›› FEATURE
6th Annual
DEATH ISSUE
Here lies a story of epitaph– partS a bit gory, parts a big laugh
“Timor mortis conturbat me” (the fear of death distresses me)
—16th century Scottish poet William Dunbar
Fear not Billy D, with our sixth annual Death Issue, the Pacific Sun will lay to rest any qualms you have about “taking the westbound” (as the rail jockeys used to call it). This year’s Samhain tribute to the great gig in the sky includes inspired epigraphs, dirge disc jockeying, our cadaver-ments to the chef and death-talk Bolinas-style. As we like to say, Halloween is no time for fun and games, so we’ll leave the cute-costume roundups and kandy korn tasting contests to the local dailies and present our sixth annual Death Issue—four stories confronting the culmination of life, with all the reverence, dignity and curiosity the final stage of living deserves. And just between you and us, Dunbar—we’re not too thrilled about “mortis” either. —Jason Walsh
The Famous I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter. Winston Churchill
by Matthew Stafford
T
he tombstone epitaph is literature at its most conclusive. Etched into its timeless canvas of granite, marble or sandstone, it allows the eternally present author to reflect, pontificate, instruct or crack wise. This unique form of creative expression can ensure a person’s immortality, encapsulate her life and manifest her wit, personality and essence through ancient technology that will outlive the geekiest gadget by a millennium or two. Here the dearly departed outlives memory and accomplishment and, best of all, gets in the last word. The earliest form of the tombstone was the stele, a tall carved stone slab used by the ancient Greeks, Egyptians and Mayans to
mark out territory, to commemorate battles or, when placed in front of tombs, to eulogize the dead. (Many still exist, much to the delight of amateur and professional archaeologists; Chinese “stele forests” are popular tourist attractions.) Over time the stele evolved into a slab laid over a grave; this in turn became a headstone/footstone combination that designated the location of the corpus beneath. In time the footstone went the way of other fads, leaving the headstone the sole canvas for eternal expression. A tombstone isn’t necessarily forever, of course; the wooden variety lasts less than a century, and recycled headstones
from the great San Francisco-to-Colma corpse migration of a hundred years ago can be seen in the Marina Green seawall, the Lands End landfill and the paving of Buena Vista Park, letters and dates still legible. But the survivors are unique works of art that run the gamut from the simple to the splendid, elaborate with gables, arches, skulls, cherubs, crowns, crosses, curbs, columns, peacocks or mermaids. The words themselves might be limited to name and dates of birth and death, but many of the fallen, famous and unknown, have left us a message, a prayer, a warning or a credo to remember them by. Here are some of our favorites.
Against you I will fling myself, Unvanquished and unyielding, O Death! Virginia Woolf
Here lies Lester Moore Four slugs from a .44 No Les No More.
Here lies Ann Mann Who lived an old maid But died an old Mann
Here lies the body of poor Aunt Charlotte. Born a virgin, died a harlot. For 16 years she kept her virginity A damn’d long time for this vicinity.
Sir John Strange. Here lies an honest lawyer, And that is Strange.
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” Edgar Allan Poe
Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear, To dig the dust enclosed here. Blest be the man that spares these stones, And cursed be he that moves my bones. William Shakespeare
That’s all folks. Mel Blanc (voice of Porky Pig et al.)
The Body of B. Franklin, Printer Like the Cover of an old Book Its Contents turn out And Stript of its Lettering & Guilding Lies here. Food for Worms For, it will as he believed appear once more In a new and more elegant Edition corrected and improved By the Author Benjamin Franklin
And away we go. Jackie Gleason
The best is yet to come. Frank Sinatra
The Wild West Here lies a man named Zeke, Second fastest draw in Cripple Creek. Here lies the body of Arkansas Jim. We made the mistake, But the joke’s on him. He called Bill Smith A Liar
Cause of Death Beneath this stone a lump of clay Lies Uncle Peter Dan’els Who early in the month of May Took off his winter flannels. Here lies the body of our Anna, Done to death by a banana. It wasn’t the fruit that laide her low, But the skin of the thing that made her go. Reader, I’ve left this world, in which I had a world to do; Sweating and fretting to get rich: Just such a fool as you. Punsters Here lies Johnny Yeast. Pardon me For not rising.
Under the sod and under the trees, Lies the body of Jonathan Pease. He is not here, there’s only the pod. Pease shelled out and went to God. Wits and Philosophers Here lies an Atheist. All dressed up And no place to go. She drank good ale, Good punch and wine And lived to the age of 99. Remember man, as you walk by, As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so shall you be. Remember this and follow me. ✹ Send last words to Matt at mstafford@pacificsun.com. OCTOBER 28 - NOVEMBER 3, 2011 PACIFIC SUN 13