Comic Strip of the Day

CSotD: Pancho Pillow and death and Zambonis

Skip to comments

Mike Peterson Published: October 9, 2013 1 minute 2 comments

Bug Martini on the requirements of public mourning, which throws me into the depths of a conundrum.

And please, no "Lumpy Gravy" references of "Did you ever live in a conundrum?" because I'm focusing more on Pancho Pillow from "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," to whom Kesey delivered the oft-quoted-here line, "Why should I take your bad trip?"

Why indeed?

I really, really like that Adam Huber has framed the issue so absurdly, such that (A) unless your loved one was run over by a Zamboni, this isn't about you and (B) we're not really talking about Zambonis. 

The conundrum is that I believe in the concept that you shouldn't tell people how to mourn. If it helps them get through it, it's "appropriate." 

But I also believe in not forcing people to take your bad trip and also in allowing yourself to heal and that, trust me, the dead are never forgotten, a year later or ten or 40 or more.

And I firmly believe that the rule about "no wrong way to mourn" works both ways. If regularly posting flowery Hallmark-card stuff on your Facebook page works for you, that's okay, but don't you dare add a passive-aggressive note judging people who decline to share it.

In the same way, I deeply sympathize with vets who remain troubled by what they have seen. But I also know that not all vets walk around in cammo, and yet I've never heard anybody say, "Honey? When I was in the Army back in the 60s? Did they ever send me to Vietnam?"

Different strokes. Respect it.

As for the Zamboni fun walks, I know Vietnam vets who are active in veteran's affairs and my own parents were nationally and even internationally active in Compassionate Friends, whereby they helped a lot of other bereaved parents.

But you ruin those gestures if you suggest that they are a barometer of how much someone cares.

One of the more interesting things I found in researching my serial set on the Civil War homefront came in doing background work for a young widow in the story. 

We often hear the horrific battlefield casualties, but we don't often realize how many 18- and 19- and 20-year-old widows were created thereby, young women who were not only devastated by their personal loss and often left with small children and no income, but who were also highly constrained both by 19th century customs normally applied to much older women, and by the added pressure of becoming, will she or nil she, the face of gallant sacrifice for those around them.

Talk about being forced to go on the March Against Zambonis! Those who couldn't find, or couldn't afford, an all-black wardrobe had to dye their existing clothing, with mixed results, while any rebuilding of a social life was seen not just as disloyal to the dead husband but to the nation as well.

Next to which I am truly humbled.

Still, I must cultivate my own garden, and, having had a brother killed in an automobile accident, I flinch a bit when I drive by the makeshift shrines people put up at the roadside where they've lost a family member.

I don't want to dwell on the last seconds of Tony's life. I'd rather think of him when I hear his favorite music or see a high school basketball player who is not the best athlete on the court but just might be the best teammate.

Or when I see something rude-but-funny and think how much he would have laughed. 

I've even been known to post on Facebook about him, on his birthday or the anniversary of his death or some other time when he comes to mind and there is something relevant to share, and I like to see similar posts, along the lines of "Here's a song my brother loved," or "Here's a photo from the last time we were all together" or "When I hike this trail, I remember our camp-outs."

Which goes back to the conundrum. I won't tell you what to post on your page, but my own reaction is pretty mixed: "Relax, don't worry, you will never, ever forget, but meanwhile you are really, really being a downer and I wish you'd knock it off."

Yeah, Adam Huber is funnier. 

But we already knew that.

And speaking of rude things that would have made Tony laugh, whenever I see one of those decals on the back of a car that lists somebody's birth and death dates, I wonder if that means now you can't ever sell it, which in turn makes me think of this: