It has occurred to me that I am heading for sainthood. When you get old, you start to realize that you are going to die - maybe sooner than you think. And, there will be a funeral where a preacher will tell all in attendance what a saint you were - loving husband, father, grandfather, successful in business and a pillar of the community.
Mr. Mac, a dear old friend, used to tell a story of the town scoundrel that died. When it came time for the funeral, the preacher struggled to come up with something nice to say. Everyone in town knew that the man was everything but a saint. After, reading his date of birth and death, he simply said, "He was a good whistler."
Society dictates that one not say anything bad about the "dead." I’m not exactly sure why. I do hope that something good will be said about me. If all the bad comes up, it’s going to be a long funeral service.
And, I can’t whistle.
PMO
©2014
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