Finding the words for the final story

 I’ve been working on Robby’s obituary for his memorial next month. It’s actually kind of difficult to try to figure out what details are most important to note about someone’s life. I feel like I know so much about Robby, but I realize so much of his life happened before he met me 10 years ago. But then so much of his life was defined by those later years—being a husband, father, teacher; trying to survive his kidney disease. Some of the details of Robby’s earlier life I know from his stories but some I’ve discovered on my own through his papers and journals he kept.

I didn’t write an obit for Robby after he died. I didn’t want to advertise anything and have strangers calling or coming around trying to scam me. I also didn’t really feel like doing much more than I had to do already—go through probate, file paperwork, figure out how I’m supposed to keep going, working, paying bills. I think he’d be disappointed with me that I didn’t do one. He was never one to shy from the spotlight. I can hear him telling me to be sure I talk about his rugged good looks and charming personality. But the truth is, I’ll probably write more about his love of rare steak, wild women, comic books, and cold beer on the beach with friends.

And you really don’t have enough space in an obit to tell all of the great stories. Like the time Robby squeezed his car into a narrow spot at the Civic Center parking lot for my graduation ceremony so he could get my sister and the kids there on time—a trick he learned from driving hearses around town doing ghost tours. Or the time he drove the kids down to Jacksonville so they could see Indiana Jones in a movie theater. Or the time he talked one of my favorite authors who was in town to get in my minivan and go for drinks with us or getting Neil Gaiman to pose with a ‘Happy Birthday Mary’ sign so he could surprise her later. Or the smiles on the kids’ faces while he was driving them around in a golf cart on the beach, making their Halloween costumes, taking them camping, or renting out the fountain at Forsyth Park so we could get married.

Obits usually go something like this person was born in this place, lived in this place, worked at this place, was related these people, enjoyed this crap, died after these relatives, and outlived these relatives. Maybe they won some award or served on some board or charity. Everyone gets to know where you went to church, what school you finished, where you are buried, and where people can send the flowers. They don’t talk about how you snuck popcorn to your dogs when you watched a movie alone in the middle of the night or how you ate too many jalapeños in a contest in college to win free Subway sandwiches. Or how you went skinny dipping in your backyard pool and drank fireball shots in the middle of the day while your kids were away at summer camp. Or how you yelled out when Han Solo was killed and everyone in the theater looked at you. How you were still afraid of the dark, enjoyed grilling with a cold rum drink in your hand and Buffett on the radio, and loved to buy your wife flowers just because you wanted to surprise her for no reason.

And everyone has their own idea about the important parts of someone’s life—ten different people are going to write ten different obituaries. We all have different memories and stories. I almost feel like that’s what makes writing the obit so hard because someone will say, you forgot to add this, or you didn’t say anything about that. But a good friend recently told me, who cares what they say. Just do what makes you happy.

I can’t say writing an obit makes me happy, but it doesn’t make me sad. I actually giggle a little when I imagine Robby is trying to push me to make his obit a little salty, a little exaggerated, and a whole lot over-the-top Robby. And as Robby would always say when he made me laugh, “I’m really kind of a hero, if you think about it.” I guess anyone who can make me giggle these days really is a hero.