Chapter 54: What do you want your obituary to say?

Originally Written December 27, 2021

Before we get into this, let’s meditate on this Richard Thompson song:

Like many people my age, I usually check the obits in the newspaper every day. Also like people my age, way too often I find people I knew there.

One day, hopefully not too soon, I’ll be among them.

And when that happens — assuming there are still those at The Santa Fe New Mexican who still remember me and think I deserve an unpaid “news obit”— whichever reporter gets the honor of writing it will have most of his or her work already done for them.

When I retired from the New Mexican in November 2019, the paper ran a front-page story about my fabulous life and career, written by my colleague Robert Nott.

All that this future obit writer will have to do is to get my age and cause of death (i.e. 99, burned to a crisp in a freak carnival-ride tragedy) and crib some details from that 2019 Nott story.

And if there is anyone over at the Santa Fe Reporter, you can use this nice piece by Alex DeVore.

But a few weeks ago while browsing the paper’s death announcements, I came upon an obituary of an 85 year old man I didn’t know, one David Thomlinson Stearns. The piece appears to have been written by Stearns himself.

RIP David Thomlinson Stearns. You sound like a guy I should have known

“It pains me to admit it, but apparently, I have passed away,” the obit begins. “I grew up a beach boy in Newport Beach, CA, where I bodysurfed with the seals, worked on fishing boats while getting the crew and pelicans drunk and worked on my endless parade of cars with my Dad in his shop.”

Later he writes, “Yes, I am leaving my wife … who will be saved from hearing any more of my bad jokes, and my four children ... who had a hard time controlling their rowdy father. Of course, they all turned out to be just like me. Oops.”

Stearns concluded, “Today I am happily dancing in the clouds. Probably naked. Perhaps we will meet again?”

XXX

It’s going to be hard to beat that.

But I’ll try.

Here goes:

Howdy folks. Steve Terrell here.

Remember me?

If you’re reading this, it probably means I’m dead. In the words of my hero, Benjamin J. Grimm, “What a revoltin’ development!”

You tell ‘em, Ben!

So what can I say about my life?

I don’t want to regurgitate all the usual stuff — my career in journalism, love won and lost, my daring hitchhiking adventures, my weird musical obsessions.

To paraphrase Willie Nelson, “I laughed and I cried, I lived and I died …”

As far as accomplishments go, nothing I’ve done beats the fact that I fathered and raised two wonderful children, Molly and Anton, who grew up to become wonderful adults.

And, at the time I’m writing this, nothing gives me more delight than my two grandsons, Gideon and Clive.

So, to family and friends; to people who read my newspaper stories or listened to my radio show or podcasts; to all the girls I’ve loved before; and to anyone reading this:

If you want to do something to honor my memory, just go out and be kind to others.

Don’t be a bunch of jerks.

And next time you find yourself laughing at something nobody else seems to find very funny, just know I’m there, laughing with you.

Damn, it’s weird being dead.

Guess I’ll have to get used to it.

This is one of the many songs I want played at my funeral

OK, this is the final chapter of Steve Terrell’s Snazzy Life. But don’t bury me, ‘cause I’m not dead yet. Just hold your pickle! In just a few weeks, maybe late February, I’ll be starting a new fun project on Substack. In the meantime, press all the buttons below and tell your friends.

See ya round if you don’t turn square!

See you later, agitator …