For me, it has always been Bugdozer — the lurker in the corner who sees everything. He’s not in the mix unless he wants to be, but he’s a full citizen of this industrious, chaotic community that seems to bring out the best in most, but not all, people. (I’m looking at you, Bananas Gorilla.)

It’s probably a ludicrous question, but are there any IRL analogs to Busytown? A city that has a fine bakery, houses made of shoes, and a massive shipyard? Let me know if you find one and I’ll meet you there.

In the meantime, let’s meet in person! There’s a community space in Oakland called Local Economy, whose tagline is “An antidote to chaos and isolation.” I’m in! Get in, we’re going to find the antidote to chaos! I’m SO excited to share that I’ll be at this gem of a place on Weds August 26. My co-conspirator in creativity, , and I have cooked up an event at Local Economy called “Tiny Lessons from Obituaries: Stories that Could Change Your Life.” We’ll hear from some dead people AND get a chance to consider how our own stories will be told.

Here’s the link to register. I hope to see you there!

I’m starting to take Tips from Dead People out from behind a screen and into real spaces with real time storytelling and I couldn’t be more excited. And grateful, to have smart inspiring people like Vanessa and guiding the way.

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I won’t ever regret taking on this logistical, physical, and emotional challenge, however. I have found some treasures. In the game cupboard, I found our old Yahtzee game, a little bedraggled, but still holding a fresh pad of unused scoresheets (keep it!).

There were also dozens of used scoresheets from the 1970s, bringing to mind rainy days with friends splayed out on our green shag carpeting. But the real treasure was finding stacks of used scoresheets recording games between me and….MYSELF. Yes, I filled up multiple dozens of scoresheets playing on my own. I recall doing this, but it felt thrilling and temporarily embarrassing to hold the proof.

I remember the surge of symmetric satisfaction when filling up an entire sheet of six games playing only by myself. I didn’t cheat (gasp at the thought!). I genuinely played it all out. “Dang I’ve already got my threes so I’ll just have to take a scratch on the full house.” I know. Painfully ethical and nerdy.

I come from a family of gamers and our specialty is usually trivia games, so I’ve always slotted Yahtzee in as a pure luck game, but a tiny bit of research says otherwise. People are VERY serious about Yahtzee skills! Charts! Calculations!

The fact that I played Yahtzee by myself and the fact that there are Yahtzee strategists out there is, in fact, exquisite. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading thousands of obituaries, it’s that conformity and uniformity are overrated. The true beauty of life is in its utter absurdity. The nerdy hobbyists of the world (obituary lover, hello?) are the best of us. In fact, at this very moment as I write, right down the hall from the business where I have a desk, there are currently a half dozen yo-yo-ers perfecting their craft and having a blast.

Last year, I shared an obituary of a woman named Barbara (video below to hear the whole thing!), but one of the gems in her obituary was this:

Sometimes she read the dictionary just to pass the time. She was also creative (a late bloomer in the crafting department, she learned to sew, wood-burn, and dry and arrange wildflowers, many of which she found during long drives or aimless rambles behind the wheel).

She read the dictionary to pass the time!

No wonder I’ve found my kindred spirits in the obituary section.

All hail the nerds, all hail the solo hobbyists, all hail the unicorn hobbies. The weirder the better. May you enjoy without reservation the kindred spirits that you find in whatever your gaming room is. Even if the kindred spirit is just you and the shag carpet. I adore it all.

If this has created a craving to revisit your Yahtzee days and buy a new set, the world has changed a bit. There’s of course the classic edition, but there’s also a deluxe edition with a linen box, and weirdly an edition that’s a slot machine (you pull the handle the dice come out out for you). And depending on your POV, the best/worst might be the one made to look like Cup o’ Noodles!

What’s your weirdest hobby? Will you include that in your obituary?

