A week ago we attended the funeral of a friend. Ron was a man who had seized life and squeezed every ounce of fulfillment out of it. He died too young, no doubt with some regrets; but more importantly, with pride, humour and acceptance of his fate. Ron and his wife had retired to year round residence (when they weren't travelling the globe) on our lake - theirs a grand home, ours a summer cabin.
Ron and my partner could have been twins in many respects, looks, exuberance, perpetual boyish delight in life, generosity of spirit and interest in the people around them. Perhaps this resemblance made Ron's death much harder for me to accept than otherwise. His illness came as a surprise. His death was quick.
The ceremony for Ron's funeral was on the foot-thick ice of the snow covered lake. The sun was brilliant; the day was moderately warm. A hole had been drilled in the ice for Ron's ashes. A potted pine stood next to it and a wreath of greenery leaned against it. A piper in full regalia (for Ron was a Scot) played traditional laments. And as we gathered somewhat solemnly, one of the guest's dog, virtually the same in size, colour, looks and temperament to our own Buster, whom we had left at home, came up to the tree, lifted his leg and peed on the wreath. Ron would have howled and so did we. Irreverent delight. Carpe diem.