From Beginning to End

by Robert Fulghum

  In the past, when our country was still largely rural, our practices were similar in every way to what is done in Greece. But those days are gone. We are a sophisticated, multifaceted urban society now.

  Death, in our time, has been given over to institutions.

  Eighty percent of us die in a hospital. If we die elsewhere, 911 is called, and the police, fire department, ambulance company, emergency room, funeral home, lawyers, courts, insurance companies, accountants, churches and ministers, cemeteries, and several government agencies become involved. All have their rules and protocols. For most of us, once we die, we are no longer in the care of our families and friends—strangers and institutions take over. Though we may witness the portrayal of thousands of deaths in movies and on television, it is rare for any of us to see a dead person, much less touch or care for the deceased.

  Death is not in our school curriculum.

  Except perhaps in a biology course, death and dying are not considered.

  Instead of a normal part of life, death is treated as an unexpected emergency, something that happens when the medical community fails. We always die “of something”—as though if it weren’t for that disease or accident, we could have lived on. “Old age” or “worn out” or “life completed” are concepts not found on death certificates or in obituaries.

  Death in our time means crisis.

  When someone dies and I’m called upon as a minister, I’m struck by the tone of “something awful has happened.” And the response to the crisis is haste. As soon as possible, things must be done: The living must put aside their lives to meet the emergency of death—arrangements must be made, people must be called, decisions must be reached—all as soon as possible. Urgency dominates. Because they were not expecting this to happen. “She died unexpectedly.” That’s what we say.

  So many times I have met with families who had no clue as to what to do or where to begin. They don’t know the wishes of the deceased, much less if there is a will and where it might be. The possibility of death has never been addressed in that family. Instead of the last rites, we deal with the last crisis. It’s no wonder funerals often seem awkward and painful. We are not prepared.

  It doesn’t have to be this way.

  I will go further and say it should not be this way.

  As I invited you to a wedding and the celebration of the birth of a child, let me take you with me to a funeral. A really fine funeral that celebrates a wonderful life and illustrates how much life is gained by preparing well for being dead.

  For now you only need know that the deceased is an eighty-year-old retired schoolteacher named Martha Carter, and she planned her own ceremony, which takes the form of a committal at graveside.

  It’s a lovely, quiet old cemetery on a hillside. Well kept, lots of trees—the first flowers of spring are in bloom. It’s April. A dark green awning has been erected over the grave, and there are brown metal folding chairs on three sides for close family and friends.

  Interestingly enough, nobody is wearing black—not even the minister or funeral directors. All of the women and most of the men present are dressed for spring—in bright colors or flowered prints. This apparent dress code alone tells you much about the deceased and her ideas about what a funeral should be like. She wanted it this way. Her agenda was and is Life.

  –

  Another unexpected touch is the traditional jazz band that comes walking up the cemetery drive—trumpet, slide trombone, tuba, clarinet, and snare drum. They’re playing a slow, dignified tune that still has the fine edge of swing in it. It’s hard not to smile when they make their entrance. The band finishes playing while standing a little way off from the gravesite and ends the tune with an “amen” chord. The minister stands up, facing us across the grave, opens a Bible, and begins.

  For everything there is a season,

  And a time and purpose for every matter under heaven.

  A time to be born, and a time to die;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  For everything there is a season,

  And a time and purpose for every matter under heaven.

  We have come together on this fine day in springtime to celebrate the life of Martha Lee Olson McBride Carter, and on behalf of Martha and her family, I welcome you to this service. Here we shall honor her memory and respect her wishes.

  We have come to mourn and to remember a friend and companion.

  We have come to affirm life itself and our part in it.

  We have come to consider death and how we shall meet it.

  This is a unique occasion in that Martha Carter spent part of the last year of her life carefully planning the affairs of her death and thinking through what she wanted to happen at her funeral. In all the years I have been a minister, I have never met anyone who more clearly understood that death is a part of life or who more carefully crafted a rite of passage reflecting that wisdom.

  Martha included her family in her planning because she wanted, as a parent, both to meet their needs and to be as instructive about death as she had been about life. She told me she didn’t think her kids always paid much attention to what she said, but they always watched what she did. When it came to dying, she meant to show them how it might be done well.

  She left it to her family and friends to say what they felt should be said, but she asked that they not go on too long—she thought most funerals were too wordy.

  With that admonition, I call upon her oldest grandson, Harlan Adams.

  –

  A very tall and skinny young man in his early twenties stands awkwardly by the grave, looks down for a moment, takes a manuscript from his coat pocket, speaks:

  My family asked me to give a factual summary of my grandmother’s life so that those who didn’t know her well might better understand some of the memories others will share.

  Martha Lee Olson was born in Chicago, Illinois, on January 20, 1914.

  And she died here in Seattle on April first of this year, at age eighty.

  It would have pleased her to know she died on April Fool’s Day.