Here, I give you Barbara:

Dead as a dodo (origin: relating to flightless bird [above] last seen alive in 1662 in Mauritius)

Bought the farm (origin: dying in a military plane, morphed from “bought the plot,” various possible meanings)

Belly up (origin: dead fish, var. tits up)

Pop your clogs (origin: British, used as early as 1914, various possible meanings)

Cargo 200 (origin: military code word in Soviet Union for transportation of military casualties)

Cark it (origin: Australia, derived from carcass)

Come to a sticky end (origin: British, violent fate or unpleasant demise)

Dead as a doornail (origin: French from 1350, widespread use in Shakespearean times)

Down in Davy Jones’s locker (origin: drowned mariners, from 1751, Davy Jones evil spirit of the sea [below from Punch mag], various other meanings)

Hop the twig (origin: British from 1788, first meant to run away, later came to mean to die)

In Abraham’s bosom (origin: 200 BC, the place of honor for the righteous dead)

Join the choir invisible (origin: George Eliot [below] poem 1874)

Peg out (origin: British, cribbage metaphor, mid-19th century)

Ride the pale horse (origin: Book of Revelation, the Four Horseman rider of the pale horse is Death)

Shuffle off this mortal coil (origin: Shakespeare, Hamlet soliloquy)

Put on the pine overcoat aka the Chicago overcoat: (origin 1870 Ohio newspaper, mafia killing vibes)

Wearing a wooden onesie (origin: Irish “Ah jayysus me nanny looks better than ye and she’s in a bleedin wooden onesie”)

If you’ve made it this far, you sir or madam, are as geeky as I am. And I love that for us. Although it might seem like a subjective contest, here are the best:

Runner up: wearing a wooden onesie. Because jayysus yes it has to be.

Winner: pop your clogs. it’s death plus shoes plus maybe dancing?

What was your favorite? What did I miss?

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

On one level, it’s a fascinating dig into his surprising life. Early tragedy? Check. Dashing, James Bond-connected spy? Check. Romance with A-listers for decades? Check. Artistic questing, more tragedy, literary stardom, possible fall from grace AND the invention of a neurological shunt that helped untold numbers of children ? All the checks. It’s the kind of biography that feels like it should be a Broadway play. Wait, it is.

On another level, you get to revel in the origin stories of some of the most beloved books of all time, from James and the Giant Peach to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory1 to The Twits and the The Witches and Matilda. My only quibble with this part of the podcast? How in the Veruca Salt can you not include one of his best, most thrilling books in the commentary: Danny the Champion of the World. I have delicious core childhood memories of sitting on our velvet couch while my mom read this aloud to us, and it was one of the first chapter books I wanted to read to my kids. Seriously go find it if you haven’t.

On another level, the host does something thrilling and extraordinary: he lays out the complicated philosophical debate of Art vs The Artist in a way that I’d not heard before, and illuminated so many things for me. It’s a question I’ve been mildly obsessed with for decades: can one, and more importantly, should one consume and enjoy the art of people who are terrible?

In the case of Roald Dahl, he said some famously anti-semitic things toward the end of his life. Not just casually or second-hand, but on the record, in interviews. Oof. Add him to the photo album of gross people who made compelling art. The podcast interviews some brilliant thinkers like Roxane Gay and Claire Dederer on this question, and Tracy does a terrific job of voicing our/my/his questions along the way. The thinking ranges from “excise them all; there’s better art from better people so get over your sentimental attachment” to “do they make money off it? are they alive? were they repentant?2” and maybe most importantly for the podcast host, does their bigotry show up in the work?

I can excise both the art and the artist with someone like Woody Allen but do I turn off Michael Jackson? Not always, if the mood fits. What about standing in front of the Guernica and almost weeping from its power, but knowing that Picasso was a bad man? I haven’t met one person who is fully pure on this issue; there is so much subjectivity around what is forgivable and what isn’t, and whether the art reflects the bias of the artist, that it makes my head spin. I feel frustrated by my own indecision on it, so the podcast taking this on in an approachable way was a bullseye for me: thought-provoking to the point that I will go back to it more than once.

Have you listened to this podcast? What’s your favorite Roald Dahl story? Where do you land on the Art vs the Artist question?

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

Welcome to the world of Showmen’s Rest.1 Showmen’s Rest plots are scattered throughout the country, with the original being the Woodlawn site in Chicago (above), but the biggest one being in Miami (below).

Showmen’s Rest plots were created and funded by The Showmen’s League of America, founded in 1913 by none other than founder Buffalo Bill Cody. The League was created to cater to the needs of “out of doors performers, through good times and bad.” Solidarity, people.

The League bought land at Woodlawn in 1916, just in time for the biggest circus tragedy in American history. The Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus Train — composed of 3 trains, 22 tents, and 1000+ employees — en route to a show in Hammond, IN and stalled during the middle of the night on the tracks due to a fixable mechanical issue, was rear-ended by a train barreling full speed into them due to a sleeping engineer. Allegedly.

