Tim Baumann4/19/05

RedIn Fifty Years…

“So it goes.” Such was the philosophy of the Tralfamadorians about death in Kurt Vonnegut’s masterful work Slaughterhouse-Five. Reading that book changed my perspective on life and death, not to mention messing with my sense of humor. However, I do not fully expect to be alive fifty years from now—so I wrote about my funeral and the transpiring events.

The white clouds drifted by above the church slowly on that day, carried by the gentle breezes. The sun was only partially obscured by them, and it shone bright and warm on the people below in their matte black and their polite sorrow. They entered through the door and found seats, hushing hyperactive children, solemnly greeting one another with nods or handshakes. The resident man of God walked to the pulpit and the people’s voices faded away to a low murmur. The business of the day was coming about, the day of February 3rd, 2055. Clearing his throat quietly, the reverend spoke, “If you would rise and sing ‘What the Lord has Done in Me.’” As the shuffling of people rising started, he added, “It was always one of his favorite hymns.” The entire group sang in the off-key yet melodious voice of a congregation, looking up at the screen which showed them the words. After the final chorus, they sat down and the reverend spoke again.

“We are here today to mourn the loss of a man,” he began, and stopped as people fished in their pockets for a tissue or a handkerchief or something else. “To mourn the loss of a man, one named Timothy David Baumann.” The sniffling started. “He was born on December 31st, 1990, and died January 3rd of this year; he was only sixty-four, and his life could have lasted another twenty years perhaps if it were not for the brain tumor that killed him.” He paused again, waited for it to sink in that the man they were mourning was dead. Forever gone, deceased, never to come back again. It was the most prolonged of all vacancies, more permanent than black Sharpie on a shirt, as devastating to the soul as a toxic gas in the air.

“He was a man of another era,” he said, starting the second paragraph of his speech, “a man who did not care much for glamour or the things which interested other men. Perhaps the only thing that he had in common with most other men was the family that he had with his wife and lifelong friend Jordan Dansky. Our hearts go out to her.” Unmitigated, unstoppable tears flowed down her cheeks, and one of her sons put a reassuring word around his mother and whispered some words into her ear. The minister continued, “Although it may seem strange, it was what made him different and unique, and why we will miss him so much. He was in his way, the last of his kind. Tim was simply a person who did what he deemed necessary, and did not waste energy for something that he found frivolous or distracting. He had a single focus—being the best human being that he could be.” Once again, he waited for a few silent moments.

“He loved to read, he loved to write, he loved to listen to music and sing along.” The people in the chairs below smiled watery smiles, remembering his tenor voice and how he would sing under his breath when he felt uncomfortable or sad. “His was a certain eccentricity, for sure,” the pastor improvised, but then went back to what was in front of him. “Tim loved sports, too. Much of his teenage life was devoted to baseball, which he enjoyed and was proficient at. But perhaps most important to him was teaching the high school students who were lucky enough to have him the history of the world.

“It was especially important to him that they learn about everything that they could. Tim taught them about anything and everything from Chinese dynasties to the Cold War, and did it competently.” The preacher stopped as some people took a few more tissues out of their purses or pockets; he noticed ruefully that some people hadn’t even gotten past their first one. “He always tried to stay up-to-date with his students, so he might be able identify with them more and let them glean a little more information from his class. He knew the bands of the day and the video game systems and the slang and their lifestyle.” The reverend looked down at his paper and found he had only the closing to go.

“Friends, Tim Baumann was an upstanding man, a man who did the best with what he had. While he lived, he was the epitome of self-control and silent inner strength. He died forgiving everyone who had ever persecuted him, indebted to no man. His pride and his soul are finally, after sixty-four years, at rest. If all of you could rise for our final hymn, ‘Amazing Grace.’”

Farther away than any man can possibly imagine, the soul of Tim Baumann and the soul of a close friend looked down on the funeral and the weeping and the slow solemn song.

“Wow,” Tim said. “That’s kind of depressing.”

“What is?” his friend asked, laying down and suppressing a yawn.

“Well, first of all they’re singing ‘Amazing Grace’ at my funeral. I thought it put it in my will that they weren’t supposed to sing that…it’s so cliché.”

Chuckling softly, his friend said, “Well, you are dead. Maybe they thought you wouldn’t notice.”

Smiling, Tim nodded. “But what’s really bothering me is those people. They’re all distraught, or at least pretending to be for gracious reasons. But if they really claim to know me, then they wouldn’t be sad.”

“And why not,” his companion asked. “Isn’t it right that they should be?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I mean, remember that book we had to read in high school, Slaughterhouse-Five? The part about the Tralfamadorian philosophy of death?”

“They were the ones who said, ‘So it goes,’ about death, because the person’s soul still existed—they body was dead, but not the memories. Something like that, wasn’t it?”

“It’s close enough for purposes of debate. But that’s kind of how I think of it. They still remember me now. And I like to think that they’ll continue to. As long as they do that, then I’ll never be truly gone.”

“Amen,” his friend grinned.

They looked back down at the funeral, and while they watched the people finish the third verse, Tim said quietly, “So it goes.”

Thus concludes the somber tale of a funeral of my future self. One can never tell if all of my predictions come true. Nevertheless, I hope that the meaning of my story should still stand should I choose a different profession or decide to have a family, as they are trivial details that are only hopes and dreams.