The Obituaries
I read obituaries. I didn't always. I suppose there's a natural tendency as one gets older to keep an eye out for friends and acquaintances that you may have lost track of, maybe the parents of kids you knew in school, or even members of your own extended family that may sadly have slipped away from your immediate circles of attention.
A few years back, I started working on building the Simpson family tree. Born to older parents, and the youngest of my generation of cousins, I was at a distinct disadvantage - many of my aunts and uncles had passed on, and most of my cousins knew only the barest facts, along with some rumors and myths, about how they came to be. From the start, one of my most valuable tools was the newspaper obituary.
Libraries and historical societies around the country keep whole files of obituaries, and most newspapers maintain archives that are searchable if you know who you're looking for and more importantly, when their obituary would have appeared. I confess that when I go searching for a particular relative's last notice, I often get sidetracked and start reading notices for people whom have no connection to my search.
Early twentieth century notices are the most interesting and diverse. They range from the simplest, "Jacob Skellar died at his home Monday morning. The community mourns." to elaborate pageants of praise and remembrance, sometimes posted serially, one after another, for days. These notices often include information about the deceased's place of birth, his membership in organizations and churches and biographical sketches. Funerals were often reported in great detail and contained program details and the names of prominent citizens in attendance.
Skip forward a hundred years, and today's obituary, in its simplest form, is a plain notice of a person's death. Just the facts. The "vanity" obituary that has become common takes up whole columns of space, and can chronicle a person's life from cradle to grave, complete with job histories, marriages and births, accomplishments and editorial comments about the state of the world.
I read them all every day. Not so much to find twigs and branches of my own tree, but to maintain a human perspective. Everyone, you see, has a story, and some are told only at the very end. You expect to see octogenarians pass away, but when you notice that someone a couple of years your junior has breathed their last, you are required, if only by self-interest to wonder why they've been taken so soon. Could they have done something differently and maybe still be around today? Is my clock ticking a bit louder?
Some are funny. A recent notice said the the deceased's first hope as a child was to grow up to be a fire-truck, but lacking wheels, he settled on a career in insurance instead. One man's obituary is another man's last stand-up routine. These go up on my refrigerator next to my grandson's art.
The saddest, most sober notices are for the children, more especially the very young. Any parent can understand the limitless depth and breadth that another's grief would spread to for the loss of a child. It has always been so.
Mar 27, 1906 - Fort Scott tribune-Monitor, Fort Scott, Kansas:
--- --- --- ---
Mrs. G.W. Simpson, of South Clark street, is reported to be in a critical condition following her nervous collapse yesterday afternoon at the Evergreen cemetery. Mrs. Simpson lost her little five year old son Saturday night, and he was buried yesterday. The blow was a severe one to the mother, and when the little casket was lowered to the grave at the cemetery, Mrs. Simpson swooned and remained unconscious until this morning when the family physician succeeded in reviving her. The death of her little boy was more than she could stand. She is reported to be somewhat improved today. It is a pitiable case.
--- --- --- ---
I always finish the obituaries with the renewed realization that my turn will surely come - we all get our column inches eventually. One day, a short synopsis of my life will be displayed one column wide on newsprint. When? Tomorrow maybe. Next week. Twenty years on. The important thing to remember is that an obituary writes itself day by day, prose dictated by the life you live. It isn't morbid to think about the end. I believe instead it's a mandate to live well and to leave a good story behind. I'm trying.
A few years back, I started working on building the Simpson family tree. Born to older parents, and the youngest of my generation of cousins, I was at a distinct disadvantage - many of my aunts and uncles had passed on, and most of my cousins knew only the barest facts, along with some rumors and myths, about how they came to be. From the start, one of my most valuable tools was the newspaper obituary.
Libraries and historical societies around the country keep whole files of obituaries, and most newspapers maintain archives that are searchable if you know who you're looking for and more importantly, when their obituary would have appeared. I confess that when I go searching for a particular relative's last notice, I often get sidetracked and start reading notices for people whom have no connection to my search.
Early twentieth century notices are the most interesting and diverse. They range from the simplest, "Jacob Skellar died at his home Monday morning. The community mourns." to elaborate pageants of praise and remembrance, sometimes posted serially, one after another, for days. These notices often include information about the deceased's place of birth, his membership in organizations and churches and biographical sketches. Funerals were often reported in great detail and contained program details and the names of prominent citizens in attendance.
Skip forward a hundred years, and today's obituary, in its simplest form, is a plain notice of a person's death. Just the facts. The "vanity" obituary that has become common takes up whole columns of space, and can chronicle a person's life from cradle to grave, complete with job histories, marriages and births, accomplishments and editorial comments about the state of the world.
I read them all every day. Not so much to find twigs and branches of my own tree, but to maintain a human perspective. Everyone, you see, has a story, and some are told only at the very end. You expect to see octogenarians pass away, but when you notice that someone a couple of years your junior has breathed their last, you are required, if only by self-interest to wonder why they've been taken so soon. Could they have done something differently and maybe still be around today? Is my clock ticking a bit louder?
Some are funny. A recent notice said the the deceased's first hope as a child was to grow up to be a fire-truck, but lacking wheels, he settled on a career in insurance instead. One man's obituary is another man's last stand-up routine. These go up on my refrigerator next to my grandson's art.
The saddest, most sober notices are for the children, more especially the very young. Any parent can understand the limitless depth and breadth that another's grief would spread to for the loss of a child. It has always been so.
Mar 27, 1906 - Fort Scott tribune-Monitor, Fort Scott, Kansas:
--- --- --- ---
Mrs. G.W. Simpson, of South Clark street, is reported to be in a critical condition following her nervous collapse yesterday afternoon at the Evergreen cemetery. Mrs. Simpson lost her little five year old son Saturday night, and he was buried yesterday. The blow was a severe one to the mother, and when the little casket was lowered to the grave at the cemetery, Mrs. Simpson swooned and remained unconscious until this morning when the family physician succeeded in reviving her. The death of her little boy was more than she could stand. She is reported to be somewhat improved today. It is a pitiable case.
--- --- --- ---
I always finish the obituaries with the renewed realization that my turn will surely come - we all get our column inches eventually. One day, a short synopsis of my life will be displayed one column wide on newsprint. When? Tomorrow maybe. Next week. Twenty years on. The important thing to remember is that an obituary writes itself day by day, prose dictated by the life you live. It isn't morbid to think about the end. I believe instead it's a mandate to live well and to leave a good story behind. I'm trying.