  The only daughter of Danish immigrants—her father, John, worked for the railroad in many capacities during his life, and his wife, Ingrid, ran the household, raised her child, and managed a huge garden that fed the family all through the Great Depression.

  Though the family moved from railroad town to railroad town as she was growing up, they were living in Chicago again when Martha graduated from high school. Martha went off to the University of Illinois to become a teacher. Both she and her mother worked at various part-time jobs to make college possible.

  While she was in college, her father was transferred to Seattle by the railroad, but Martha finished at Illinois before coming out to join her parents and taking a job teaching sixth grade at Franklin Elementary School.

  When the Second World War broke out, she began working as a volunteer at the USO to help the morale of the thousands of young soldiers passing through Seattle on the way to serve in the Pacific. It was there that she met Marine Sergeant Fred McBride, and married him a week before he shipped out.

  Nine months later, she gave birth to her first child, Fred McBride, Jr.

  She never saw her husband again—he was killed in combat in 1943.

  Her father was killed in a railroad accident in 1944.

  To add to the tragedy, twenty-five years later, Lieutenant Fred McBride, Jr., was also killed in combat, in 1968, in Vietnam.

  After the war, Grandmother started work on her master’s degree at the University of Washington. While there she met fellow student, and my grandfather, Edward Carter, a G.I. just home from the war in Europe. They were married in 1941.

  My mom, Hannah, was born the next year, and her brother Alan a year later.

  Grandmother Martha’s own mother lived with her until 1955, when she passed away after a long struggle w
ith cancer.

  When Martha’s children started school, she began teaching again, at the Seaside High School, where she taught English literature until she retired in 1979.

  She was widowed again, in 1964, when my grandfather died of heart failure.

  For the last thirty years of her life, she lived alone, investing herself in the lives of her children, grandchildren, and former students.

  When she retired, she pursued her dreams of traveling around the United States and Europe. When her health and age brought her traveling days to an end, she became involved in all kinds of volunteer work—with the American Red Cross, the League of Women Voters, the Council of Churches, and the Traditional Jazz Society.

  When I asked her once what church she belonged to, she said she belonged to them all—mostly because of her work with the Council of Churches. I know she was raised Lutheran, married an Irish Catholic the first time and an inactive Baptist the second time. When I was asked to drive Grandmother to church, I never knew where we were going to go. Sometimes it was to the Greek Orthodox early mass, sometimes to the Episcopal vespers service, and sometimes to the Quaker morning meeting. She found meaning and friends wherever she worshiped.

  She lived the last two years of her life depending on a dialysis machine for kidney function, but she never complained. To her it was an opportunity to put her affairs in order. When she was too weak to get out of bed, she made the decision to stop treatment and to die, which she did a week later.

  I’ve given you the basic facts of the life of a remarkable woman. I could talk about what she meant to me and tell stories about her for hours. I really loved and respected her. However, if she was here, Grandma would say I have done what I was asked to do and said more than enough and should sit down.

  So I will.

  –

  The minister stands and says:

  Martha Carter knew a lot about pain and sorrow.

  Martha Carter was close to death all her life.

  All four of her grandparents died during her childhood.

  Her first husband and first son were killed in wartime.

  In the middle years of her life, both of her parents and her second husband died. And, as she explained to me, half of her friends and acquaintances had died during the last ten years. She said she was tired of death and tired of dreary funerals, and especially hated having to show up for this one today. She wished there could be some laughter at her own funeral. When I asked her how to do this, she suggested I share a story she heard George Burns tell.

  A teacher was asking her students what their fathers did. All the pupils named their fathers’ occupations—plumber, clerk, fireman, etc. One boy didn’t volunteer, so the teacher asked, “Well, Billy, what does your father do?” And Billy replied that his father didn’t do anything—he was dead. “Well,” asked the teacher, “what did he do before he died?” And Billy answered: “He went AAAAGgggghhhhh.”

  If you asked Martha Carter what she did, she said “teacher”—even after she retired, she never said “retired teacher”—she was always a teacher. Her family has asked one of her former pupils, Dr. Richard Havens, to speak about her teaching.

  –

  Dr. Havens is a middle-aged scholar, bearded, dressed to blend into his habitat—conservative tweed suit with vest—but oddly enough, wearing a boldly striped black-and-white shirt and sporting a pink-and-yellow silk tie. As he stands to speak, he pulls the flamboyant tie out of his vest and looks down at it. In his other hand, he is holding a large shopping bag. He says:

  Mrs. Carter gave me this tie. And I say “Mrs. Carter” because no matter how old you get, you always address your teachers as you did in high school, and you always feel a little like that kid you used to be when you are around them. You can’t ever be peers. I can’t imagine ever calling her “Martha.” I can’t believe she’s dead—because if she can die, then so can I.

