I go to funerals. The ones with a reception following the service.
The unctuous funeral director greets me with suspicious looks.
He\u2019s seen me many times. Probably recognizes my only necktie.
He used to grease me with a perfunctory, “Sorry for your loss.”
Now he just nods grimly like I\u2019m an old enemy he now tolerates.
I do not recognize any mourners in the church. I seldom do.
After the service, I quickly head to the reception. I go for food.
Not metaphorical food like being fed by a sermon or eulogy.
Can\u2019t recall when one of those fed me anything but cliches.
I go for real food and sometimes murmured exchanges with
strangers who think we share a loss. Of course, we do not.
But I commiserate with them, mentioning the deceased
whose name I got from the bulletin the usher handed me.
While my hopeful eyes assess long tables laden with food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I go to funerals. The ones with a reception following the service.The unctuous funeral director greets me with suspicious looks.He\u2019s seen me many times. Probably recognizes my only necktie.He used to grease me with a perfunctory, “Sorry for your loss.”Now he just nods grimly like I\u2019m an old enemy he now tolerates.I do not recognize … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3974","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-126","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3974","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3974"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3974\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3975,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3974\/revisions\/3975"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3974"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3974"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3974"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Mac McLeod is an old man, ninety on his next birthday. A southerner by birth and disposition, he\u2019s had several careers. A husband, father of five, former military aviator, lawyer, insurance agency owner, and Episcopal priest. He has a good sense of both humor and the absurdities of life and living. A new poet, he’s recently been writing sonnets.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"