A Day in the Life of Obituaries

Anyone who knows even a little about newspapers and obituaries, probably already knows the larger newspapers keep a 'morgue' or file on people of all types of notoriety so that when then do shuffle off, the paper has a bit of a head start on the background for what will likely be a news item obituary. The NYT admits to keeping perhaps 1,400 sketches of people on file. They don't share this with anyone outside the paper, and don't share the files with the subjects. You're going to have to find you're own way of knowing what is being said about you after you're declared dead.

The categories of the types of people in this file is however a bit known. Major political figures, entertainers, sport figures, academics, artists, writers, Nobel Prize winners, significant military people, and people who have been awarded the Medal of Honor all qualify to have something on file before they go. The file can be updated periodically, particularly if they're active. It's polished off with the final details when needed.

The depth of this file can be rather amazing. Consider yesterday's NYT obituary page. There were four news item obituaries. Basically three of these were slam dunks to be included as news items, and a fourth, that while it might be a surprise, does show off the work the editors put into delivering end-of-life short stories on quite a variety of subjects.

Working left to right, top to bottom, brings us one of the slam dunks, someone who was an automatic to the news item obituary: Albert Abramson, 94 Dies, Holocaust Museum Backer. Major influential figure in getting the Holocaust Museum built in Washington, D.C. Presidents are quoted, lots of column inches.

Next is someone from the automatic berth category of Nobel Prize winners. F. Sherwood Rowland, 84, Dies; Cited Aerosols' Danger.

If your life is somewhat congruent with mine, then you will no doubt remember the fuss that was made when it was claimed that the chlorofluorocarbon, CFC, propellant in aerosol cans was burning a hole in the ozone layer and we were eventually all going to be well-tanned and dead: burnt to a crisp by the sun's harmful ultraviolet rays that were now going to be allowed to enter into our atmosphere and fry us.

This was hard to grasp. Gillette's Right Guard spray deodorant and graffiti artists in train yards were going to end civilization. As hard as that was to grasp was also the proof of this theory when after many years it was shown there was a hole in the ozone layer over Antarctica. How CFCs from countless bathrooms, locker rooms and train yards came to punch a hole over the South Pole probably earned someone else a Nobel Prize. It's easily the furthest anything ever traveled from a bathroom, a metropolitan train yard, or anything Amtrak without derailing.

The absolute win-lose news for all is that we could still have aerosol sprays-just remove the CFC-but we'd still have graffiti, because they found a way to keep paint coming out of a can without CFCs. Oh well.

Skipping to the bottom obituary on the second page we come to what I'll call an "imported" one. Norman St. John- Stevas, 82, Tory Dissident. Many clues right there that this one is about a Brit: "Saint" in a hypenated name; Tory.

Lord St. John actually passed away last week, but my theory is there was conference call with the London Times office when it became apparent that the domestic deceased didn't take up all the space they had.

I first heard of the Lord St. John's passing last week when @obitsman Tweeted a reference to his British obit. It's a lively piece about a lively character, who no doubt rankled and entertained British sensibilities for years. Over here he would just be a pain-in-ass. Over there, we was a Lord.

Lord St. John became known for having a tart-tongue, who apparently liked to verbally make fun of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. He did this to the grocer's daughter and Iron Lady for several years, despite first ascending to offices based on her appointments. He is certainly described as being as well educated and groomed as one of those 'CH,' champion four legged terriers at the Westminster Dog Show. Iron Maggie finally got tired of him and sacked him and stuffed him in a vase. His life apparently hardly suffered.

Last, and not least, is the fourth obituary that doesn't seem like a slam dunk, until you read it and realize the editors must have had some background on even this individual: Frisner Augustin, 63, Haitian Voodoo Drummer. Depth.

A drummer who summons up to 100 spirits by distinctive rhythms is not someone you might put on any list for a potential news item obituary. Voodoo is what you might think of, and not a Nobel Prize in Voodoo economics. But Mr. Augustin was famous for what he did, ultimately doing it in Manhattan, where for sure he caught the attention of the bylined writer, Jon Pareles, who writes about jazz and contemporary music.

Mr. Augustin was so good at what he did it was reported he increased the attendance at some of his performances with non-paying spirits. iTunes carries his work.

So there you have it. Day is done. Gone the sun. Until tomorrow.

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