Standard Speaker Obituaries Today

Let's be honest. When we think about obituaries, we usually picture something a little... solemn. We imagine a serious tone, a list of achievements that would make a saint blush, and a whole lot of very formal language. It's a time for reflection, sure. But does it always have to feel like we're reading a doctoral thesis on someone's life?

I've been noticing a trend. Or maybe it's just me. But I feel like the modern obituary has become a bit of a show. It's like a subtle competition for who lived the "most impressive" life. We’re all striving for that perfect send-off, even in print.

Think about it. The opening lines. They're often a masterpiece of understatement. "Mildred Puttersworth, a beacon of quiet strength..." or "Arthur Finch, a man of few words but immense character..." Now, Mildred and Arthur might have been perfectly lovely people. But were they always a beacon? Did Arthur never once utter a truly spectacular, possibly embarrassing, outburst?

It's the carefully curated list of accomplishments that gets me. Of course, we want to honor the departed. We want to remember their contributions. But sometimes, it reads like a resume that got a little out of hand. "Survived by his loving wife of 52 years, three children, seven grandchildren, a golden retriever named Bartholomew, and his groundbreaking research in the field of quantum entanglement that won him the Nobel Prize in 1978."

And the awards! Oh, the awards. It's like everyone these days was a recipient of at least three different "Man/Woman of the Year" titles from organizations we've never heard of. "He was awarded the Gilded Spatula for his contributions to the local bake sale committee." I’m not saying that’s not important. It is! But maybe we can dial it back just a tiny bit.

Then there’s the language. So very, very proper. We can’t just say someone liked gardening. No, no. They were a "devoted cultivator of the botanical arts." They didn't just tell jokes; they were a "purveyor of mirth and levity." I imagine some poor obituary writer sweating over a thesaurus, trying to find the most obscure word for "loved to knit."

And the family tree! It's like a census report. "He is survived by his maternal great-aunt twice removed, Agnes Fitzwilliam, who he hadn't seen since 1967 but who always sent him a Christmas card." While Agnes is undoubtedly a cherished relative, her connection might not be the headline feature.

My own pet peeve? The almost universal description of everyone as "an unforgettable soul." Are we sure about that? What about the person who, bless their heart, was utterly forgettable? Are we not going to include them in the collective memory?

It's this relentless pursuit of perfection, this need to paint a picture of an impeccably lived life, that strikes me as a bit funny. We're all human. We all have our quirks, our embarrassing moments, our times when we were decidedly not a beacon of anything. We probably all argued with a telemarketer at some point.

And the pets! While I adore animals, it's always a bit amusing how often a pet is listed as a primary survivor. "He is survived by his cat, Mittens, who he often claimed was his only true confidante." I’m pretty sure Mittens is more interested in her next meal.

I propose a new kind of obituary. One that's a little more real. A little more, dare I say, honest. Imagine: "Harold Jenkins, who loved a good nap and often left his socks in the living room, passed away peacefully."

Or: "Brenda McGillicutty, whose lasagna was legendary and whose singing in the shower could be heard three blocks away, has left us. We will miss her questionable dance moves."

What about acknowledging the everyday triumphs? "He successfully assembled IKEA furniture without crying." Or "She finally learned to parallel park on the first try." These are the moments that make us relatable! These are the things we can all nod along to.

Think of the laughter. Imagine reading an obituary that actually makes you chuckle. "He never quite mastered the art of the tie, often sporting a lopsided knot that brought smiles to many." Or "She was a fierce competitor at board games, but notoriously bad at losing gracefully."

It’s not about diminishing anyone’s life. It’s about celebrating the messy, beautiful, imperfect reality of being human. Our loved ones weren't perfect, and that's why we loved them. Their flaws were part of their charm. Their little eccentricities made them unique.

I'm not suggesting we turn obituaries into stand-up comedy routines. But a touch of humor, a dash of genuine personality, a wink at the everyday quirks – wouldn't that make them even more special? It would be a truer reflection of the vibrant, flawed, and wonderful people we actually are.

So, next time you read an obituary, take a moment. Smile at the eloquent prose. Appreciate the list of achievements. But also, perhaps, imagine the real Harold or Brenda behind the carefully crafted words. The one who occasionally misplaced their keys, told a silly joke, or had a truly terrible singing voice.

Because in the end, isn't that what we’ll all remember? Not the exact phrasing of their accomplishments, but the feeling they left us with. The sound of their laughter. The warmth of their presence. The little things that made them, well, them.

Let’s embrace the imperfect. Let's celebrate the ordinary alongside the extraordinary. Let's make obituaries a little less like a royal decree and a little more like a heartfelt, slightly humorous, and utterly genuine conversation with a dear friend.

Maybe one day, mine will read: "Here lies [Your Name]. She made excellent cookies and sometimes forgot to pay her electricity bill on time. She will be missed." Now that, I can get behind.

And if any of you out there are current obituary writers, please, for the love of all that is good, consider adding a line about their favorite comfort food or their most embarrassing childhood nickname. The world needs to know.

It’s a little “unpopular opinion,” I know. But I think it’s time we got a bit more real with our goodbyes. Let's remember the whole person, not just the highlight reel. Let's celebrate the wonderfully imperfect tapestry of a life well-lived.

After all, who wants to be remembered as a "pillar of the community" when you could be remembered as the person who always brought the best snacks to the potluck? It's a no-brainer, really.

So, here's to the slightly sillier, more relatable, and genuinely human obituaries of tomorrow. May they bring a smile to our faces and a warmth to our hearts. And may we all be remembered for our true, glorious imperfections.

And to Bartholomew the golden retriever, and all the other beloved pets who provide us with unwavering companionship, I say: you are truly honored guests in the grand narrative of human lives. Keep those tails wagging.

"The only thing that really matters is the love you give and receive. Everything else is just decoration." - Unknown

I think this unknown wise soul understood the assignment. Let's not forget that when we're busy listing awards and academic achievements. The heart of the matter is far more tender.

And if someone's greatest contribution was a perfectly brewed cup of tea every morning, that's a legacy worth remembering. It's the small, consistent acts of kindness that truly define us.

So, let's raise a metaphorical glass to all the Mildreds and Arthurs out there, the ones who were both a beacon and a bit of a grump when they couldn't find their reading glasses. They were real. And that's what makes them so dearly loved.

Thank you for indulging my little rant. I just think life, and therefore death, deserves a bit of a playful nod. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go ponder my own future obituary. Hopefully, it involves less jargon and more mention of my questionable dance moves.