At my Father-in-law’s services, we asked anyone who wanted to share a story to please do so and there were some beautiful remembrances, given by some very educated and articulate colleagues of Jim’s. After everyone told their story, I decided to lighten the mood, so I spoke up. “Grandpa told some of the best stories and my favorite was his near death experience as a kid. He was seven or eight, running in the fields in South Dakota on the farm where he grew up. I don’t know if they were playing tag or hide-and-seek but he was running and tripped on something. That fall caused him to fall HEAD FIRST in a poorly covered pit toilet.” Some people asked, “A what?” I continued, “An old outhouse, which was no longer in use and not covered well enough when it was full and moved to another location.” A few giggles and snickers from the audience. “So, I don’t remember exactly how he got out.” And I turned to my husband, who added, “I think his friend pulled him out.” I’m back on, “So, he is head first in an old pit toilet and his friend grabs him by the ankles and pulls him out and…” At this point I have my hands in the air and wave both of them once and the wrist, “well, he survived that shit!” The welcomed laughter broke the sadness.
Sad is shitty