I grew up going to funerals, since my mom never believed in babysitters. If she went to a funeral (or anywhere), so did I.
I think it worked out all right, although I had a rather pessimistic view of death through most of my teen years, and wrote pathetic poems telling how I didn't want people looking at my dead body if they didn't like to look at me in life.
You know how teenagers are. Nowadays they have alternative rock to voice their sentiments.
I'm sixty-three years old. Suddenly my peers are getting sick and dying: our old buddy Boyde has throat cancer. Another old pal, Don, has heart issues that surgery won't fix.
Cliff's cousin Ken is having a get-together next week, because he has cancer and doesn't expect to live long. And I guess he wants to actually be there when we all celebrate his life.
Yesterday I received a call from a cousin saying that another cousin, Cecil Wayne, died from a massive heart attack. He's at least four years younger than I am. Dang, it seems like yesterday that my daddy was so proud of Cecil Wayne because he was doing well in Golden Gloves.
Looking at the local paper , I told my grandson today, "There's a lady in the obits who's 60 years old, and she died of a heart attack; I don't want to see that!"
But I acknowledge that it's my generation's turn. It's the circle of life. I only hope I have enough notice that I, like Kenneth, can throw a party and attend my own wake.
Now playing: Iris DeMent - After You're Gone