One of the first- and surprisingly most important- skills I had to learn
47 years ago as a 17 year old cub reporter at a small daily newspaper
was to transcribe obits.
Obituaries, that is. Paid death notices, called in by local funeral
directors, often just a few minutes before the deadline for the day's
edition.
Very, very few local people ranked a news obit at our paper. You had to
be special- an elected official, a former athlete, a beloved numbers
writer- to warrant editorial recognition of your passing. Even then,
there'd usually just be a brief headline, a picture pulled from the
files, and something along the lines of "The community is mourning the
passing yesterday of so and so, a respected teacher and coach... See the
obituary listings on page six."
Obits were- and remain- an essential, indispensable source of revenue
for newspapers. Along with legal notices and the ever-shrinking
classified ad pages, paid death notices generate much more money per
inch than display advertising. And depending upon the average age of a
publication's subscribers, the obits could also have more readers than
the other, "real news" sections of the paper, possibly excepting the
comics page. I recall that on days with no deaths and no published
obits, word got around the community quickly and our newsstand sales for
the day would actually decline.
My first day as a reporter at the "rim" of the city desk- a big,
semicircular hunk of metal and vinyl furniture, with the editor esconced
in the center (the "slot") and reporters seated around the outside- did
not begin as I had expected. There was no lecture on ethics, the
handling of sources, a review of the AP Style Book, or other
journalistic exercises. The very first thing the city editor impressed
upon me was the vital importance of taking obits over the phone.
Why make reporters take the obits, and not the classified department? In
the unlikely event the deceased was someone of import, we'd know about
it first. But mainly, management asserted those of us in editorial were
the fastest, most accurate typists, would make the least mistakes, and
would be more likely to hustle an obit down to graphics in time to meet
deadline and generate billing for that day. Money was an important
consideration. As my city editor made quite clear to me, the one-day
publication of the death notice of an individual with lots of kids and
grandkids- requiring the purchase of several column inches of space-
would pay my salary and mileage expenses for an entire week. A newspaper is
a business, after all.
When the phone rang in editorial and it was a local funeral director on
the line, you put the police chief or mayor or your mother on hold
immediately, stuffed a new sheet of paper in your manual Royal, and
typed like mad.
My first day I think I did three obits, thereby justifying my existence
and engendering a feeling of self-achievement. That lasted until about
2 p.m., when the paper hit the streets and I got the call from a furious
funeral director.
"Look at that obit," he fumed. I shuffled to the page and found the
listing. "Read it," he demanded.
"John Doe, 75, of Homestead, died Novem-"
"Stop!" he yelled. "What's that word in there after Homestead?"
"Died," I replied.
"Died," he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's the effing
obituary column, you idiot. What the hell else would he be doing?
Shooting hoops? Let me talk to your boss. Now."
I forwarded him on and sat there, genuinely puzzled at the outburst. A
few minutes later, the city editor called me into a bare, vacant office
adjacent to the newsroom.
"Bet you're wondering what the big deal is with that obit, huh?" he
asked, not unkindly. I sat there in silence and nodded in bewildered
agreement.
"Okay, it's like this. The funeral home business around here is pretty
cut-throat, what with all the old people and competing parlors. Some
offer special package deals- coffin, embalming, viewing, publishing the
obit, hearse rental, everything- for a fixed price. By adding the word
'died', which he swears he didn't say to you, the obit ran one line
deeper, which cost him like another ten bucks or so which, he
emphasized, came straight off his bottom line. I told him we wouldn't
charge him for the extra line, and that while I wouldn't fire you since
you're new, I'd be sure to put the fear of God in you, which I assume
I've done."
I shook my head again. He smiled and chuckled. "Don't sweat it, kid. You
did okay for your first day. But from now on, you read the copy back to
him and get him to approve it before you send it downstairs. Keep it as
short as possible, and go easy on the punctuation marks, too. He
complained about too many commas in his listings last week."
On the few occasions since my newspaper days that I've had the sad and
unfortunate responsibility to write
an obituary, I recall that first day on the job and the lessons
learned. True, I've loosened up a bit. For the sake of readability, I
don't skip on modifiers and articles, and I use complete sentences.
Frugality does not trump coherency, and what's another 20 bucks or so?
You only die once, may as well splurge a bit.
Due to my recent experience, for the past several weeks I've been
reading through the paid death notices in the local papers, fascinated
by their evolution since my professional involvement four decades ago.
The new euphemisms, phrasings, magniloquence, and verbosity of modern
obituaries are impressive.
It is interesting to note the term "obituary" is itself a tortured
euphemism of sorts. One of the interpretations of its Latin root word
"obit" is, indeed, death. But its first meaning is the act of going
toward something, to approach, encounter, or visit. Its second is the
process of descending, setting, or sunset. Death ranks a lowly third.
This form of linguistic contortionism is still common today. Consider
pass, expire, terminate, depart, move on, croak, etc. All of these words
can describe death or dying, but it's not the primary definition of any
of them.
