DEATH IN THE COUNTRY

Hard times for a humorist, when the top four headlines this morning report killing, murdering, terrorizing and Alec Baldwin.

Right about here, Dave Barry would quit writing again, Jon Stewart would double-take us for granted, Stephen Colbert would beg to differ on our right to arm bears, and Andy Rooney would reveal what he's been saving in a shoebox for the last thirty years. Not me. If it's death you want, here's one day in the life:

If you live in the country long enough, this will happen to you:

One late spring afternoon, you’ll find an old gentleman standing in your kitchen giving you advice. Trust me on this. It is what old country kitchen sage gentlemen do best: Drop-in on neighbors and relatives (not necessarily theirs) and wax wise.

They are the male counterparts to the network of old country funeral bag ladies.

The Bag Lady will arrive in the morning at your father’s funeral on foot. She’ll be wearing comfortable multi-season shoes and a drab, buttoned-up overcoat uniquely suited to her amorphous frame, giving the impression of a human form consisting entirely of head, hands and feet.

If clothes make the woman, we must linger on this for a moment:

No other person in the world could possibly fit into this coat. When she dies, the coat goes with her. I’m talking a perfect fit. Oh, we all have our favorite sweatshirts, comfortable jeans and floppy hats, but this goes beyond your long-loved casual coverings.

This is a symbiotic relationship with a garment.

A millennium from now, archeologists will take radiographs of this astounding article of outerwear, when it is found compressed alongside what they believe are the artifacts from an early 21st Century funeral procession.

“The most significant discovery of a sepulchral raiment since the Shroud Of Turin,” some over-zealous young Leaky will espouse.

“For the first time in centuries, proof that Funeral Bag Ladies are not mythical creatures,” will say Archaeological Digest.

“Ancient Lady Of Death Coat Found On Jupiter,” will proclaim the Interplanetary Enquirer.

That’s how well she and this coat go together.

Meanwhile, back at your Dad’s funeral, she enters lugging a wooden-handled carpetbag. It is overstuffed with knitting needles, and anchors of yarn trail out of it as she moves through the gathering of mourners. She looks like an overcoat-boat trolling for carpet fish.

Eventually, she rows her way over to you, letting out more line. The conversation is quick and kindly:

Did you know the deceased well?” she asks. Behind her, your cousin is reeling in the yarn and stuffing it back in the carpetbag.

Yes. He was my father,” you politely reply, your curiosity begging you to ask her whoinheck she is.

Oh, my, isn’t that wonderful. Imagine that. Your father.”

I’m sure he’d be pleased, knowing you were here. And, you are?”

She sighs heavily, dabs the mist from her eyes daintily, pinches your wrist twistingly, and ignores your question completely, then wanders off to comfort another bereaver, dropping more skein lures in her wake.

You wonder how she ever got there without getting yarn-snagged and dragged at the crosswalk.

During the Service, she sits way in the back, sniffling, nodding, and knitting. A gaudy turtleneck sweater disguised as a baby blanket emerges from the carpetbag.

After the Service, she collects the sweater/blanket, reloads the carpetbag, backs into and needle-harpoons your Uncle Howard’s beer gut amidships, and makes her way through the crowd to the street, sighing, dabbing and twisting her way to the sidewalk. Decks awash in yarn, she puts about for the horizon.

Now, on to the old gentleman standing in your kitchen:

No one knows how he arrived at the reception after your father’s funeral. He’s wearing a bow tie on a buttoned-down flannel shirt, and a timeless pair of bib overalls generically suited to his square frame, giving the impression of a human form consisting entirely of torso.

If clothes make the man, here’s the finished product:

Every other man in the world could fit into these overalls. When he dies, the overalls go to the thrift shop. I’m talking an ageless, universal fit.

If they were ten years younger, man and overalls, they’d look the same.

A millennium from now, one archaeologist will ask another how he came by that pair of perfect overalls, just the thing for rooting around on your knees while taking radiographs of thousand-year-old overcoats.

Meanwhile back in your kitchen, he moves through the gathering of mourners. He looks like the headless horseman in bricklayer’s formal wear.

He courses his way over to you, laying a foundation of epitaphs with each of your friends and relatives. The conversation solves the day’s mystery:

My wife knew your father,” he announces from somewhere above the bow tie. Behind him, your cousin has convinced Uncle Howard to go get a tetanus shot.

Really? How?” you ask politely, your curiosity begging you to ask him whoinheck he is.

She was at the Service this afternoon. Asked me if I’d drop by and pay my respects. Said she was sorry she couldn’t be here, but she had to attend another funeral.”

Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

We appreciate that, son. Now, just remember: Don’t go meeting your troubles halfway. Let ‘em go the distance. Something just might happen to ‘em before they get to you.”

The next week an oversized, multicolored turtleneck sweater anonymously arrives in the mail. Just the thing to take out the evening chill when you’re out fishing, it will also make a fine baby blanket for your new grandson.

A perfect fit for a new life.

Copyright 2007 B. Elwin Sherman. All rights reserved.