One of my responsibilities over the last many years has been editing the obituaries for our brood of community weekly newspapers. You might think this would be a depressing chore. On the contrary, I frequently find it affirming to read these final summations of other lives.
When someone dies, family and friends rally, in spite of their sadness and grief. They gather to celebrate the life not just to lament the loss.
The obituaries I receive describe family members who are appreciated, often treasured. Their loved ones accentuate the positive. If a little hyperbole creeps in, they can hardly be blamed. As the Irish like to say, it’s the varnished truth. Loving the person who has departed, we want the world to know the best about them.
But it’s more than that. When a loved one dies, we come to know them in a fuller sense. They come alive for us in ways we couldn’t fully appreciate during the frenzied turbulence of everyday living. When their life ends, our lives pause too, long enough to see that they were more than we realized. It’s not until we lose them, and hear from others, that this becomes readily apparent.
Through the writing of the obituary, planning the memorial service, sharing stories and a lifetime of smiling snapshots displayed on easeled poster boards, the person we knew comes, paradoxically and vividly, to life.
When I read obituaries, I often think, “This person knew how to live.” In some cases, I can’t imagine how they managed to fit all of it into one lifetime. With others, I marvel at what they were able to overcome, even if only for a time.
Some are unforgettable. Myrna Wolf, for instance, died in 2019 at the age of 81 after a full life. Her husband Dennis died the previous year, “after 46 happy years together.” Myrna was a medical transcriptionist at Oak Park Hospital and later Loyola Medical Center. “She enjoyed crossword puzzles, making quilts, and Bible studies.” Nothing extraordinary. A respectable, solid life.
As I read through the long list of those who survived Myrna, however, and those who died before her, I found tucked in discreetly at the very end, “and her twin sister at birth.”
One of the twins lived a long, full, happy life, but the sister with whom she shared a womb never got that opportunity. At the end of her life, Myrna and her family made sure that sister was not overlooked, which made this a double obituary. It moved me so much, I saved it.
I saved another, a couple of weeks ago, the one for Frank “Fafa” Pardus of North Riverside, who likewise lived to the ripe age of 81, although, as the obituary states, “Doctors said Frank wouldn’t live past 5. But he spent over 75 years proving them wrong.” He lived his last 48 years with his sister, Margaret, and her family, “in a home filled with love, laughter and warmth,” partly due to his generous presence there.
Frank had a daily ritual: “He’d slide his shoes on, zip up his windbreaker, and put on a ball cap before taking his long walk (avoiding every crack in the sidewalk) to his favorite spot on the corner of 7th Avenue and 24th Street. There, he excitedly waved at cars, happily chatted with neighbors, or simply sat for hours, soaking in the sights, sounds, and rhythms of life.
“Frank had a rare gift: he found joy in the simplest things. He loved toy cars, trains, puzzles, and light-up toys, especially the ones that sparkled. He collected snow globes, mesmerized by the tiny worlds swirling inside. When it came to foods, he was a man of simple pleasures: cake, chocolate, hot dogs, and his pivo (beer). And he never met a Shamrock Shake he didn’t love. Though he wasn’t a fan of pizza, he never once complained — because pizza meant family. It meant a full house, lively discussions, and a table of familiar faces worth far more than the meal itself. It was here he loved reenacting his favorite Three Stooges bit, “Niagara Falls”; quizzed everyone about their car’s make and model (and whether they had gotten an oil change lately); and when words weren’t needed, flashed a well-timed smirk that could light up the entire room.”
Frank’s favorite TV show was Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which he loved because Fred Rogers told him, “You are a very special person. There is only one like you in the whole world. There has never been anyone exactly like you before, and there will never be again. And people can like you exactly as you are.”
The obituary records that, as Mr. Rogers predicted, “Frank was, without a doubt, loved exactly as he was.”
Mr. Rogers saw what most of us fail to see until a loved one dies: that we are all special, that there will never be another like us, that we all matter, and that all our lives are worthy of celebration, even the saddest stories.
I find treasures in obituaries because they tell the tales of the treasured people in our lives, which we don’t fully realize until they’re gone — and then suddenly come fully alive.