WHEN MY SONS WERE 8 AND 10 years old, I made them read obituaries. Every morning, we would each choose one from the New York Times and read it aloud. Ghoulish child abuse or enlightened child rearing? Whichever, it worked for us.
Reluctant at first, the boys soon realized that the obits were short enough that it was easier to cooperate than argue. Then they got into it, realizing that if a person is considered worthy of an obit in the Times, he is usually accomplished or notorious enough to have an interesting story. What began as a leisurely summer thing over Froot Loops and juice continued into winter’s oatmeal, crammed backpacks, and school-bus anxiety.
From Adlai Stevenson’s obituary, the boys learned a little bit about presidential politics and the Cuban missile crisis. And because his obit included a few of his more notable quips, the boys discovered that a man in public life can also be funny. From Boston Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey’s obituary, they learned that extreme wealth plus being a good guy still doesn’t equal a World Series.
Anyone who writes or regularly reads obituaries will tell you that they are not about death; they are about the lives of their subjects. They are, as my boys found out, concise biographies, which is one reason I love them. So when I heard that a Dallas woman named Carolyn Gilbert had started an organization called the International Association of Obituarists, I simply had to join.
The IAO was born at the old Sam’s Restaurant in Preston Center, where a group of friends would periodically meet to compare notes. One night in 1999, Gilbert, an educational and government policy analyst who reads obituaries in at least seven newspapers every day, declared her intention to put on the First Great Obituary Writers’ Conference. It was held that year in Archer City, Texas, and Judge Jerry Buchmeyer, a friend of Gilbert’s, gave a speech and read from his personal collection of favorite obituaries. The next year the festivities were held in Jefferson, Texas, where I attended my first conference. In 2001, we moved to Las Vegas—New Mexico, not Nevada—where we’ve been since.
IF STATES DESIGNATED TOWNS AS SMOKING AND nonsmoking, Las Vegas would have an ashtray on every corner. The town of about 14,500 souls is no-collar, adobe, green chilies, hundreds of historical plaques, and nearly as many excellent, cheap bars. Throw in a surprising number of good bookstores and what looks like a disproportionate number of tattoo parlors (until you check out the arms and backs of the locals), and you’ve got a fitting location for an obituary conference.
The conference itself takes place in the 124-year-old Plaza Hotel, which is on the National Register of Historic Places (for reasons other than its appearances in the classic movies Red Dawn and Convoy). The rust-colored brick walls of the long, narrow, cramped meeting room are lined with the work of local artists, mostly crucifixes. Keynote speaker Andrew McKie, obituary editor of the London Daily Telegraph, saunters to the podium. Sporting a pink shirt, a chalk-striped suit, and a hangover, the 33-year-old resembles a slightly more dissipated Robert Downey Jr. We’ve already read in his brief bio that “his interests are drink, tobacco, and original sin” and that we should not lend him money.
On the whole, the 50 or so men and women drawn here are a smart and funny bunch. And, curiously, for all their familiarity with death, they are optimists. In a field that breeds cynics (think of any crime reporters you may have known), obituarists tend to look at a life and see not just the good and bad, but also the humanity. There’s a Yiddish word saichel, which translates literally to “common sense” but more broadly means “a practical but positive outlook.” Whether it’s a trait that leads to the job or develops because of the job, these people have it. Up close, McKie might exude a different scent, but from the back of the room, he positively reeks of saichel.
As he explores the rigors of running perhaps the most fabled obituary department in the world, McKie peppers his witty talk with asides about long lunches and early cocktail hours. Mostly, though, he talks about the difficulties of deciding which interesting people from London, the United Kingdom, and around the world should be included in the limited space allotted to him each day. He reveals that he has between 7,000 and 12,000 advance obituaries on file and that his staff plus his team of freelance specialists, including one who writes only about circus clowns, are churning out more all the time. All of this engenders envy among his colleagues, many of whom represent one- or two-person departments that lack huge files, freelance specialists, and time for long lunches.
McKie quotes from many obituaries carried in his paper, including one about a Peruvian man who started a religion in which his flock wore garments modeled on costumes from the films of Cecil B. DeMille. It concludes: “He … disappointed his followers by failing to fulfill his promise that he would rise again after three days.” To play it safe, McKie says, he held the obit for three days before running it.
“EVERY DAY, THE BOY COULD BE FOUND AT THE same place on that big Missouri farm. For hours he would shovel dirt into a bucket and carry it over to the same spot, where he would dump it into a pile.
“As the sun set, the boy would climb the dirt and look out at the prairie. Each day he stood a little bit higher. As the years passed, some of the kids made fun of him. Adults just shook their heads. The boy continued to dig.
“When they asked him why, the boy tried to explain what he had seen during his family’s brief trip to Colorado when he was 3 years old. He had seen something he couldn’t forget.
“Edward Mallory was building a mountain.”
The opening paragraphs of this obituary, written about a Colorado geologist by Jim Sheeler of the Rocky Mountain News, illustrate why I’ve made it to the conference four years running. The conference is a little like a state fair—only instead of bringing their best quilt or cake or calf, the players bring their best death notices. Sheeler, a boyish, vaguely woodsy individual, speaks on his specialty: telling the interesting stories of those who are not famous. He also passes out copies of It’s Only Life, a compilation CD he assembled from songs that touch on the subject, complete with his wonderfully sad/funny/true liner notes.
Although obituaries are not really about death, with this crowd, the Grim Reaper is never wholly out of sight. Dinner speculation the first night revolves around what would happen if one of us were to die during the conference. After some fairly Agatha Christie-ish scene setting, the table agrees that there would be fistfights over use of the Plaza’s lone Internet connection.
Through all of the banter and for all of the wit in their presentations, the saichel of the participants often expresses itself in the language of mortality. Larken Bradley, who handles the obit desk at the Point Reyes Light, in Point Reyes Station, California, remembers her schoolteacher father working part-time as a gravedigger. “I used to go with him sometimes and sit with my feet dangling in the new graves,” she says. “I can’t say that it led to my interest in obituaries, but I can’t say that it didn’t.” Patrick Cornish, whose obituary page in the West Australia News is dedicated in part to “slowing the marginalization of aboriginal people by celebrating their daily lives,” proudly shares a touching memoir written to commemorate the third anniversary of the death of his son. Claire Martin of the Denver Post describes a polka-themed funeral she attended for one of her subjects, while Connie Sexton of the Arizona Republic spends the entire conference checking in to see if the expected death of a former congressman will oblige her to drop everything to update his waiting obituary.
The only non-obituarist among the speakers has more of a hands-on relationship with death. Dr. Cory Franklin, an ICU physician and writer from Chicago, speaks on his avocation, collecting great quotations from obituaries. Dr. Franklin reads from his latest work, an as-yet-unpublished compilation of obit gems called Remembrances of People Past (1998-2002). In a reedy baritone, he quotes terrific writers quoting colorful characters. Like the butcher Jack Ubaldi, who offered this advice on preparedness: “Be careful to measure the oven first before you buy a pig.” And Congressman Morris Udall: “Let’s turn inflation over to the Post Office. That’ll slow it down.”
Dr. Franklin’s last words on the topic of last words come from blues legend Muddy Waters: “No matter what anybody says, it all comes down to the same thing: a man and a woman, a broken heart, and a broken home.”
Next year’s conference will be held, once again, in Las Vegas. Then, in 2005, we move to Bath, England.
Veteran advertising copywriter Spencer Michlin teaches copywriting at SMU. He is also a commentator on KERA-FM 90.1.
