More notes from Doris

I planned to open my brief comments at the graveside service, by
recalling a very early meeting with Max, whom I barely knew.  In
front of the old Chapel Hill Post office, we had encountered each
other, both clutching letters in hand.  Max said breathlessly that
he'd just heard from a movie studio about maybe filming his book.
("Debby.")  I gasped back, "So have I!" though since mine was a
story collection, I should have harbored some doubts. "It's from
Columbia Pictures!"  Max said.  I answered, "So is mine."  He said
his was signed by Jerry Wald.  I held out my letter; he held out his.
Except for the address and salutation, they were identical.

Before others arrived for the service in Chapel Hill Cemetery, I
walked around, feeling a mixture of nervousness and sorrow.  The
waiting grave was covered in a sheet of fake grass.  Unbeknownst to
me, though it was normal size, Max's ashes therein were in his much
smaller army trunk.  I stepped on the edge of the covering and dropped
one-legged straight down into the grave beside it. I knew he'd be
laughing somewhere, and so was I -- climbing out in a muddied black
dress, but not laughing when it was time for the eulogy.

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Melanie: I probably have somewhere the brief words I spoke at the service, if needed. I assume you have from Diana the whole story of
the He's Not Here bar, and that stone in the graveyard.  Assuming
you do, the following could be a p.s. to that:


  My husband died in July of 2007 and soon afterward I drove to
Siler City to order a tombstone from Chatham Monument Company. The
very courteous, even solemn, husband/wife team wrote down my preference
in plain style, the words that were to appear.  I wrote a deposit
check and, finishing, asked if he might remember a friend of mine who
had bought from him an unusual small gravestone that said HE'S NOT
HERE.  Solemnity disappeared.  Expanding smiles.  "Steele? Fellow
named Steele?"  He could not hold back his laughter; the wife giggled
first but then out-laughed him.  "Funniest man I ever met," she said
and he added, "Not that we get much humor in this business."  When
they faced each other, the memory of doing business with Max had them
laughing so hard that they were gasping.  They could no longer carry
on conversation in such near hysteria.  It turned out they were holding
other small gravestones for friends that Max said would be joining him
in a kind of Westminster Poet's Corner -- he had one set aside for
Charleen Whisnant Swansea, as I recall.