They're gone now, but they haven't aged a bit

I occasionally read the obituary pages of the Star Tribune, owing to my college and working years in the Twin Cities. Sadly, I recognize names, and peruse life histories.

A few of the narratives demonstrate creative flair, noting that the individual died peacefully, without regrets, in the company of loved ones, or has gone on to personally embrace the hand of a higher authority.

One interesting characteristic seems to be growing on these pages.

Photographs on the obituary page certainly draw the reader to those entries. They put a human face on a person no longer with us.

But I am often struck by the young ages at which people with a Minneapolis-area connection seem to be dying, based on those photographs.

I think to myself: "How sad for this youngster ... this teenager ... this kid to have passed away before being able to experience old age."

The departed are frequently shown in military uniforms, but they seem to be antique uniforms from a war fought 70 years ago.

As kin search through their family albums, they come across the one photograph that the decedent "always liked." Never mind that the photo might have been taken at a high school football game that coincided with the building of the Foshay Tower.

Lest I sound critical of this human temptation, I confess that I myself chose a beloved photo of my father as a lieutenant commander in his World War II U.S. Navy uniform for his obituary in the Washington Post, 28 years following the end of that war.

As I hand-carried the photograph through that famed newsroom, past reporters writing up their Watergate news, I was informed by the obit writer that such photos had to be taken within the last 10 years. My math skills failed me, and I assured her it had been.

Fortunately, she did not keep up on the changes in military uniforms that had taken place by 1973.

I am reminded of the saying: "Do not resent growing old, for many are denied the privilege."

In some cases, photos of people as they grow into their senior years simply may not exist, which is a shame. There is great comfort to be taken in the sheer accomplishment of surviving all that has been tossed our way through the decades.

As for me, I am readying my obituary for the Star Tribune for when that time comes. In fact, I will save some money by including my preferred photo with this essay. It has always been one of my favorites.