What obits don't tell you

When I worked for our local twin weekly newspaper, I had to fill in for the Lifestyles editor from time to time. The Lifestyles section handled, well, lifestyle moments - births, engagements, weddings, anniversaries. Who scored high in the bridge and 500 tourneys at the country club. Where to send cards for a birthday card shower. Occasionally, we'd still get a submission about how so-and-so's relatives visited from there-and-somewhere and the neighbors came over and they had a potluck (it was last century's social media).

Obituaries are a big part of any newspaper, because next to sports, they're the most well-read section. Outside of that, obituaries were something we took seriously at the paper because they are documentation of a goodbye. They are acknowledgement of life moments - a birth, engagement, wedding. Education and career. Who is part of the extended family. When and how a person died. How they will be remembered. Who they leave behind.

Funeral homes take care of most of what is written in obituaries anymore. But occasionally, I have been honored to have been asked to add something a little more. I try to infuse a bit of personality. Maybe a funny remembrance or an aspect of who they were that was particularly memorable. More importantly, how very much they contributed to the lives of the people who they loved.

But there are word count limitations and expenses associated with obituaries, so there's a ton of stuff that obituaries just don't tell you. And if it's a person who was particularly full of life - someone who woke up each day hell-bent on making some kind of a difference - it's downright impossible to capture all of that in 12 column inches.

Doc died on Wednesday. He was headed to meet Kathy and friends at a fundraiser outside of town. It was one of those beautiful summer evenings that are magical. The sky an amazing blue, the setting sun beginning to cast a warm orange and purple glow on the horizon. I can picture him on his motorcycle - the wind in his face and the sun on his forearms. I can see the smile on his face and the joy in his heart. In a split second, he was gone - going from joyful place to joyful place.

I helped Kathy edit his obituary and I tossed and turned last night thinking of all the things I should have written about Doc. There are just too many things obits don't tell you.

Things like how he once told me his favorite color is blue - the shade of blue that reminds him of Kathy's eyes.

That for a period of time we carpooled a 70-minute commute to work, often needing to leave at 5 in the morning in the dark, and no matter how early it was or how tired we were, we would talk and laugh  the entire time. I never slept during the ride to work when I was with Doc.

The time he and Kathy and Kathy's brothers talked me into running 13 miles and I had never, ever run more than 3 and I did those pretty badly, and he stayed next to me at my ridiculously slow pace the entire time and cheered me along - telling me that it was just a little farther and that there were no more hills (he was lying) and that I was going to make it, and I did and I cried when it was over because I was so happy I did it.

That every time he came into my house he would yell, "Heyyyyyyyyyy!" at the top of his voice and scoop everyone into a huge bear hug. That he said and did the craziest things like he was living every moment on a dare and that was fine because he had always been completely aware of how ridiculous he was and just didn't care.

That even though his dad was in the military and he moved around a lot as a kid, he still had a trace of a southern accent and he called everyone from Kathy to the grocery checker "honey" and that little bit of a drawl made everything he said even funnier.

The time he bought a sewing machine because he wanted flags for one of the crazy running or hunting or I can't remember what events he was always doing with his friends and felt the most efficient way to get them was to sew them himself, even though he had no idea how a sewing machine worked and justified the purchase by telling Kathy he had always wanted to learn to quilt.

That Kathy always got a little mad at him when he did stuff like that, but could never stay mad at him for more than five minutes and would end up shaking her head and laugh and say, "God bless you and everything."

That he would say something or tell Kathy something and she would say, "Truth Face!" because that was the only way she could tell if he was trying to pull something over on her.

The times he would hug my daughter and tell us "she's my girl" and talk to her about how wonderful and talented she is and how he believed in her and he would always be there to celebrate the great things she did. And he was.

The time we were all out at Kirsten and Dave's on a winter evening right after Christmas and we sat at the dining room table in the candle light, drinking wine and basking in the warmth of friends who never, ever ran out of things to talk about, and we toasted our blessings and planned trips, excursions and swore we would all cook Chinese food together sometime because other than cutting all the stuff up into tiny pieces, how hard could it be?

That he loved so fiercely and was loved back so completely that contemplating a future without him aches to our very core.

So I write this in honor and in reverence of Doc and his life lived well, wholly, completely, and far too briefly.

And I encourage everyone to think of those things about the people you love, the things that their obit won't say, and to tell those people how very much all those big and little things make a difference to you.

There are too many things that obits don't tell. Don't make them the things you never got around to saying.

That's a value Doc taught me well.