What else should be expected when we get so up in years?

Jim Fall

Please do not be misled by that headline.

Headlines are, after all, designed to “grab attention,” and obviously, that one has.

Now, it remains to be seen whether I can retain that interest throughout.

But don’t get all excited about the possibility that you are about to read a series of innovative ideas about how to survive older age.

That ain’t happenin’, at least not right now.

This headline is intended to restate one plain truth that I have had to face too often in recent weeks.

None of us is getting out of here alive.

Put more to the immediate point: I am tired of attending funerals.

Since the most recent string of internments began not even a month ago, I have been to five.

First it was an old friend from the days when we were neighbors in Rock Port.

Next, it was my sister-in-law, then an uncle, both from Jan’s side of the family.

The first of the following week, the ex-neighbor’s wife, who had been unable to attend her husband’s services, passed away.

Then, last week, I experienced (as Yogi Berra once said) a bit of “deja’ vu all over again.”

I drove from northwest Missouri to northeastern Arkansas for the funeral of a dear, dear, old friend from my youth and young adulthood in West Memphis, Arkansas — Carol Green Marotti Hughes.

I refer to that trip as “deja’ vu” because not too long after our family had moved to Albany in 1975, we made that jaunt for the services of Carol’s first husband, Buddy, who had died suddenly.

Their son, Scott, and our son, Tim, were best friends through sixth grade, when we moved to Missouri, and remain close today, even though Scott is in Little Rock and Tim is in Oklahoma City.

That, and the fact the Marottis had traveled to Helena when Jan passed away, made the trip back to West Memphis for Carol’s services a must, certainly for Tim and me.

Like those events usually seem to be, it was a bittersweet reunion of old friends and families — but the kind you are always glad to have been a part of.

I had the opportunity to visit again with some folks I had known, seemingly for as long as I can remember, classmates as well as members of my beloved Holy Cross Episcopal Church.

While in West Memphis, I stopped in to see my old friend who organizes the local WMHS Class of 1955 reunions every year and he brought me up to date on this year’s plans.

He also informed me that one of our best friends during those high school days has lost his extended battle with cancer in the past year.

Bummer.

While still in Arkansas, I heard from the Jonagans that a classmate of daughter Sarah’s from Albany had died suddenly.

Next came the still sadder news that Tom Stephens had passed away.

Then Vilas Young.

Give me a break.

Vilas was mayor when I came originally to Maryville and The

Daily Forum, and we bonded, immediately, like mayors and newspaper people are not always willing to do.

When I returned in 2007, it was Vilas who invited me, almost immediately, to speak at Men’s Forum.

“What about? I asked.

“Maybe you could just compare your time in Montana to your time in Maryville,” he said with that familiar Young glint in his eye.

I was a member before I left the meeting.

Thinking about all those events, it just make me realize, more vividly, what I somewhat jokingly said earlier.

None of us is getting out of here alive, and we may as well get used to that idea.

I think I did as Tim and I were leaving the lunch Buddy Marotti’s brother hosted following the services for Carol.

We had visited at length with

Rufus, her second husband of some 20-plus years, and two of his sons extensively during the afternoon. And we had exchanged old-time stories extensively with her son, Scott, and his family.

As we were sharing goodbyes at the front door before leaving, Scott said to us that we needed to get together more often — you know the routine.

“… and not just for funerals,” he quipped, completely innocently.

“Yeah, because the next one will probably be mine,” I blurted, with equal innocence.

But, as soon as the words came out, I realized the potential truth in them.

No, that is not a death wish, nor some veiled message about my health that I am afraid to face.

It is simply a fact of life — and death — that becomes more reality as I approach “four score and …” years.

I welcome, in a very special sense of the word, the opportunity to attend services for friends who have died.

To share my affection and my respect to the family and friends of the departed — and for me, too.

Let’s face it, we’ll all get there, sooner or later.