In the accident, 86 people died, most of them recently hired “roustabouts” known only by nicknames like “Baldy” and “4 Horse Driver.” (yes those are the names on the gravestones.) The circus only missed one show, forging on and borrowing crew from a circus in Beloit.

This history is cool, obviously, but I’m drawn in by the idea that many circus people didn’t choose the life and perhaps for one reason or another weren’t able to be buried by family. So the League stepped in and gave a dignified final resting spot for performers that lived on the fringes of polite society.

I went down this rabbit hole for 2 reasons: 1. I sometimes give tours at Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis, which also has a Showmen’s Rest plot. People are always fascinated by it. 2. I recently shared an obituary on Tips from Dead People of a trapeze artist named Mary of The Flying Marilees trapeze act, whose obituary captivated me both for its glamour but also its criminal brevity (video linked at the end). Her life rivaled Lindsey and Britney in its drama and poignancy.

There are more than a dozen Showmen’s Rest plots across the country, so if you go to one or know of one near you, let me know in the comments. Or if you’re scared of clowns, let me know that too.

• skin that beauty influencers might label “on a glide path to melanoma”

• a love of fictional detectives, from Harry Bosch to Phillip Marlowe

• an extreme form of punctuality

Let’s dwell on this last one for a second.

In the human taxonomy of lateness, there are different species:

1. Egregiously late: If this is you, then the vast gulf between us might never be crossed. I can’t speak the language, and I can’t see the shore from where I sit. I’m not spiritually able to comprehend how a person can be 30, 45, even 60 minutes late for anything. I get this is in many ways a cultural bias, but before I feel too bad about that, let me also say that I have wholesale envy of egregiously late people. The level of zen needed to regularly push obligations and expectations to the corner of your brain in favor of “we’ll get there when we get there” is a state of mind that Buddha himself would aspire to.

2. Last minute, scoot in on the nose: I don’t know how to explain this category other than to say these are popular people. Like most other things in their lives, this just works out. Needless to say, this isn’t me.

3. Ten minutes early: Utter competency. PTA parents. Strategists. Optimists. They’ve figured out the parking, y’all, relax it’s going to be fine. They dress nicely but not outrageously; they have a solid investment portfolio, but don’t flaunt it. Their get-ready routine and sense of traffic and maps is savvy enough to stick the on-time-but-no-stress landing with astonishing consistency.

4. Egregiously early: raises hand — my name is Mary and I annoy people with my punctuality. I come by this honestly, and as much as I adore my dad, it’s his fault. My poor mother came to the relationship more in the #2 category (she was popular), but all that got drummed out of her as she saw her spouse ready and waiting at the door, prepped to get to church 30 minutes early. We kids didn’t really have a chance, I’m afraid. I spent countless minutes waiting to get picked up by friends who naturally assumed that getting to my house on time was the goal, not naming a time then coming 15 minutes early, as I anxiously expected. I famously got up before my siblings in high school to physically set the kitchen clock hands ahead so that we could get to school around the time the teachers and janitors did.

As I reached adulthood and started attending dinner parties, it dawned on me that being the first one there was annoying to hosts. So I started to (and still do) park a couple blocks away, killing time so I could pretend to arrive casually a couple minutes late. The thought of just leaving my house later doesn’t really occur to me, or fills me with such anxiety that it’s not worth attempting.

During COVID I impulsively decided to get my first and only vanity plate. I marched into the DMV and asked for H82BL8, only to be crushed to learn that some other nerd in Minnesota has the handle. The inferior, but acceptable for the time being, choice was to replace 2 with TO and give them my $150. I wait now, drumming my fingers on the table, for H82BL8 to die so I can grab that handle.

So which is it? Am I embarrassed of this genetic eccentricity or am I proud of it? I’d say mostly embarrassed, but as I get older, I’m leaning in a bit. Truth be told, I do get really prime parking spots.

Just don’t ask me to hold seats for you. I can’t watch you be popular AND do your dirty work.

What’s your level of lateness? I’m curious!! Do you like, dislike, is it a family trait or did you buck the trend? Have you ever been so late you missed something BIG? And do you have a vanity plate? If so, share the handle.

The best Onion article I’ve ever read (see pic above).

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

Is my peculiar form of creativity related to this punctuality business?

