Alpine Obituary

Tuesday, nine-fifteen a.m., publication day for The Alpine Advocate. Coffee and a croissant smeared with boysenberry jam. A quiet September morning with the sun filtering through the small window above my desk. Quiet, that is, until my House & Home editor's hat fell off. She jumped from her chair, ignored the hat, snatched up a couple of sheets of paper, and stomped across the newsroom into my office. "I've never seen the like," Vida Runkel huffed, slapping the handwritten sheets on my desk. "Believe me, I've seen my share of outrageous obituaries during my years with the Advocate, but this one beats all." She crossed her arms over her imposing bust and tapped an agitated foot. As the weekly newspaper's editor and publisher for the past eleven years, I'd printed some real pips, including leads that read paddle your own canoe, arlo, georgie-porgie's eating heaven's pudding and pie, and agatha left her piano to her niece, but took her organs with her. I began to read out loud. "John (Jack) Augustus Froland died Monday night (Labor Day) at home in Alpine after a long illness. Jack, as he was known and loved by all, had turned 80 years young last month. Born Aug. 12, 1920, right here in Alpine, Jack was the son of Augustus (Gus) and Violet (nee Iverson) Froland. Jack graduated from Alpine High School in 1938 and went to work at the Tonga-Cascade Timber Mill until his retirement in 1985, when the mill was shut down due to pressure from the tree-huggers." So far, so good. Well, maybe not very good, but at least not outlandish. I continued as Vida fumed. "After serving with the Seabees during WWII, Jack returned to Alpine and married June Grandorf in 1948. Their daughter, Lynn, preceded Jack in death in 1967. A son, Max, lives in Seattle. Jack will be remembered as a hardworking, fun-loving man, especially to what he called 'his boys' at Mugs Ahoy Tavern. Funeral services are set for 11 a.m. Friday, Sept. 8, at Faith Lutheran Church. Burial will be in Alpine Cemetery. A viewing of Jack's remains will be held at Driggers Funeral Home, Thursday, Sept. 7, between 7 and 8:30 p.m. "come see jack in the box!" I laughed. Not loudly, not uncontrollably, and not for long. But at least I laughed. I hadn't laughed much in the past fourteen months, and with good reason. "We can't run this," Vida huffed. "It's too ridiculous. It's even worse than when Emily Trews wrote her own obituary and viciously attacked most of her relatives and half the congregation at First Presbyterian Church." And though Vida hadn't laughed, she didn't chastise me for doing so. Vida may work for me, but her seniority in years, employment on the Advocate, and august demeanor give her the right to take any one of us to task. "We have to run it," I replied. "Ever since we started charging for space on the Vital Statistics page at the beginning of the year, we've promised to run items word-for-word except for spelling and grammatical corrections. And libelous material such as Emily Trews submitted." Vida grabbed up the handwritten sheets, stomped out to her desk in the editorial office, and sat down with a thud. "You take full responsibility then," she called to me, whipping off her glasses and vigorously rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hand. "Ooooh," she wailed, "it must have been June who wrote this up. Jack's wife never did have any sense." Most people didn't have--much less use--sense as far as Vida was concerned. I smiled in that vague, hesitant manner I'd developed over the past year and more. "Of course I'll take responsibility." I said from the doorway to my cubbyhole of an office. "I'm the publisher, remember?" Sometimes it seemed that Vida forgot. "I suppose I'll have to go to the funeral," Vida grumbled. "I'veDaheim, Mary is the author of 'Alpine Obituary' with ISBN 9780345447913 and ISBN 0345447913.