The Funeral Picture
I am flying back from Sanibel and Naples, Florida, after a work/play trip with Mary. As I was going through all the photos we took, I stopped at one of me and thought, “Oh yeah. That’s the one.” The one that should go in my funeral photo collage.
Our kids, Mary and I have laughed about this over the years. Every once in a while somebody takes a picture on vacation, at a concert or just completely randomly, and it somehow seems right. There is something about the picture that just says, that IS the person. We have actually looked at pictures and said, “That’s a funeral picture.”
When I took this one, I was just screwing around taking a selfie. I was standing on the beach in Sanibel early in the morning. It was probably 7:00 AM. Mary was looking for shells. I was thinking about breakfast. I was also thinking about how much my legs itched from the no-see-um attack the night before.
Nothing particularly profound was going on.
But in the picture, I am standing there very much alive. I was having a fantastic morning. The guy in the picture looks pretty healthy for 61. He is standing on a beautiful beach. The weather is awesome. He is with his best buddy. Life is pretty darn good.
And now, sitting on the plane, I am thinking about my own funeral picture again.
What exactly is it about that picture? Is it the smile? Is it because I am on vacation and I am relaxed? Is it because I am someplace pretty cool? Is it because, for once, I don't think I look that fat? I am also wearing a Greenland Sharks shirt that is clearly visible, so that doesn't hurt either. Oh, maybe its the sunglasses.
Whatever it is, I look at the picture and clearly see me.
But then I started thinking about who everyone else will see when they look at it someday.
My kids will see Dad, but each one of them will see a different Dad. They will have their own collection. Vacations we took. Stuff I worried too much about. Things I said over and over that drove them nuts. Sitting at dinner and telling no phones. Cubs games. Times I embarrassed them. Times I showed up when they needed me. Awhole bunch of little things.
Mary will see something completely different. We have been together for almost our entire adult lives. She knew me when since we were in college and didn't know what the hell we were doing. We raised three kids together. Built a house and a life together. Went through parents getting older and dying. Kids growing up and leaving. Businesses, vacations, arguments, great meals, conversations and a million completely ordinary days. She'll look at that 61-year-old guy on the beach and know pretty much every version of him that came before.
Paul will see his younger brother. He'll see the kid he played catch with after dinner, the BIG fight we had where our parents thought we woud never speak to each other again. and all the stupid stuff brothers remember that nobody else would understand. He'll know exactly where I came from because he was there for most of it.
My friends will see their version of me. Hopefully at least a few will remember me telling them to get their ass to breakfast on Friday mornings.
None of that is actually in the picture. It's just a guy standing on a beach, looking pretty good in sunglasses and a blue Greenland Sharks shirt.
The picture doesn't tell my life story. The people looking at it do.
Maybe that's why I like this one. It doesn't look like I'm trying to be remembered. I'm not dressed up. I'm not posing for anything important. I'm on vacation with Mary. She's looking for shells. I'm thinking about breakfast and scratching the hell out of my legs.
I'm just having a really good morning.
And apparently I got one more thing taken care of while I was down there.
The funeral picture.
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.
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