Within hours of the passing of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, commentators had shrunk the meaning of his life and death into an invitation to Americans to participate in a political catfight over the selection of his successor.
As if we weren’t already overwhelmed by such invitations.
Another approach to reckoning with his life offers an alternative to that dominant line of commentary. Even though Scalia’s death was sudden and unexpected, obituary writers were not caught unprepared. For any person of prominence, The New York Times has cached a carefully written but quickly mobilized obituary. And thus The Times’ obituary for Scalia proved to be wonderfully thought-provoking, moving and funny, making it impossible for readers to miss the multiple meanings of this man’s complex story.
The fact that my own writing career began with obituaries has shaped my life in (mostly!) positive ways. As my adviser in graduate school used to say when introducing me, “Patty has put an end to many careers.”
Back in my hometown of Banning, Calif., I landed a part-time job at the local office of the county newspaper, the Riverside Press-Enterprise. Every afternoon, I left high school and shifted my attention to a preoccupation with the dead. Calling the local morticians, I tried to maintain a respectful telephone demeanor, reminding myself that lives full of meaning had just ended.
This attempt at solemnity proved difficult to sustain. “This is Patty from the Press-Enterprise,” I was soon saying to the funeral home directors. “Got anything for me?”
And then, left unsupervised in the office on one drowsy Saturday, I found my imagination pulled toward a literary genre we could call “the premature obituary.” Selflessly, I volunteered myself for the experiment.
“Patty Nelson, age 16, daughter of Grant and Patricia Nelson,” this edgy text began, “died Saturday, following a lengthy period of boredom.”
Overcome by not-entirely-mature hilarity, I placed this document in the envelope that the courier would soon pick up and transport to the editors in Riverside. Just in time, forethought overpowered impulsiveness. Removing my premature obituary from the courier’s envelope, I extended my life as an employee of the Press-Enterprise.
For all my attempts to maintain my distance, that job left its legacy. Obituary writers, I learned, spend their days confronting death and making their best effort to give one final, focused round of attention to the departed. And so, if we were to undertake a quest to find the most temperate and judicious among us, we might head straight to the obituary writers.
Consider what we would gain by recruiting these seasoned professionals to serve as the moderators of presidential debates. “Remember that your days are numbered,” the moderator would say to the candidates, “and also remember that, when you die, people like me will be writing your obituaries. So conduct yourselves tonight in a manner that will permit us to portray you as human beings of grace, substance and dignity.”
Why stop there? Why not assign obituary writers to preside over the swearing-in ceremonies for elected officials, launching them into office with a similar invitation to long-term thinking?
As my own obituary may have to note, my best ideas were sometimes mistaken for jokes not meant to be taken seriously.
I hope this one escapes that fate.
Patty Limerick is Colorado’s state historian and faculty director and chair of the Center of the American West at the University of Colorado.
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