Despite being an English major in the olden days, I’d never heard or read the word contronym until very recently. You probably know exactly what it means, but in case you don’t:

Once I learned the word1, as often happens, I started seeing examples of it in my environment. My normal environment is the world of obituaries, of which I’ve read over 10,000. For my social media account, Tips from Dead People, I share obituaries and the life wisdom hidden inside them. I started the account with my own collection of obituaries from over the years, but once the account caught a breeze, people started sending them to me. It’s the best part of my day, sifting through DMs and emails, reading obituaries that the sender wrote, or just happened to see somewhere.

I’m drawn to obituaries with complications, or tiny details, or humor, or poignancy — ones that go beyond a cut and paste template of a seemingly perfect person. And I love it when there are outright contradictions in an obituary. I read one recently for a woman who swore like a sailor, loved dirty jokes, but kept a Bible by her bed to read every night. How much fun would that broad be to sit next to at dinner! Or how about Kenneth:

…who, til the day he died, he called "his mommy" - proof positive that even the biggest assholes (jerks) have a soft side, you just may have to dig deeper to find it. His father, Kenneth Joseph Pluhar, Sr, is still around, though, and was sure to teach Kenne the best ways to be emotionally unavailable and yet overly sensitive, all rolled into one.

Who among us doesn’t have contradictions? I hate Big Retail but I’ll brake for a Starbucks peach green tea any day, any time. I claim to like comedy, but only my kind of comedy. I feel weepily tender-hearted toward underdogs yet am ruthlessly competitive for me and my favored teams, and don’t often let kids win at games. (Do you?)

I think having internal contradictions, whether they’re trivial or deep, secret or exposed, is part of the human condition. We are all hypocrites to a certain degree, both inside and outside of the political arena. It’s a conundrum. We want purity in our leaders and celebrities but could never, in a million years, deliver that ourselves.

That’s one reason I adore a truthful obituary. We are all hairballs of contradictions, so why not admit it and even celebrate it, straight up or tongue in cheek or whatever makes sense to you.

What’s a contradiction inside YOU? Pull up a chair and dish.

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

There’s a famous Teddy Roosevelt quote:

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”

In clearing out some iPhone notes labeled “creative” recently, I realized I had saved that quote not once, not twice, but three separate times over the course of 10 years.

I have some retroactive embarrassment, because looking at that quote now, after immersing myself in thousands of obituaries and pondering the meaning of life over the last few years, it feels overly grandiose, too masculine, too dismissive of introverts who actually like being on the sidelines. I’ve been that introvert most of my adult life. I don’t actually believe in an “Achieve or Fail” culture. Like…at all. The matador mindset is woven into the scary side of startup culture, and we ignore the “cold and timid” critics at our own peril. Imagine a world consisting only of Musks and Holmeses and Zucks. Lordy.

So what switched in me? I had my brain right-sized by obituaries. I spent time reveling in the life stories of people whose achievements aren’t measured in the traditional sense. No KPIs, no YTDs, no OKRs, not even any bucket lists checked off. Just everyday people whose stories exuded enviable love and whimsy and humor. No country clubs, no awards, no cliches. Simple pleasures, simple success. It took me way too long to shed the idea of a metrics-driven road to meaning in life, but I finally did it. And now it’s clearer than ever to me: a job, a car, a number on a scale, a number on a bank account have almost zero impact on The Good Life. You can take my word for it, as an amateur obituary scientist, or you can watch any TED talk on the top regrets of the dying by people much smarter than I am, and you’ll get the same result. From Tolstoy to Tips from Dead People, you are so much more than a resumé.

I don’t think I’m the only one who needs this message repeated. If you’re 22 and just starting out, just try stuff and see what sticks. If you’re 42 and wondering if the chance to “make a mark” is eluding you, trust me and 10,000 dead people when I say making a mark was never the goal and doesn’t correlate with success anyway. If you’re 62, you’re starting to acknowledge that doors closing isn’t a bad thing and reveling in the tiniest things of life was and always is Winning. If you’re 82, well, have a G & T and some perfect grilled scallops, and shove that Teddy Roosevelt biography in a Little Free Library.

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

I grew up in South Dakota thinking that the New York Times was actually the paper of record, not just the paper that thought they were the paper of record.1 During college I would multi-task during lectures, sliding the daily NYT crossword back and forth with my seatmates. Back then, I maxed out skill-wise at the Wednesday or Thursday puzzle2. The Saturday puzzle was a mirage, visible but unattainable. I lived in Brooklyn and felt the bliss of buying the paper copy of the NYT while carrying a bagged toasted sesame bagel on my way to work. What a way for a City Girl to start the day.

