GONER

Can’t read the headlines lately without seeing another rock-n-roller bite the dust, and they’re not that much older than me, and that’s got me to thinking, and when I think I write. Writing saves wear and tear on my fifty shades of gray matter. So, there you go. 

My funeral will be a free-for-all, knowing my family, unless I put my foot down now while I still can. NOTE: A free-for-all is a disorganized or unrestricted situation or event in which everyone may take part, especially a fight, discussion, or trading market.

FREE. FOR. ALL.

First of all, I want a closed casket; I do not believe in people looking at me when I can’t look back or am ubable to make a smart aleck comment or two. 

But more importantly, during the memorial service the following subjects will be OFF LIMITS:

MY DENIM BUTTONS: I like to wear vests for a variety of reasons; especially vests with large, spacious pockets. Pockets are the most important invention known to man, in my opinion. Seriously! When you’re vacuuming and you come across ten dollars in dimes under the couch, left there by the darling grandchildren who forgot they were stealing the dimes from Poppy’s change jar, you can stuff the dimes in your vest pockets instead of tossing them in the potted palm pot. I like pockets. You can put eggs in your pockets. That’s very helpful. 

I had one vest that I wore until it rotted off my body. It has denim buttons, which did not rot. Their molecular cohesion continues to this very day. My children mock my denim buttons, my vests, and the fact that when I am wearing a vest I do not have to wear a bra. True story.

MY COOKING: I hate cooking. I’m too short to cook. Because I’m short I’m too close to the fire for safety, and the sparks get in my eyes and set my hair ablaze. Sure. Sure. That’s all true. I don’t want them talking about my cooking. It’s not my fault they liked to eat and would eat anything—even if I hated cooking it.

PREPPING, PARANOIA, AND THE POSSIBILITY I HAVE BUILT A SAFE ROOM UNDER THE BARN: I believe strongly in number ten cans of dehydrated sausage, and in the world ending badly. I believe strongly in the other shoe dropping. I’m Irish, after all.

OTHER ITEMS NOT TO BE DISCUSSED AT MY FUNERAL: My being a hermit; my bohemian decorating style; my hobo pots and pans; my dewlap. 

Which brings me to Conner, my oldest grandson, who is absolutely forbidden to speak of my double chin. He calls it my dewlap . . . you know . . . just like a lizard’s, another good reason to keep that coffin lid down.

I’m sure there’s more to forbid, but I think I’ve got a few days yet. I’ll think on it. 

Oh, and there is the working theory that I’ll never die, according to my son-in-law, Phillip. 

This being his greatest fear.

Linda (Good as Gone) Zern