There’s nothing funny about obituaries. After all, they are reports about people’s death. Seldom a laughable matter.
But there are amusing examples. A few are cited in a book my brother gave me by Joseph Epstein, the erudite author of more than a dozen books. He has written as a memoirist, polemicist, literary critic, and engaging essayist.
In his book In a Cardboard Belt, Epstein devotes one chapter to obituaries.
Reading about obituaries, one can’t help but think about one’s own. We’ll all probably have one written at some future point. Who knows when or how soon? We hope it won’t have too many errors.
Epstein writes about one woman who phoned her local newspaper to place an obit about her recently deceased husband. She was told the paper charged by the word. She responded: “Therefore,” she said, “I’d like it to read: “Schwartz dead.”
She was told the minimum fee is $50, and for that you get five words, “Very well,” she says. “Make it: “Schwartz dead. Cadillac for sale.”
In the book The Cemetery, a poet accepted a job in the obituary department of the Times of London. Out of curiosity, he checked the files to see his obit. It appeared to him to be much too brief. So, he added to it extensively, making it a major story. Then one day, “he is stricken with a bad conscience,” Epstein writes. “So, he cut it to the bone,” making it even briefer than the original short version.
The poet goes off to lunch. And in crossing the street, he is struck by a car and is instantly killed. His obit appears in brief form. This incurs wrath by his admirers. His poetic work is revived. His reputation is restored. “So, his life posthumously is a great success.”
As we get older, we tend to turn to the obits to see if we know who died. Most of my old friends have passed away. But I still have two high school fraternity brothers deep in their 80s, with whom I still correspond by email, usually to pass along jokes. And now and then a welcome personal note.
Epstein includes in his chapter on obituaries a joke about Mr. Nussbaum, who goes to his rabbi to announce that his beloved dog Buster has died and he would be grateful if the rabbi would say a memorial service for Buster.
The rabbi, after expressing his condolences, explains that rabbis are not allowed to say memorial services for animals. Mr. Nussbaum informs the rabbi that Buster is his only family and the dog means everything to him. He added that he would be willing to make a special gift to the rabbi’s fund for working with inner-city children.
“The rabbi, not an inflexible man, tells Mr. Nussbaum he will do the service for Buster the next day,” Epstein writes in this chapter. “And so on the following day, the rabbi goes through the service and speaks about the dog for about 15 minutes.
“Mr. Nussbaum, alone in the audience, listens, tears in his eyes. When it is over, he approaches the rabbi and hands him a check for $5,000 and says: ‘Rabbi, I shall always be grateful for what you did for me and for Buster. It meant the world to me. And what you said about my beloved dog moved me greatly. Do you know, Rabbi, till this afternoon, I had no idea how much Buster had done for Israel.’”
Tait Trussell is an old guy and fourth-generation professional journalist who writes extensively about aging issues among a myriad of diverse topics.