I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am, also, much more than that.
So are we all.
James Baldwin
I once read obits more carefully, for the stories they told. To absorb the reality that these were busy, distinct, fulsome lives. That are now gone forever. And in the leaving have taken with them entire encyclopedias of knowledge and memory and feeling. That not just the person–a name–is gone, but the whole of their skills and experiences.
I haven’t abandoned that sacrament,
But now I look first to see whether the newly-dead were younger or older than I am.
And take a minute to put myself in context. Or try.
But all too often, I am impatient with the formulaic tales that death notices tell.
The dead married the love of their lives, their soulmates—usually the second time around. Having made some serious (but obviously unexplained) mistakes the first time.
More than their children, they doted on their grandchildren.
Who adored their baking and their homemade afghans. Nannie or Ompa were just the best.
They made every holiday special.
They loved the great outdoors. They could fix anything.
They were selfless; they volunteered; they were cheerful in the face of hardship.
They fought a lengthy, brave battle against the illness that killed them.
They died with their family gathered round.
The doors of heaven opened and they have enjoyed a warm reunion with parents.
Right.
***
Dave, you may remember launched “Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Montana History” as an antidote to the hero-worshippers who haunted the Historical Society library.
The relatives who arrived eager to read up on grandpa’s small-town stardom: sheriff or legislator; banker or Exalted Elk.
The family was startled to find that their beloved ancestor faced prison time or bankruptcy. Or died in the county poor farm (yes, they existed).
A decade after immersing himself in Montana records and newspapers, Dave recognized realities for what they were: that no one escapes this life with a clean slate; that the colorful characters whom descendants hoped to celebrate were often rascals. Or human.
The town father who kept his Blackfeet wife in a cabin behind his elegant bungalow.
The senators who voted to imprison German speakers during World War I.
The industrious miners and their bosses who visited Venus Alley, Butte’s red light district.
The community leaders who appeared on small town 1920s Ku Klux Klan rolls.
The Butte physician, Fascist, nudist-colony proprietor elected to Congress—briefly.
The businessmen who expanded their holdings—a lot—during the Depression.
So I read Sunday’s obits in our diminutive newspaper with a grain of salt.
And in the way of most seniors, feel a bit of relief that at 75, I am still here. Even though I need all the help I can get to navigate stairs.
But I am eager to find an honest summary of someone’s life: she always cooked Thanksgiving dinner and everyone avoided her gravy; she was pregnant with little Robbie when they got married; he couldn’t hold a job for more than a year—that sharp tongue of his got him in trouble; of course she adapted to the outdoors—that cabin on Flathead Lake was a disaster; she held that position for 40 years because childraising wasn’t her forte; she hated sports; he hated movies; he hit her; she had an affair.
We are a bundle of untold stories, of truths that we hope will never surface. Of truths, the whole of which imbue us with color and fire and intricacy. Which, in the end, award us our humanity, give us all three dimensions.
Historians approach written records skeptically—especially obits. They know to match record against record: to run our lives through the sieves of city directories and birth certificates, police files, transcripts, report cards, oral histories when enough time has passed that the interviewee won’t fudge.
To recognize obituaries for what they are: those first full grieving outcries; those faltering attempts to piece the family together; that all-too-human hankering to shine a precious light on our closest relatives—at least for public consumption.
So now, here in this Monday morning quiet, you should know that I was Dave’s fourth wife. I was never his soulmate. I think that high school girlfriend Lola qualified on that front. That it was my gravy that never passed muster; Dave encouraged me to use those little envelopes of powered mix instead. That I quit balancing my checkbook a year or so ago in absolute defiance of my dad. That yes, being a stepmom was hard. That I had little courage for dealing with difficult employees. I wanted to keep everyone happy. To no one’s benefit. That my Covid 20 pounds can all be ascribed to donuts and frosted sugar cookies. That for many DC years I hid the gin from my visiting parents. That my sartorial extravagances revolve around shoes for my gnarled feet. I’d rather you didn’t pray for me. Although I know that prayer’s innocuous, its framework so often isn’t. That I never stay in touch with friends the way I intend. That I so know better, but continue to love Montana and hate her winters.
That’s maybe a first taste of honesty. Maybe enough for the newspaper to lift me out of clichés. But, of course, you likely know much more! ©
