Mincey’s Musings
Year Two, Week One

Laughter and Silence

On a day when I was meditating on a eulogy I would deliver at a friend’s funeral, this poem appeared on Facebook:

Death is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

--Henry Scott Holland

Nothing so appropriate ever came along at a more appropriate and meaningful time. The poem brought a sharp pang of grief that thankfully I have felt very few times in life, but the grief was followed by almost immediate peace. I would have loved to have read this poem at my friend’s service, but I took the poem’s advice and dwelt on the happy times we shared.

There was the time that Mark Martin and my nephew Joe were at my house. It had just come a terrific storm, and in the midst of the atmospheric disturbance Mr. Martin decided that he would like to have a hot fudge sundae from Shoney’s. The two closest were in Harrogate or on Broadway in Knoxville. We chose Harrogate.

Those who knew Mr. Martin recall he was a man of small stature. Most will also recall that no one could eat more in a short amount of time and enjoy it more than Mr. Martin.
Joe had this old yellow station wagon that was obviously closer to the metal graveyard than the factory. The car probably wouldn’t even have been in one piece had it not been for strategically placed wires and duct tape.

We all climbed into the huge front seat. Joe was the driver, Mr. Martin was in the middle, and I was riding shotgun while hugging the passenger door. Still dripping and shivering from the cool summer rain, Joe gripped the steering wheel and said, “Are you ready!”

“Yeah, let her rip!”

Joe reached down under the seat and pulled out the longest screwdriver I have ever seen. He inserted the metallic end into the ignition and gave a hefty turn. No key could have achieved more! With a mufflerless roar and puff of oily smoke the old heap charged into life!

Mr. Martin laughed so hard I believe he would have fallen out of the seat if he hadn’t been in the middle. When Mark Martin laughed, the rest of the world laughed also.

Several years ago, Steinberg’s (an appliance/electronic store) on Broadway in Knoxville was going out of business. I decided it was time for me to emerge into the modern world
and purchase a CD player. Always one for a bargain, I was sure I would save lots of money at the going out of business sale.

I was driving, and Mr. Martin and I were traveling in silence. I have found one of the joys of friendship is a comfort in silence while together. I was lost in my thoughts of my bargain CD player.

Out of the clear blue sky Mr. Martin looked at me and said, serious as a judge, “Did you know Thomas Crapper invented the commode?”

Mr. Martin had no idea how close he came to losing his life years before he actually died. What struck me first was how off the wall his comment was, totally alien to any thought or previous conversation we’d ever had. Secondly, a wicked thought came to me—if Thomas Crapper invented the commode, what was the name of the inventor of the urinal? I honestly laughed until I cried. I could barely see the lines that marked the road.

And then there was the time that Mr. Martin and I took a trip to Nashville. While there we visited the Tennessee State Museum. There was a glass-enclosed case that housed a petrified mummy. Upon close inspection, it seemed one of the mummy’s appendages had fallen off and was lying to the side. Once again my wicked mind intervened as I contemplated which appendage was broken and how that could have happened.

And I could fill a book with such tales of my adventures with Mark Martin. From Mr. Martin I learned something—a friend is someone with whom you can both laugh and be comfortably silent. Oh, just to spend one more hour with such a friend. How blissful to know that sooner than not we will get to share eternity, where we will have new things to laugh at and silently contemplate.

I still want to discuss a little more about snow. Perhaps I will be able to work that in next week. I leave you with another little gem from email:

I've learned that silent company is often more healing than words of advice.