Funeral pre-planning not Christmas greeting

During the holiday season, I look forward to getting the mail every day to see if there’s another greeting card. It’s heartwarming to be remembered by family members and old friends. It’s really a pleasure if they write a personal note or letter.

So, one December 17th, I opened my mailbox with the usual anticipation to find — a card from a local funeral home inviting me to call for an appointment to discuss pre-planning my funeral. What’s more, obviously into the holiday spirit, they offered a $10 gift card should I take them up on their offer.

Talk about a downer! Here I was, humming Christmas carols, shouting “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and decking my halls with boughs of holly — and a funeral home wants me to come in and pre-plan my funeral. Well, that stopped the humming and the Ho! Ho! Ho’s! as if someone had just slapped duct tape across my mouth. A couple boughs of the holly dropped to the floor.

“What are they thinking?” I wondered, “to so oppressively insert doom and gloom into my mailbox just eight days before Christmas?” “On the eighth day of Christmas,” I would have to sing, “my true love sent to me” not “eight maids a milking” but “my funeral a-planning.” “Sheeesh,” I said, or something similar. I thought about insisting on an appointment on Christmas Day but I didn’t think about it very long.

I wondered if everyone in my zip code got a similar greeting or if I were singled out? I don’t know which was more depressing — getting an invitation to discuss my funeral eight days before Christmas or, as happened many years ago, getting two similar invitations from two funeral homes on the same day. I remember it was on a dark, dreary, damp day but at least they weren’t mixed in with real Christmas cards.

I remember going to a mirror back then to take a good look. Not so hot, I had to admit, but definitely still kicking. I kicked out one leg and then the other in an old cheerleader’s stance, just to make sure. Yep, still kicking.

I sat down in a rocking chair to ponder if I had received an omen or was just a victim of mass merchandising.

Suddenly, I detected some specific pains. My right wrist throbbed. All my knuckles were stiff. A brand-new twinge developed in my big toe on my left foot and a sharp pain stabbed my left ear.

I remembered considering several options to deal with the two unwelcome letters, including just throwing them in the trash and eating some chocolate. Which is what I decided to do. Just as I unwrapped a Snickers bar, the sun broke through the clouds. I looked at this funeral home’s idea of a holiday greeting. I had a look again in the bathroom mirror. Clearly, some years had sprinted past. I tried the cheerleader kicks again. Maybe not as high but, still, definitely identifiable kicks. “Still kicking!” I said out loud.

I knew what I had to do. I threw the card in the trash, started humming “Jingle Bells,” interrupting myself with a jolly, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as I picked up and rehung the two boughs of holly in the hall. Then I unwrapped another Snickers bar.

Mary McClure is a former newspaper editor who writes a weekly column for The Lawton Constitution.