I don’t see the point in funerals. When my grandpa died, everyone cried. They cried together. They cried apart.
Grandpa was like the weirdest dude I’ve ever known. He had the classic Grandpa “Cure All”. It contained no less than:
- olive oil
- fermented garlic
- cayenne pepper
- linseed oil
- ground white pepper
- something green like an herb
- apple cider vinegar
It was a punch to the face. Had a doctor explain chemotherapy like, “It’s easy to kill the cancer. It’s hard to keep the patient alive while we’re doing it.” Grandpa’s “Cure All” was exactly like that. If it didn’t kill you, everything that was trying to invade certainly ran for the hills.
My point was that I didn’t understand why everyone was crying. Yeah, it’s sad, but would Grandpa want us to be sad? I don’t think so. I think he’d want us to be healthy. I think he’d want us to eat things in our gardens. And I’m not talking about just the vegetables… this guy would grab random flowers and broad leaf marshmallow plants and just hand them to us as kids.
“What’s this?” we’d ask.
“Quid viridi,” he’d say.
That was it. It when in the mouth and we marveled at the strange creature that drove heavy machinery and ate like a druid.
So now I have to plan a funeral. And I hate it.
What would the person want?
Asher was so afraid of what would happen to his family if he died. He was afraid we would splinter against the rocks and never be safe again. He didn’t want to be the cause of so much pain.
So we’re going to laugh. We’re going to tell jokes and share beautiful things.
I need to figure out the genres. The big chuncks in which we can glory.
And ham&cheese sandwiches.
Yeah. Let’s laugh at the party.