For whom the phone rings

My dad had a "thing" with death. I don't know if he loved it or hated it, but he spoke of it often. By the time I was ten, he'd taught me that you can kill a man with a rolled-up newspaper and good old fashioned panic. He demonstrated with the funny pages insert from the Sunday Flint Journal. I learned two things that day: How to locate the soft palate quickly on a lunging man, and that Cathy and Snoopy carry Hell in their eyes.

Any activity we kids did would elicit the inevitable story about a kid a couple counties over who died doing that very thing. It didn't matter what it was either. I could be tying my shoes or flying a kite, but I'd hear all about that ill-fated kid. I still fly kites and tie my shoes, but I'll be damned if I travel to that county down the way.

Dad's death obsession was most evident when I got older and moved out of the house. Almost every time I called home, he would say "You remember so and so from high school?" "Sure, yeah, he was a nice guy, why?" "Oh he died in a fiery wreck a couple days ago. Your mother saw it in the paper." It got to the point when he would ask if I remembered whomever the poor soul was and I'd start flushing the memories of them so I could truthfully say "No. No, I don't remember her." It didn't matter. He'd finish it with "Sure you do. She sat behind us in church at Christmas. Well anyway she died after a bout with lurgy last week. Thought you'd wanna know." DAMN. IT.

Sadly, this preoccupation with the otherworld is catching. Point of note: I have an e-mail alert that lets me know when celebrities die. Not just A-list folks either. I'm more of an admirer of lesser-known character actors like Elaine Stritch and Billy Barty, so I made sure that all celebrities with even one listing on the International Movie Database are included in the alert system. I swear when Bea Arthur or Mel Brooks kicks it, those will be sad sad days in my household. Until then, I'll monitor the unexpected departures from the security blanket of my inbox.