My favorite circumlocution on the subject, which one could describe as
almost poetic (if not for its source) comes from the famous Monty Python Dead
Parrot sketch: "...he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the
curtain, and joined the choir invisible." It also contains the assertion
that the bird in question, "a Norwegian Blue", had not expired, but was
rather "pining for the fjords," a phrase ingrained deeply enough within
our zeitgeist that it's the title of a
scholarly paper bemoaning the use of indirect terms referencing
death.
But I digress.
In addition to the "departure verb" or description, the modern obit
often features a mind-numbing litany of the individual's life. Some of
these descriptions can be considered perhaps
too brief, but most offend wildly in the other direction.
I suspect family members and survivors who ramble on in their social
media posts are stunned when they receive a due on receipt, four-figure
invoice from the funeral director or newspaper. What else could be
expected from breathlessly recounting, in excruciating detail, the last
ten years of dearly departed Nana's social and recreational activities
at the assisted living facility, as well as listing the names of every
miniature poodle she'd ever owned? And what was the reason for
mentioning her recent in-hospital treatment for chlamydia? We all know
there are no koalas in Turtle Creek. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, eh?
(Another Python reference).
In any event, here are some memorable phrases I've transcribed from paid
death notices recently. No offense intended. I'm certain they were
sincere in context.
...accidentally, while having the time of his life. (What was it that
he was doing? It sounds as if it was something that should be avoided.)
...after a long, grueling battle with alcoholism. (Whose alcoholism?
Whose batttle? Who found it grueling? Was this really necessary, or one
last passive-agressive outburst?)
...after an extended illness, surrounded by his family, left home with
the angels. (One assumes the angels dropped the family off somewhere
en route.)
...shortly after the celebration of her 100th birthday ("You do not
need to take a shot for each year, Grandma.")
...after long illnesses, including heart disease, diabetes and frontal
temporal lobe dementia (When I read ones like this, I don't know if
the family is expressing sympathy for the departed or relief for
themselves.)
...after saying, 'Take me home, Jesus.' (Unfortunately, the Jesus in
question was his Uber driver.)
...at age 95 (looks good for her age) (Well, not any more.)
...ascended to heaven, breathed her last breath and went peacefully to
God's eternal home and into the arms of her husband, daughter, and son. (These
always strike me as presumptuous, for some reason. And I think they got
the sequence wrong.)
...born on the Feast of the Guardian Angels and was taken home on their
wings. (Feast... wings... eww...)
...bravely faced death in the arms of his devoted wife. (Let's hope
she didn't have him in a chickenwing over-the-shoulder crossface hold.)
...died peacefully beside his one and only true and forever love, his
wife. (Please tell us they were home in bed.)
...died peacefully in his favorite chair. (I wouldn't mind going that
way.)
...donned his wings. (This makes me think of Michael Keaton in
"Birdman.")
...escaped this mortal realm. (Sounds like a Bifrost-related subplot
from a Marvel "Thor" movie.)
...finally, after succumbing to illness. ("Finally"? Man, that's
harsh.)
...found peace and rest after 36 years of a courageous and uncomplaining
battle with a cerebral venous malformation. (If he didn't complain,
why bring it up now?)
...has gone home. (This euphemism has always bothered me as well.
Home is where the good wi-fi and dogs are. Period.)
He had just finished serving his mom and aunt breakfast in bed and said
he was going back to bed to sleep in a bit longer. He died in his sleep. (Thereby
giving his mom and aunt a sense of guilt that will haunt them the rest
of their days. Thanks for reminding them.)
Her loving family sent her home to be with her mother, father, brothers,
and sister. (Did she die, or did you just kick her out of the
apartment above the garage?)
...joined his friends for their eternal golf matches. (According to
those who played behind them, their matches down here seemed eternal as
well.)
...made her transition at her residence. ("made her transition at her
residence" vs. "died at home"? Someone's getting a kickback from the
newspaper.)
...passed away and joined her late ex-husband. (Are we talking about
heaven here? From whose perspective?)
...passed away on Christmas night, following a seven year battle with
frontotemporal dementia. (The "Touched By An Angel" school of obit
writing.)
...passed from this earth to a more beautiful and peaceful place.
Leaving far too soon, his life cut way too short, he touched many lives
and left the world and us better for his having been here. (You know,
we remember "The Big Chill" too.)
...peacefully, after a long descent. (Descent? Hot air balloon?
Airbus 380? Everest?)
...peacefully moved on to his next adventure. (Let's hope the next
one ends better.)
...received a command from her Lord. She now resides in heaven and has
been chosen to sing in God the Father's choir (Thanks for voting in
"Heaven's Got Talent"!)
The Universe has shifted. (I'd like to see the math on that, please.)
...unexpectedly, doing what she loved at camp. (Please, for the love
of God, say no more...)
...was called (adverb) by (some supernatural entity) to (engage in some
empyrean activity). (Some funeral directors apparently use Mad Libs.)
Full disclosure: The author maintains his own obituary, which now stands
at 738 words. Hey, I'm getting up there, and I've owned a lot
of dogs.
Categories:
Death;
Newspapers;
Obituaries;
Passages;
The Daily KGB Report
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