Terry Traveller – Rites of Passage

After the loss of “my good friends, Bowie and Alan” as Terry pits it. Terry decides to publish a last will and testament. No way I’m opening that box under the sink. – Editor

Terry Taveler once again, glad to call you my loyal friends and family. Unfortunately that number has been fluxuating quite a bit these days.

This time of year, at my age, the phone seems to ring every day telling me another person died. Not even my famous friends have been spared. 

You learn to accept it, I suppose. When you irritate dictators, run away from bulls, and hang out with warlocks and rock stars all your life, death becomes a part of the norm. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t give me pause.
 
In that pause I think of many serious things: if I get murdered in the city would someone go revenging in my name, would candlelit vigils span the globe in every language; what will people think of me when they find that crate under my kitchen sink; will my executor know what to do with all my parkas?
 
The thoughts change tracks and I think of the funeral rituals I’ve witnessed world wide: the sacrifices of the Waponi Woo leaping into the volcano hopped up on orange soda, the elder tribesmen of the Southwest walking into the desert to let the buzzard have their meal, the VIP regatta/ funeral catered by “Shut Up and Eat” featuring mimes as waiters.
 
Naturally, my mind soon finds the memory of my distant cousin Frank’s Sister-in-law’s uncle’s funeral where his family posed with the casket for pictures to use on the next holiday card before asking if the Funeral Director would change him into a tee shirt so they could return the new flannel button up for it’s $12.99 value.
 
I then shake my head and start to think of my own arrangements, which have been laid out in pencil on a piece of yellow legal paper.
 
They are simple instructions for I am a simple person: let it be a merry event, filled with good food and drink; make sure I know where to find my towel. Make sure there are enough flaming arrows to sink the gasoline soaked coffin in the lifeboat, and a band of kazoos, didgeridoos, and bagpipes humming Amazing Grace. Follow the map in my desk to find the buried treasure to pay for it all, donate the parkas to science. Oh, and no pictures please. The mimes would be ok.
 
This is Terry Traveler saying let’s just forget about that crate under the kitchen sink, its best left for the anthropologists to figure out.

Terry Traveller
Email: terry@discoveradel.com
Facebook: facebook.com/DiscoverAdel.TerryTraveller?fref=ts