Died Of Smoke Inhalation

Maybe not the best picture to go with for this article.

From the Des Moines Register, 5-18-1999.

Every Six Months

I should've grabbed a scratch pad. By the time you get to the computer, your ideas are withering or congealing. They don't stay fresh more than a minute.

Which is to the point, my constant thing, the passing of time and its relation to us. You think that everything's the same, until you see pictures of the past and realize what a foreign world you were living in at the time and didn't know it. At the time its utter familiarity meant it was normal, and the average person didn't want to go around snapping pictures of everything. It was normal.

It wouldn't be normal for someone to be going around now doing that. He might say the point is to show them all in 40 years what the differences are. Except most of them are going to be dead anyway. His efforts will serve the people at the time, who will glance at the pictures and some of them will recall the way it was. Which is the way it is right now.

So it's not staying the same, but incrementally at least changing all the time. Like how a room gets messed up. A few books that don't make it to the shelf. A stack of papers that gets tipped over one day. Some newspapers set askew. Some pieces of crumpled paper that missed the waste can. Next thing you know you're living in squalor. But it's onward and upward for the town, downtown, the suburbs, other buildings. With funerals everyday for the previous generation.

I've got a couple magazines on the shelf that I bought, probably six months ago. I haven't done anything with them except keep them in good condition. At the time I had a real collector's instinct about these things. Now I'm looking at them with disbelief that I succumbed to that at the time. But no one tried to talk me out of it. The intention was to get a couple plastic bags to put them in, then to put them in a box.

The key thing about them today is that it's surely been six months. Meaning a whole half a year has already passed away right under my nose. Whatever I'm inexorably going toward in life, I'm inexorably that much closer. Sleep a little, eat a little, go out to eat, worry, and all the rest. It all adds up.

Someday When I'm In The Graveyard

Filling out the census form yesterday reminded me that I am alive. Because they wanted to know about Person Number 1 and Person Number 2 and how old we are. But if we were dead, you're excluded. So I immediately felt my pulse and knew the government cares about me because I'm alive.

I keep thinking about the results of the census being held confidential by the government for 72 years. So by the time 72 passes and all is revealed and I'm able to see what my name was again, I'll be in the graveyard. Just there, a forgotten box of ashes, suffering through winter cold and summer heat, although obviously suffering might be the wrong word for it.

If my family does what I want, they'll be able to harvest any body parts that still work properly. Then whatever leftovers there are, those they'll try by fire. Then when the fire has reduced them to ash -- no more legs, no more arms, no more privates, no more belly, etc. -- I'll fit in one of those tiny little boxes and that'll be it. I was small when I was born, so it's only fitting that I'll fit in a small box someday.

It'd be nice to know more about it. Do they cremate you nude or fully dressed? Maybe cremation has its own Wikipedia page. I'll look. ... Here it is, with me quoting just part of it.

The box containing the body is placed in the retort and incinerated at a temperature of 760° to 1150°C (1400° to 2100°F). During the cremation process, a large part of the body (especially the organs) and other soft tissue are vaporized and oxidized because of the heat, and the gases are discharged through the exhaust system. The process usually takes 90 minutes to two hours, with longer times associated with larger bodies, and older furnaces.

90 minutes to two hours, with longer times associated with larger bodies, and older furnaces ... I'm not that big a guy, and I hope I don't get an older furnace. I've had old cars, old houses, old hand-me-down clothes all my life. Give me one thing that's new. That's all I want, a new furnace.

I ought to start a blog about my death. That'd be a cool niche blog, just a guy ruminating about his death, perhaps 20-40 years in advance. Then they make a big printout of it and it's there at my funeral, looking like a big Congressional bill. The preacher says it's 1,300 pages of dense print, and we're not leaving till we read every word, or something.

Anyway, someday when I'm in the graveyard -- the silent city -- the government won't care about me. Only my family, till they all keel over, one after the other. Then, after all the heirs are totally gone, it'll just be me and the worms.

Crusty Renaissance Man

I've had this snippet of an article on my bulletin board for a few years. This is scanned off a photocopy of it, since the original was in a scrapbook I used to keep quite a few years ago, in the '80s.

I looked Millard Gilbertson up on the internet since I didn't have the article dated. He died in 1986.

Also, I didn't keep the rest of the article, just this little piece, so it's hard to see everything in context. But I guess I just wanted this little piece for the cautionary tale it told. Which is, Beware how you live, because when you die, maybe everything they say about you won't be good.

Hanson, whoever Hanson was, didn't do Millard Gilbertson's memory any good, that's for sure! Hanson never saw Gilbertson any other way but grouchy. Right there you know this has to be good!

Then, quoting Hanson, "If he liked you, Millard would do anything for you. If he didn't like someone, he wouldn't talk to them. There were many of those. It didn't take much of anything to make him mad. If someone crossed him, they never would get back on his good side."

Thanks a lot, Hanson!

The snippet, by the way, is from the Des Moines Register. And I don't have access to the rest of the article.

But, like I said, looking online, I found Millard passed away in 1986, so it's probably not too early to post this on the website. After all, his reputation has already been blared publicly in the Des Moines Register way back when.

As to part of Millard Gilbertson's actual obituary, taken from The Elgin Echo, Elgin, Iowa, April 2, 1986, p. 2:

Millard Arthur Gilbertson was born August 29, 1909, at rural Elgin, to Halvor and Berthina (Ruroden) Gilbertson. He lived and farmed all of his life in the Elgin area. He graduated from Elgin High School, and was baptized and confirmed at East Clermont Lutheran Church.