As I grew older, I got better at the NYT crossword, to the point where the Friday puzzle, while still a beast, was in the neighborhood of my wheelhouse. If I collaborated with someone, I could even feel ok about the Saturday puzzle. The best collaborator I had — by far — was my mom. She had a clever head for word games of all kinds, but the depth of her education and the breadth of her bookshelf made her a savant at crosswords. The early days of the week took her mere minutes. Even Friday and Saturday, she would methodically zip it up in under a couple hours.

How fortunate was I that my next hometown (St. Paul) had the daily NYT crossword in its printed paper. I could live outside of New York and still keep up with my mom on the daily puzzle. We exchanged the occasional text about a hard or punny clue. I asked for help sometimes; she didn’t need help. The Star-Tribune also had the LA Times puzzle on the same page. I never, not once, even considered doing that puzzle; my mom and I knew the LA Times puzzle was too easy. Embarrassingly easy, really. See? Snob.

As my mom got older and slowed down, and as a cancer diagnosis curtailed so much of what brought joy to her days, the crossword puzzle remained. Lunchtime (cheese and crackers) saw her hunched over the puzzle, then a shift to her favorite comfy chair with an icy glass of Diet Caffeine Free Pepsi (we failed her here) and the puzzle page folded over on a book for a good writing surface. She was particular about her puzzling pens (NEVER A PENCIL). Elegant letters, almost cursive looking, and so distinctive. I can’t think of one time that she DNF’ed a puzzle.

Change comes fast and delivers multiple blows. The Star-Tribune stopped delivering to South Dakota so my mom’s access to the paper puzzle ended. I switched to a digital paper subscription (the puzzle was my last reason to get the paper copy) and can’t find a simple way to get a paper version of the daily NYT puzzle. I don’t like doing puzzles on my phone — just more staring at screens and nowhere near as satisfying for me.3

Most importantly, my mom died. And puzzling now seems fraught with unattended-to grief. I’m scared of them and scared of what I might feel. Last week I was on a flight, and I found an old NYT Sunday puzzle book that belonged to my mom in my bag, a bag I hadn’t used since before my mom died. I pulled it out and saw that she had started but not finished one of the puzzles (surely for time reasons and not skill!)

I cried on the plane. I felt urgently that I needed to complete this for her. I realized that some of the clues, as well as the title, were ludicrous and mourned that we couldn’t laugh about them. Herewith in my mom’s gorgeous hand:

NB:

• 102 across Take a Big Whisk. Please someone use this as a story title.

• 40 across The Life of Wiley feels like it should have big meaning to me but I can’t decide what it is yet.

• I finished her puzzle on the plane, with the stranger next to me side-eyeing my tears.

• The last box I filled was 65 across. Answer: clam. Mom would’ve loved that old-timey answer.

I hope I scratched an itch for my mom, clearing out an undone task. People always say to keep talking to the ones who’ve left, and crosswords might be my way of talking to her in the years to come. I wonder if Will Shortz knows that his work is becoming a seance of sorts. I’d like to think he’d smile at that.

Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building this crazy social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com.

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But recently I had a BIG loss. I, and everyone in my family, were the recipients of an uncountable number of kind gestures, both emotional and tactile. I’m not often speechless but people’s generosity and creativity left me so stunned and grateful that I felt retroactively bad for all the times I left people to grieve on their own, figuring someone else would take care of them. No more! Never too late to learn my lessons.

A lot of people are going through a lot of things these days. So while it’s fresh in my mind, I wanted to share with you some of the “in the thick of grief” gifts that made a big impact as I pushed through those weeks right after my mom died.

What are the little things that helped you? Add to this list in the comments, save it, and never be at a loss again for what you can do for a friend or neighbor (or yourself!) when the time comes.

1. Ye old soup care package: We had two people send us food from this company and it was a hit both times. A perfect meal at a perfect time, when no one is cooking, and you don’t have a bunch of freezer space or can’t deliver homemade. The quality was excellent, and the packaging was as ecologically sensitive as it could be. Top marks for sure.

2. Protein, baby: I understand that we might not want to be shopping much at Starbucks these days, but did you know that the yummy egg bites from Starbucks are at Costco now? Perfect for grievers who need protein when they least expect it, late nights or early mornings, can be frozen or not. All ages-approved.

