Contemplating crime while waiting to say goodbye to our friend Dave at the funeral home

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I don’t know what it is about small town funerals that often leads me to think of committing crimes.

Happened yesterday at the visitation for our friend Dave Planinsek, 63. When someone like Dave dies — and there aren’t many like Dave — everyone stops what they’re doing and heads over to pay their respects. 

People stand in line for hours and think about what to say, how to comfort the family and if it’s too soon to call dibs on that fishing rod Dave’ll no longer be needing.

And while they’re thinking these mostly altruistic thoughts, I’m standing there thinking, “Man, now would be a dandy time to stick-up the bank.”

A bank heist would be a cinch when someone like Dave expires in a town like Latrobe. Everyone in town was there to mourn Dave so the rest of town was wide open.

I imagine me running into the empty bank, demanding money, and having the lone teller toss me the keys and saying, “Here you go. Lock up when you’re done,” as she runs out the door in the vain hopes of securing convenient parking.

Of course, there was no convenient parking at Dave’s visitation, thus fulfilling “Use All The Crayons!” colorful living tip no. 42:

“Try and do something each and every day that’ll ensure parking at your funeral will be a real bitch.”

That’s how Dave lived. A retired agent with the state Department of Environmental Protection Agency, he and his wife Cindy are renown for hosting a spring fishing derby on their sylvan property. 

I’d see him every couple days at The Tin Lizzy and was always pleased when he’d sit next to me. The conversation was always insightful, interesting and always circled back to having fun. He’s the only guy I know who could talk for 30 minutes about wild mushrooms native to the Chestnut Ridge and be enlightening instead of excruciating.

Another great thing about Dave: I have no idea about his political leanings. 

If he was a Trump fan, I don’t recall him beating me over the head about it. Likewise, I don’t remember him pulling out a rainbow wig and sashaying around the bar when Megan Rapinoe scored for either the US of A or the LBGQ of T or whatever. 

I do know this: he was a law-and-order guy.

He loved his family, country, the outdoors and people who rolled up their sleeves and worked hard to better his community. 

He was contemptuous of those who felt entitled, those who cut corners, those who felt the rules didn’t apply to them.

So on the day we said goodbye to Dave, Dave would have disdained me.

Because I did something worse than rob a bank.

I cut the line at the funeral home.

I know. It’s the kind of brazen act that could lead to a horizontal sort of visit to that very funeral home.

But the line was so, so, long and the smiling stranger had run out of flattering things to say to me. She’d overheard me talking to some friends and pieced together I’d written the Arnold Palmer book.

“It’s the best book I’ve ever read,” she said with sweet sincerity. I love to hear things like that and am always happy my wife’s not around to logically ask how many books she’s read, if that includes the Bible, and if I’d paid her to say the heresy out loud.

But the line wasn’t moving and the conversation lapsed. Plus, I had to pick up my daughter at the middle school. I’d stood in line for an hour and still had at least another 30 minutes to get to Dave and his grieving family.

I told my friend and he offered an illicit suggestion: Cheat.

“Just skip through that door, down the hall and into the main room.”

He said I could get essential family credit, by just popping in the casket room, signing the book and being seen by the family. From across the room, I could offer a reassuring smile and a solemn nod that says, “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be fine. Did I mention, ‘I’m here?’”

So what did I do?

What do you think. I took the easy way out! Because the easy way isn’t always the right way, but it’s always easy and sometimes that’s all right.

I feel bad I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to a good, kind man whose manner and ethic brightened so many of our lives.

But to be honest I don’t feel that bad.

I’ll instead treasure all those hellos.

Related …

Hire me to ensure a memorable funeral

Speaking ill of the dead for fun & profit

Crooked cop shows America needs honest obits

Our dear friend Sue is gone

RIP Dow Carnahan

Our dear friend Sue is gone; here's one way her memory will go on forever and ever

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Being alive in a small town means you spend a substantial amount of time mourning those who suddenly or otherwise no longer are. You attend a lot of funerals. 

Each is compelling and sad in its own way so I’m often drawn to write about them.

This can be tricky. I don’t want to say anything rude or be less than honest memorializing, say, a beloved town drunk. 

And you don’t want to by omission snub someone by ignoring their passing, but I worry saluting so many would be unwise. The topic might become maudlin for Midwest readers who enjoy reading about things like the day the barnstorming troupe of gypsy strippers showed up at the Tin Lizzy (link below).

But the passing of Susan Sniezek, 69, is too momentous to ignore. I loved her very much. Everyone did. And we love Marty, her husband of 50 years, and their daughter, Jenn, and her wonderful family.

They’re just these incredibly warm and funny people, the kind when as soon as you walk away from seeing them you immediately begin looking forward to the next time you get to see them.

Now, none of us will ever see Sue again.

But, I swear, none of us will ever forget her. 

I could tell stories all day, but because of my stated fears of the blog becoming stale, I promise I’ll only mention her name once more and it won’t be until the very end. And instead of death, we’ll talk about life.

Because on the very day our friend died, a baby girl was born in the same hospital. Her parents named her Rachel. Here’s some rosy speculation of how Rachel’s life could go if she turns out blessed the way few are. 

Her parents will be wise and loving. She will be raised with a spirit of playful adventure. As a youth, she will travel to places like Norway where she will dance and sing so exuberantly on public transportation that even work-weary Norwegian commuters will be cheered by the youthful Yanks.

She will meet a young veteran who drives an ice cream truck and woos her with free treats. It will be the beginning of a more than 50-year romance so vivacious it will inspire countless young couples that a marriage like theirs is worthy of emulation.

