Let’s face it, folks, only the good die! Age doesn’t matter: - 2, 82, 102, it’s the same: “We shall never see the(ir) likes again.” Ever. Woe is us, left behind. Bereft, abandoned, all alone in this Vale of Fears.
Go into any graveyard and witness there – on the shiny headstones – descriptions of the greatest, most loving saints who ever lived, lost and gone forever. Read death notices and it’s usually the same. This, not unnaturally, is death decorated by grief and that generous – if trying - old Irish custom of not speaking ill of the dearly departed.
But it can be galling to hear some well-known rogue (or worse) lauded as God’s gift to humanity in eulogies at funeral services where everyone in the congregation knows the reality but who, in charity, go along with the fiction in a nod to those left behind. They who know the truth – having suffered it – but feel obliged by ritual to go through the expected (e)motions.
A recent death notice for a Dublin criminal said he died “peacefully, surrounded by his loving family”. Okay. Then his funeral was told that “he taught us all values that money can’t buy”. Not even his great fortune, most of it stolen.
Equally true was the statement that “you gave us all your love, life, morals to be the men and women, the people that we are today.” Among his children are some of Ireland’s most notorious “baddies”.
On the other hand, you had this refreshing obituary notice for Florence “Flo” Harrelson of Glenburn, Maine, in the US, who died earlier this year aged 65. Her death notice was published last August on the Kennebec Journal and Morning Sentinel’s website.
It read: “Died on Feb. 22, 2024, without family by her side due to burnt bridges and a wake of destruction left in her path. Florence did not want an obituary or anyone including family to know she died. That’s because even in death, she wanted those she terrorized to still be living in fear looking over their shoulders. So, this isn’t so much an obituary but more of a public service announcement.”
It was written by Ms Harrelon’s daughter Christina, on learning of her mother’s death six months after the event.
Eulogy, from Latin eulogium, Greek eulogia, for `praise.’