3. Monogrammed stationery: Ok this was a purchase from my actual brother, but I’ve made a note to myself that it would be good to give a griever. I worked my fingers to a bloody nub writing hundreds of thank you notes and it made ALL the difference to have them be sweet, small, personalized cards from the family with pre-printed envelopes. And yes we are preppy people, but I genuinely think this would be good and helpful for anyone.

4. Comfort boxes: This is a local (to me, in MN) company that I know and love, and I’ve both received and given these boxes many times. People ALWAYS rave, and you can customize as you please. Maybe more for the women, but maybe not!

5. Haflingers: Watch me now as I confirm every possible stereotype of a middle aged white woman who’s in two book clubs, but trust me if you haven’t gotten on the Haflinger bandwagon I question everything about you. Just since my mom died I’ve broken in a new pair, but in my lifetime I’ve had dozens. I have both the soft bottom and cork bottom. I don’t wear them outside. Perfect for homebound days and sleepless nights. I am in love with this company and if they close down someday you’ll be grieving the loss of me.

6. Jigsaw puzzle: Even if you think your family aren’t puzzlers, there will be people stopping by at any time after someone dies, and it’s nice to have a centering activity out and about for all ages to focus on, in case conversation stalls or gets awkward. Or in case your brain is so full of existential questions that you need to quietly use your fingers before you go crazy. I think 1000 pieces is a minimum but I’m competitive that way. We blew through several puzzles after my mom died. Springbok has the nostalgic collages that make inter-generational puzzling fun and soothing.

7. Jewelry boxes: If someone’s mom or grandma passes, chances are there will be the need to disburse little jewelry items to kids and grandkids. How thoughtful to help someone avoid just throwing things in plastic bags where they’ll surely get knotted up and put on a “de-tangle” shelf for decades to come. These were surprisingly practical. This was a gift from an ultra practical friend and I used them immediately.

8. Weighted blanket: All right, this ain’t cheap but I maintain that the weighted blanket that was gifted to me is actually my new best friend. Maybe it’s my new spouse (sorry sweetie). It’s a literal hug at the right moment. Some people claim it brings on claustrophobia, just like some people claim not to like cilantro (grow up. just kidding.) But for me? It might be the single best thing I own. I own the heaviest version bc it’s ok to have something or someone force you to stop moving. Cold dead hands is how you’ll get it away from me, and underneath it is how you might find me when I finally kick the bucket at age 110.

I know you don’t come to me for product recommendations, but everyone gets stuck on what to do after someone dies, and maybe one of these items will be the right thing at the right time for your friends or family. Tell me what has worked for you!

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Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building a crazy-beautiful social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com. For all the obituaries I’ve shared, go to my linktree.

Obituary of the week. Meet Tomm: clothing optional obituary?

My relationship with Diet Coke is complicated in ways that seem silly to say out loud, but I suspect it’s not too different, emotionally and practically, from other Gen X and Millenial pilgrims.

I started drinking DC at one of my first jobs after college, a job which didn’t require much complexity and therefore put me at risk of dozing off at my desk. With a handy vending machine down the hall, I ramped up to 2-3 cans a day. There weren’t any scolding public health articles about Diet Coke (that I knew of) at the time. DC was my work wife.

As it became clear the job wasn’t a fit and I started worrying about my next move, I lost sleep. Diet Coke went from being my fizzy friend to my chemical craving. It took too many months for me to admit the connection between that much caffeine and restless sleep, and too many more months beyond that to decide I needed to drop caffeine altogether. All things considered, though, the breakup wasn’t hard, because I’d replaced caffeine with good things like exercise, graduate school, and restful sleep.

I went on a TWENTY YEAR run of no caffeine. None. I was smug about it. I’d long broadcast the fact that I’ve never had a cup of coffee in my life (a factoid that appeared in the “other” section of my resumé for many years and generated more animated discussion, by far, than anything else on the resumé). None of my siblings drinks coffee. We’re weird and childlike that way. For me, it wasn’t just an issue of not liking coffee, it was the knowledge that if I drank caffeine, I’d lose sleep, and I’d worked too hard on that to change my approach.

