Earlier this month, while vacationing back home in northern Vermont, I came face to face with death.
Not on a pale horse, death was raising a ruckus on a green riding mower, and his name was Walter.
Walter Deth. Early 70s. Balding, with a bum leg. A born storyteller possessed of a finely developed sense of self-appreciation, he entertained our screened-porched trio until his mower died.
As ex-farmer Walter limped across the road to his mobile home in Deth land I couldn’t resist playing sick word games with possible names for his children, of which he has many:
Slow, Painful, Awful, Ugly. And Welcome, Sudden, Lingering. Aso Unexpected, Glorious, Heroic, Early.
And, of course, Good.
What rubbish, eh?
Sorry, Walter, sometimes I just can’t help myself.