Millard enjoyed outside activities. He was very active on the Fayette County Conservation Board, and was an honorary member of the Elgin Historical Society.

Millard died Tuesday, March 25, 1986 at his home at the age of 76 years.

That's all great, but I like the unvarnished truth the way Hanson remembered it.

Death Strikes Again

I had a sad experience today, hearing about a friend of mine who died.

He's a guy I see several times a week, and he seemed like he was always in pretty good health. I don't remember there ever being anything wrong with him.

But then, early this morning, in the 3-4 a.m. range, he apparently had a heart attack in his sleep and just died. No lingering, no hospital stay, no saying goodbye, nothing.

It's such a shocker to hear about it. It's so final. All those times I see him every week, he won't be showing up anymore. That'll be tough to get used to.

When I heard about the news, I was writing this post, a humor post about how "normal" I am. I mentioned it there when I resumed the writing. It turned out OK, I guess, but I had some good thoughts going. And the shock and the grief really changed it, no doubt.

45,000 Deaths From Lack Of Insurance

If Republicans really believed what they say about Death Panels, and of course they don't ... If they really cared about the American people, and that's a big "no" as well ... they would do something positive about getting us health care reform.

Here's the stats:

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Nearly 45,000 people die in the United States each year -- one every 12 minutes -- in large part because they lack health insurance and can not get good care, Harvard Medical School researchers found in an analysis released on Thursday.

They should look at it this way. That's "9/11" 15 times every year. They were willing to take us to the ends of the earth, to fight any enemy no matter how long it took, over one 9/11. But now they cozy up to the terrorists who are trying to maintain the status quo, who seek to exploit the American people and profit off our deaths.

They demagogued the whole issue with the fear-mongering line "They're pulling the plug on Grandma." Well, honey, look at it this way. They're already pulling the plug on Grandma. Only it's you, the Republicans, and the big business interests you've hooked up with.

The Republicans: the "Party of No," the party of death.

Another Deathapalooza

I'm not in the mood for another famous death with all the trimmings, this time with Senator Edward M. Kennedy.

I liked him fine and wish we had 99 more senators just like him. But I won't be watching all the crap that's very likely to be shown on TV the next couple of days.

Especially from any of the totally worthless Republican party who will probably be out shedding a few crocodile tears to great public display.

As for Senator Kennedy, I liked him and all the Kennedys. But I never got over Chappaquiddick. It was always in the back of my mind -- and not very far back -- when it came to Teddy. It was a painful thing, because I always figured he had his political viability at heart in the aftermath. That was a downer.

Still, he's passed on now. So we can get someone else in there to carry on the good work. And get healthcare reform passed once and for all.

Album Cover Designer Dies

Tom Wilkes, 69, an artist who designed some famous album covers, died.

I don't remember the name but I recognize some of his work, including the cover for George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass" album.

Other famous ones include "Beggars Banquet" and "Harvest."

Haunted By Slipping Away

My thoughts are haunted by the football players stranded off the Florida coast. I keep thinking of the guy sitting on the flipped over boat and this idea that the others gave up and slipped away in the dark. Or thought they saw a light and swam for it.

If they literally gave up, that's such a shame. I think of people hanging on for years and years against overwhelming odds. I think I could make it two or three days, but I'm not in a position to know. I know I was dangling off a boat one time in conditions nowhere near what these guys faced. And it was tough, but not impossible.

The idea of giving up and slipping away -- I'm not judging it, by the way -- is such a final and ultimate sounding thing. Like not being hooked up to lifesaving equipment in the hospital but worse. Because they're in really good health, and they have to think through the things of life and death, of their family, all that, then finally let go. I would be thinking about it about an inch away from the last grasping of the boat. Either great acceptance or great regret. I would guess there'd be some prayer or meditation, then letting go if letting go was best; it doesn't seem like it would be. Or in place of meditation, maybe there'd be a kind of numbness, forgetfulness, like your daily consciousness shutting down as far as fear and even understanding goes. Then what, maybe the consciousness of light, big gates, the stuff of near death experiences. Some brain chemical stored up just for this occasion.

Thinking you see a light and trying to swim for it could be that exact thing.

It's a haunting idea. Just to think of being there day and night is enough to make you sick. But it'd be slick and cold. No place to stay sane for long.

Another Month Gone

Another month of everyone's life is gone. February is now in the history books, in a manner of speaking. We press on with March, hoping to make something of it, so that when we get to the end of it, we can look back and say, "Hey, we did it."

For February, I can look back and say, "Hey, I did it." More or less. It was a good month, as months go. Every day is another day. I get up, do my various oblations and duties, then go to bed at the end of it. I believe I can say I pressed on, put up a good fight, struggled against the forces of darkness, yielded only seldomly, and now can be satisfied. All this happens with or without you anyway so you may as well do your best.

It's a sad thing to start off the day with Paul Harvey dying. I was never a listener of his in any intentional way. I just generally don't listen to the radio, period, so how could I be? I listen once in a while to XM, one of the music channels, never to the talk shows or news shows. But I've heard him, like when I'm at stores I'll hear him doing his trademark delivery. The AP called it a "staccato style." He definitely had a distinctive tone. It was a mixture of news, oddball stuff, and opinion, and advertising. I don't know what he advertised, but I'm thinking it was medical stuff and gadgets. Salve or something.

Paul Harvey was 90 years old.

Someday when I'm 90 (let's say it happens), I will have retired long before that. But Mr. Harvey must have loved doing his show and pleasing his fans. Seemed like a nice guy.