I have decided not to die. this could be a bit difficult, so let me be clear: I have decided not to die publicly. That is, no funeral notice.

The reason? I can’t live up to the current crop of funeral notices that spill forth daily. (Or should that be “I can’t die down to them”?)

When you get to be a certain age, the small-type notices at the back of the newspaper are “must” reading so you can strike a few names from your Christmas card list. Once, these notices were simple: name, age, spouse, children and time of funeral. But now…

Everyone who dies is a best friend or soulmate. They are adored by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They are renowned for acid wit and their teasing has made them famous. And they have led stunningly wonderful lives.

They have climbed mountains, walked barefoot to the North Pole, canoed up Niagara Falls at the same time as they were launching companies and playing 3D tick-tack-toe with their great-grandchildren. They have been great hostesses, master chefs, champion bridge players, scratch golfers. They have acquired so many medals and trophies in life that they will need an extra coffin to hold all the honours.

I read all about these people and I have two worries. The first is that so many talented and brilliant people are dying off that I wonder who will be left to make sure the trains run on time. My second worry is more personal: what are my heirs going to do? I can see them now, working on my funeral notice. It goes something like this:

“Well, we should put his achievements in the paper. Do we have a list?

“No, there never was enough for a list. But I remember that he once boasted of taking football action shots in Regina with a speed graphic camera.”

“That’s it?

“I think one was printed, and it was the last time anyone used a speed graphic.”

“Let’s hold that. What about prizes?”

“He always said he won the prize for general proficiency in Grade 8. Or maybe he was just shortlisted. Did they have short lists in those days?”

“I’m not even sure they had schools where he came from. What about athletic achievements? “

“He played hockey for 30 years. Organized hockey with team sweaters and sometimes even matching hockey socks.”

“Excellent. We can include his trophies and his famous goals. What have we got?”

“We’re a bit short on trophies.”

“Let’s just list goals scored then.”

“That would be two.”

“Two, total? Two goals in 30 years? So far, my list is blank. Maybe we can scrape up something from his business life.”

“We’re getting somewhere. He wrote shoe copy for the Eaton’s catalogue.”

“Keep going.”

“He spent time at Weekend Magazine. And it’s dead. Then there was a magazine called Report on Confederation and one called Track and even The Star Weekly.”

“Stop right there. Enough with the dead stuff. We need some life in this obit.”

“We could put in that when he had a grandchild, he started carving a Noah’s Ark with all the animals two by two.”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. It’s warm and human. How far did he get?”

“He started with a hippopotamus and we like to think he finished it. There was a little confusion. Some of us thought it was a pig, but it could also have been a bear.”

“What about the rest of the animals?”

“There is no ‘rest.’ The hippo tired him out, although he might have done a snake. They can be difficult to single out.”

“And that’s it for our notice: a maybe prize from Grade 8, two goals, a bunch of dead magazines and what is probably a wooden hippo.”

“Fine, we’ll say he was a modest man and would rest more easily with his achievements not mentioned. And we’ll save some money on the cost of this notice. He would have liked that.”

© 2012 Investment Executive. All rights reserved.