My children, it is odd that most people never think there is a good way to die, and yet I can think of a few, as both my Grandpa's died in their sleep, and while I was not there, my giant of an Uncle, died on an October morning while goose hunting.
He had been pronounced in a clean bill of health apparently, but my Auntie did not want him going on the trip. All was well that morning at the blind, but when his friend noticed that a flock of geese had flown over unmolested, he walked over and there was my Uncle lying on the ground, with a serene expression and his hands folded over his heart as if he were asleep.
I was reminded of all of that in the following recount of Nash Buckingham, about one of his friends, a real stud duck out of Massachusetts and head game duck down in Missouri on a hunt in what is now oil county North Dakota for pheasants.
Arthur had not felt well on a drive for pheasants as Nash saw him stop and lay down. His lips were blue and Arthur thought he had went at eating too vigorous, so it was decided he would sit in the car for awhile and let the hunting crew film and shoot birds.
Arthur was feeling prime again after a few drives for birds and announced he was going to join in again, as he noted the lay of the land was nothing to be dealt with
"As I paused at the corner, Arthur had just cleared the barrier. "Buck," he called, and smiled at me when I turned around, "this is certainly a pretty place for pheasants."
"It sure is, Art," I replied, and turned to study the exquisitely sun-tinted rim of a distant moraine.
I'll never know what vague premonition drew me to glance sharply around—but I did—and Arthur Clark was not there—just to my left at corn's edge. Perhaps what startled me, for my hearing is not as keen as of old, might have been the clatter of his falling gun.
I leaped past the view and saw him stretched face downward in the clipped wheat stubble. Kneeling swiftly and shouting for Siebens, I lifted Arthur and caught him into my arms. The sharp, stiff stubble-brush had scratched and bloodied his left cheek. But on his face there was only an uncontorted, peaceful half-smile. And when he sighed faintly and relaxed, I knew, somehow, that the end had come with beneficent swiftness and mercy.
- Nash Buckingham
I think about things like that. I consider it no more pleasant thing than in meeting your maker being a moral person. It is just one of those good things to have your last moments in life, joking with your friends, and then calling attention to how pretty the world is and just appreciating life.
I wonder how many people's last words are something mean. How many people's last act is something sinful. How many are taken from this life filled with hate.
It is a hard thing for those in this world to have someone did good, but it is a worse burden to have someone die bad, for all the guilt it causes as you are pleased the SOB is dead.
A blessed end is really one of the greatest gifts from God. It still bothers people in the sorrow of it, but it is something that brings peace in time in appreciating it.
I would much prefer dying well than to living well, although they are not exclusive in God, as both are a gift.
Auntie sure had a bad time of it, and Uncle did come back and ask her if she was ok. It is interesting the things a person starts thinking about at those times of the years as those dates come around again.
agtG
