“It’s a Mr. Death. Something About The Reaping?”**

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was somewhat put out this afternoon to find in his mailbox a solicitation from a local memorial park to come in for a “pre-need” planning visit. I wonder how on earth I got on that mailing list? It’s one thing to have AARP constantly pestering, but it’s something else entirely to find the undertakers on your track.

Yikes.

I’m still a couple years short of sixty, so hopefully need not turn my attention to this biznay just yet, but as a matter of fact I can attest from personal experience that the whole thing makes a tremendous amount of sense. Prior to handing in her dinner pail five years ago, the Mothe had taken care of absolutely every item on her own list, from the disposal of her remains right down to which hymns and readings she wanted at her memorial service. With all of us staggering about in shock when the moment came, it was a real blessing not to have to worry about (or pay for) any of that.

I suppose I will just take this as a gentle mememto mori for now. In the meantime, because the Robbo braim works the way it does, I suddenly find myself with an overpowering urge to reread Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One.

**Spot the quote. (Hint: It’s a movie Ol’ Robbo actually doesn’t much like.)