By Bobbie Glasheen

The closest I will ever come to perfection is when someone (a dear friend, I hope) delivers my eulogy. Can hardly wait. I’ll sit in the front row, nodding and smiling beatifically. Maybe not. It will depend on how I am doing that day.
Suppose I contact someone in advance, pay them a certain price, and thus be guaranteed of glowing praise.Not likely. Probably a scammer working for “Eulogies on
Demand.”
I have noticed in the last few decades, as I have attended a rapidly increasing number of memorials, that we, as eulogists, can come up with the damnedest fiction. A few years ago, I wanted to rise from my place by the graveside and shout “Hear, hear! Why don’t you tell the bloody truth about this guy?” He told lies for years about his career.
About everything.
Then a few months later, I heard a saccharin speech regarding a woman active in her church and in most every association in Idyllwild. “Angelic.” “Soft and sweetly spoken.”
This woman had actually made me sound like Mother Theresa. I learned many of my most offensive (read best) expressions from her. Much of her energy, I knew, was fueled with Scotch whiskey. She was a pip of a friend.
Which brings me to my point. Why did we not tell the truth about our dearly departeds? Surely I could not have loved Henry and Mattie more. Their places in my heart were not earned by a purity of speech, a dedication to the truth, great intellect, nor their piety. I loved them bag and baggage as they were. I loved the whole darn bundle. No one needed to tell me how wonderful they were. I already knew.
On second thought, perhaps I will absent myself from my own funeral. Someone might tell the truth about me.

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