If you’re like me, I’ll bet you’ve thought (at least once in your life) about your eventual funeral – at least in terms of who might come or offer condolences to the family. A friend of mine recently got that rare glimpse into what people would think of him after he’s gone.
Donald (not his real name) happened to grow up in a farming community with another Donald of the same age. Their last names were the same except for an “s” on the end of one. Since the time when they were kids, the small farming community became a bedroom community of Springfield with hoards of people moving in and changing the “small-town” feel of the old community. My friend, Donald, continued to run a successful dairy operation, despite the rising land prices of suburbia. He had always had a good eye for quality dairy cows and has judged hundreds of shows all over the country, becoming quite well known within the farming population in this part of the state.
Sadly, the non-farming Donald passed away one day last year and the large city newspaper in Springfield listed the death notice the next day giving only his age and neighboring town as residence. Even I assumed it was my friend, the farming Donald.
Farmer Donald's wife answered the first phone call that evening. “I’m so sorry to hear of Donald’s passing,” a sympathetic voice on the other end stated.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I just read Donald’s death notice in the paper and wanted you to know how sorry I am,” came the confused answer, “To which funeral home can I send some flowers?”
Now understanding the problem, Donald’s wife told the caller to save his money because her Donald was asleep in the recliner with a half-empty bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Unless he’s died since the weather went off 30 minutes ago, he’ll be out milking cows again in the morning. The caller seemed only slightly relieved.
According to Donald, the calls continued for the rest of the evening, constantly interrupting his rigorous napping schedule. He was impressed that so many people actually cared enough to make the call offering to help around the farm or even do the milking the next day. “Of course,” he said, “there were also those who called to make sure his wife knew that Donald still owed them money'” or “he finally got what he deserved for not picking my cow as champion 17 years ago.” But for the vast majority, the calls were sympathetic and complimentary. Donald confessed that, for a short while, he was even inspired to start living a better life.
Always the practical joker, however, Donald started answering the phone later that evening with deep-voiced phrases like, “You’ve reached heaven…this is Donald speaking.” One caller to that answer replied with, “Boy did I ever get a wrong number!”
Donald even admitted that he drove by the funeral home the day of the other Donald’s funeral just to see who hadn’t got the news that he was still alive. He confided that he was even more impressed to see the number of people that showed up thinking they were paying their respects to him. “Although,” he told me, “I’m pretty sure there were one or two that showed up just to make sure I was really dead. They didn’t stay long and they sure left with a disappointed look on their faces.”
Makes you think, doesn’t it? I can only imagine who might call my wife the evening after my death. I think I’ll go pay a few bills, send off some long overdue thank-you notes, and, oh yeah, write my own obituary. One can never be too careful.
Jerry Crownover farms in Lawrence County. He is a former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University, and is an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry, go to www.ozarksfn.com and click on 'Contact Us.'
