry operated by the Alaska Maritime Highway. On the ferry, I talked to a fellow who told me that when his father was dying, he’d asked his son to bury him the cheapest way possible. The dutiful offspring said he would, but admitted to me that he didn’t get the cheapest casket available. He said that he just couldn’t do that to the old man. He bought the second cheapest casket available.

I met Jay Proetto in Haines, Alaska. We chatted and I enjoyed his company. He was pleasant and cheerful. We had things in common. We had both worked with sandhill cranes. That was an open door that allowed us to talk as if we’d been friends forever. I expected to see the retired park ranger another time, to visit with him again. He died a couple of days later. Endings speak of beginnings. We’d better enjoy each day. It might be all we are given.

Obituaries and eulogies are difficult because you can’t include everything. There are time and space limitations. You can’t remember everything.

I finished my Honey Nut Cheerios, read the comics after the obits and got ready to meet the day.

Not much later, my wife and I were seated in the car parked in our garage. We were headed somewhere that we needed to be. It’s always a mad rush no matter how early we start the leaving process.

My wife said, “Did we remember everything?”

“No,” I replied. “It’s impossible to remember everything.”

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.