I feel like Mark Twain protesting that “reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” Apparently, five people named Diane Burton have recently passed away. Naturally, I checked the obits. Wrong middle names, wrong maiden names. Whew! They weren’t me.
Several years ago, I was at a conference in Chicago and the big to-do that weekend was how Romantic Times reported an author (who was attending) had died. No mistaken identity, either. She was such a good sport and had a good laugh over it. Three fellow authors who frequently performed musical parodies at conferences wrote one about her. It was an amusing finale to the conference.
I’m not making light of death. Having lost three close relatives within eighteen months of each other, I know how devastating it can be. Maybe joking about death makes it less fearful. Wasn’t there a comedian who said she read the obituaries each day and if her name wasn’t there she knew it was going to be a good day?
Anyway, I’m still here. And it’s a good day.