There marriage will involve enduring joy that will brighten memories and unbidden heartbreak that will bestow soulful compassion for those who grieve.

She’ll be the kind of mother who lets expectant mothers see that raising a sweet, beautiful daughter — and every single daughter is somehow sweet and beautiful — is life’s greatest joy. 

Rachel will engage in an active and euphoric social life and when the bar door swings opens and people see her blond hair and smiling face walk in all will be more glad they decided to visit the club on that day.

Heck, all will be more glad to be alive. 

She’ll be the kind of parent who never misses her daughter’s activities and audibly cheers her on and only slightly less audibly cheers on all the other kids. 

From both teams.

Other people will throw fine seasonal parties. For Rachel and her dear husband, the parties will never end. They will turn their spacious basement into a lively saloon where all will be welcome.

Maybe they’ll call it, oh, the “Neon Moon.”

She’ll never outgrow her sweetly childish love for Christmas and will festoon her home with more than 600 Santa Claus holiday knick knacks. By doing so, she’ll let everyone know it’s okay to be a kid again at Christmas, and all year-round, really. 

And when news spreads around this small town that Rachel is sick, the whole town will say fervent prayers that God intervene because towns like this need our Rachels.

And, hallelujah, God will listen.

And one day many blessed years later some old men will be sitting on a park bench and maybe see Rachel pushing a stroller with her adored granddaughter.

“Well, here comes Rachel,” one might say to the other. “Isn’t she beautiful. Loved by men, admired by women, resented by none, hers is a light that illuminates the whole world, the kind that will never truly die.”

“Yep, she’s one of the kindest, most generous and sweetest people I’ve ever known. Truly, 1-in-a-million.”

“More like 1-in-100-million.”

“Reminds me of Sue Sniezek.”

Related … 

Marty & Sue at the Kecksburg alien parade

Small town funeral etiquette

Hire me to ensure a memorable funeral

A day for mourning: RIP Dow Carnahan

A hometown funeral & “The Art of Living Suddenly”

Barnstorming strippers seeking Tin Lizzy gig

• At the risk of appearing self-serving, here’s Sue and her granddaughter Martina at the 1:50 mark in a promotional video. She was a big supporter of my writing and a true friend.

A hometown funeral & "The Art of Living Suddenly"

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I’ve been at this fatherhood thing long enough I figure I can BS my way clear across any vast canyon of factual oblivion.

Merely appearing wise conceals authentic foolishness — and that utterly pointless 6-word statement practically proves the point of the whole daddy baffle.

But my high school senior stumped me the other day when she asked me to help her with something that had been troubling her sweet soul: What does she say to her friend whose Mom just died?

Gee, I’m sorry? Tough break? Hang in there?

Which godforsaken cliche might Band-Aid a tender heart that is exploding into a million tiny pieces?

I didn’t know the woman.

Everyone else in town did.

Val and Josie waited in line 2 hours at the funeral home visitation service on an afternoon that was as sunny and cheerful as the 52-year-old mother of two they were all there to mourn. 

That right there fulfills one of my bedrock lessons of a life well-lived. It’s no. 42 in “Use All The Crayons!” and one I always share with audiences who are there to — and it sounds crazy to me, too — hear my thoughts on colorful living:

“Try and do something each and every day that’ll ensure parking at your funeral will be a real bitch.”

It’s great advice, really. Want people to show up at your funeral and comfort your loved ones with honest stories of how much you mattered?

Make your own list, but include things like …

Make eye contact. Be optimistic. Be generous. Laugh easily. Avoid petty political fights on Facebook. Treat the guy who works on your car the same as you treat the guy who works on your heart.

And, c’mon, treat everyone nice.

I’ll bet doing all that was second nature to Mrs. S.

This all happens at a time when I’m immersing myself in thoughts of sudden death, legacy, and the elusive meaning of it all. I’ve spent the last few months constructing a book proposal I’m calling “The Art of Living Suddenly: How to Deal with a Parkinson’s Diagnosis (and other things that suck).”

Losing your ever-loving mother in high school certainly qualifies as something that sucks.

It is my contention that anytime we hear of anyone dying suddenly, we need to commit to living suddenly.

What’s living suddenly? Well, it may be self-defeating for me to say so, but if you’ve read this blog this far you’re probably not doing it.

I’m kidding! Your reading and encouragement gives real meaning to my life — no real income, but real meaning.

I’m still not sure what it means to live suddenly but for me it involves laughter, conversation, family, friends and other priorities that keep professional stability an unattainable goal.

But living suddenly is something you need to define for yourself and I suggest you do so right away.

Because you just never know when your time is up.

I was talking about all this to a bartender friend of mine — and that is redundant; every bartender is a friend of mine. His father was killed when he was in high school. He was riding his motorcycle when a senior citizen without a license ran a red light and wiped him out.

He was 55. My age.

“I was just devastated,” he said. “He was the greatest Dad in the world. I miss him every single day. It was just so senseless.”

He meant the death was senseless, but the same could be said for life. It rarely makes any sense to me.

I audaciously believed by the time I got this far I’d have conceived something truthful I could tell my daughter to share with her friend, something that would bestow profound clarity to her grief.

I was mistaken. 

Instead, all I have are questions: Is life ever fair? How do we help the hurting to heal? What’s the point of so much pain?

And if we’re not living suddenly, are we really even living at all?

Related …

Small town funeral etiquette

Hire me to ensure a memorable funeral

Death to boring dinner deaths

RIP Arnold Palmer: A lucky local says goodbye

The day I staked out Charles Bronson’s Mom’s funeral

Church rules on cremation & what we did with Dad