  Anyhow. About the tie. She ran into me four years ago in a bookstore. After the usual greetings, she stood back to look at me and take stock. I was wearing this suit. As she noticed and you can see, I have adopted the disguise of college professor. She was appalled. She said I looked so old and stuffy and serious. She gave me a hard time. How could I stand up in front of young people and teach them anything exciting if I looked like a cadaver? She said I was going to look dead for a long time before I actually was put in a coffin. She said I just had to lighten up. She remembered that I was a good dancer in high school, but she bet I hadn’t been dancing in years. And she was right.

  So she took me by the hand and off we went to a men’s store up the street where she announced to the clerk that this young man, meaning me, needs help. Insisting I take off my coat and vest and remove the drab tie I was wearing, she looked over the selection of ties and picked this one. While I was dutifully knotting it around my neck, she took the clerk’s scissors and cut my old tie in half and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  She had the clerk put my vest in a bag to carry with me, and then, helping me into my coat, she had me stand in front of the mirror and said I looked much better and that I should loosen up and I would live longer. She said getting old too soon wasn’t good for me. She paid for the tie and was out the door before I could thank her.

  When I was in school, I thought she taught English literature and writing.

  On reflection, I know that what she really taught was how to learn and how to live. I went into teaching because of her. The gift of the tie reminded me that I had paid too much attention to English literature and not enough to life.

  Pausing, Dr. Havens removes his tweed jacket and vest and, laying them aside, he pulls a lime-green linen jacket out of the shopping bag and puts it on. Out of the pocket of the jacket, he takes a red foam-rubber clown nose and sticks it onto his nose. He looks so wonderfully, foolishly transformed that we cannot help but laugh and applaud.

  I don’t dress this way all the time, you know. I bought this jacket to wear for this service. I think Mrs. Carter would approve. I find it’s hard work getting young again after you’ve decided to be old.

  If you ask anyone about the influences in their lives, most people will start by saying, “Well, there was this teacher.” And the teachers they talk about always seem to have the same qualities. They were hard—had high standards and demanded the best not only of their students but of themselves. They respected their students and demanded respect in return. They were good at teaching because they loved learning themselves. And they taught both by what they did in class and by how they lived outside the class. Great teachers are more like great coaches—they see themselves on the sidelines doing everything they can do to make the players do as well as they can in the game, knowing that losses and failure are not shameful but often more instructive than winning.

  She had this wonderful way of beginning a course. She gave each student a piece of paper with his name on it and a grade—an “A.” She wanted us to know she started out thinking the best of us, and it was left to us to change her view.

  Mrs. Carter was a great teacher.

  Three specific examples, among many, stand out in my mind.

  She began preparing for her retirement about five years before she was sixty-five. She wanted to travel in France and decided to learn French. Instead of going off to some cram class in the evening, she enrolled herself in the freshman French class in our high school and insisted to her colleague that she wanted to be treated just like any other student and held to the same standards. Imagine! A teacher wanting to learn something! Not in secret, but right there in front of us!

  She also wanted to know what it felt like to be a student in our school. And though she worked very hard, she wasn’t very good at French. And we knew it. Because when the first report cards came out, everybody wanted to know her grade, and she showed us when we asked: a “C.” We were astonished. But she said everybody wasn’t good at the same thing, and she would just have to work harder.

  That she had experienced defeat meant sh
e knew what the rest of us experienced sometimes. She could have quit. We thought she was humiliated, but she said ignorance was a sign of hope, not failure. And she took French for three years. She got successful senior French students to tutor her, and she ate lunch at a table in the cafeteria where only French could be spoken. She subscribed to French magazines and newspapers and struggled through them. Every one of her English students who took French became her French teacher. When she moved up to “B”s her second year, we all rejoiced with her. And when she made “A”s the last year, we insisted that she be placed on the school honor roll and made a special member of the Honor Society.

  Mrs. Carter had learned French. But more than that, she taught the whole school something none of us will ever forget: Hope and tenacity and hard work can pay off—you can do better. She taught the students how to learn. She taught her colleagues how to teach.

  The second memory of Mrs. Carter I want to mention is kin to the first. Her interest in the lives of her students was legendary. Not in a personal, snooping sense, but in an educational way. If she knew you knew something she didn’t know much about, she would inquire of you. A football linebacker would find himself explaining how he learned plays or how he knew what to do when the other team had the ball. The guys who were interested in cars would find themselves under the hood with Mrs. Carter, explaining how a carburetor worked. A kid who played guitar in a band would get grilled on the difference between a reggae beat and a rock-and-roll beat. If a student was doing well in her class but didn’t seem to be going about writing papers the way Mrs. Carter suggested, she wanted to know how the student actually went about the task; and if Mrs. Carter learned something she could pass on, she wouldn’t claim it as her idea, but she would explain in class that So-and-so did it another way and ask So-and-so to explain it. We called her “the Chief Investigator” and “Inspector Carter” behind her back. What I know now is that she was interested in how minds work—she respected ours, especially if they worked differently from her own.