I have a friend who is a brain doctor who altered my thinking on caffeine, who said that not only is it not as bad as people think, it’s a positive in its own right, good for exercise, clarity, aging. The research I did affirmed what she was saying. All my years of smugness about living a no caffeine lifestyle started to crumble. I tentatively picked up black tea, feeling a little ashamed of ceding my high ground but not wanting to spite my brain health out of pride. It was a good gateway and now I feel positively Celtic in my devotion to black tea in the morning (here’s the best). I think I would’ve been fine with only black tea…until my mom got cancer and I went home.

It’s going to take me a while to unpack all the ways her cancer journey changed me. Being in my childhood home for those many weeks was an emotional ride in 100 ways (give or take). I started drinking the mini-Diet Cokes (7.5 oz “sip sized” — adorable!) in my mom’s cupboard and the reunion with my old friend was powerful, effervescent, immediate. I remembered everything about our relationship. I’m well aware of the term “fridge cig” and of the irrefutable negative evidence about the chemicals in Diet Coke. I’m painfully aware that supporting billionaire run companies is counter to my beliefs about what kind of consumer I want to be. But I’ve decided that from here on out, I don’t care, when it comes to…her. That the occasional meet up is worth it. Paired with a salty snack? Come on. I mean come ON. It’s the little things.

My mom smoked for a few decades. We struggled, she and I, to find a way to talk about it. I was the absolutist child who couldn’t understand her addiction or her justification for smoking in the first place. That’s a thorny story for another time. But for now I suspect we’ve achieved something we never did while she was alive: a meeting of the minds about the little things we put in our bodies that, despite logic, fill an emotional need in the same way seeing an old friend does.

Welcome back, girl. I won’t betray you again. Oh and p.s: Diet Pepsi could never. And p.p.s: Coke Zero can gtfo.

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Substack is a place for me to yap about all things obituary but also all things life. One of the greatest joys of building a crazy-beautiful social media presence has been the opportunity to speak to groups of all sizes in a variety of venues about the essential life advice that comes from obituaries. Anybody — in work settings, at home, in relationships — can benefit from hearing the stories of the dead and how they can impact our own choices. It’s the best chapter of my life so far. If you’re interested in learning more about me as a speaker, get in touch: tipsfromdeadpeople@gmail.com. For all the obituaries I’ve shared, go to my linktree.

What I’m reading: This is Happiness

What I’m watching: Line of Duty (you must start at the beginning)

What I’m playing: Dutch Blitz

What I’m grateful for: Minnesotans pulling together in Minnesotan ways

What I’m baking: Brown butter cookies

Obituary of the week. Meet David: more than his worst chapter

The house I grew up in until I was 16 was a couple blocks from a large public high school1 in Sioux Falls, SD. Their marching band was, and still is, tip top. During the second half of summer and all through the fall, the marching band would practice their parade marches in the neighborhood, early in the morning before the heat set in. I have vivid memories of being in my bedroom with an open window, hearing them start soft and get louder as they approached Pam Road near our house. Like Winthrop in The Music Man, I would run out to the front yard hoping to catch a glimpse of those impossibly cool HIGH SCHOOL kids marching by.2

Almost as exciting3 as the music, were the commands that the drum major would be shouting out: Mark time…march! Forward march! Attention! And the pulsing drum cadence in between the songs. Back then, at least in Sioux Falls, the marching band canon was pretty predictable and stodgy: your Sousas, your school song, your occasional radio hit from 10 years prior. Nothing like the truly creative marching bands of today4. But I didn’t care or know the difference. I ate it up.

Lucky for me, my older sister joined the band in high school. We went to the Catholic high school, with a much smaller marching band presence, but the essentials were there. My sister was a percussionist: the pinnacle of importance and status in a marching band. When I came along two years later squeaking out notes on my clarinet, I quickly realized that unlike the drums, clarinets were close to meaningless in a marching band. We were just bodies on the field. Once I played an entire football halftime performance with a broken reed and no one, not even the people next to me in formation, noticed. At all.

Back in the day, in smaller high schools, you could do multiple activities without needing to specialize.5 I’d never heard of traveling sports camps, if they even existed. I was your classic Tracy Flick type of student, a wholesome enthusiast for So Many Extracurriculars. Only rarely did they conflict. Sophomore year I was a football cheerleader, so I would cheer for the first half, race to the restroom and put on the heavy-as-shit wool marching band uniform complete with spats,6 do the halftime show, then race back to the bathroom and change back into my short skirt/sweater (also wool), knee high tube socks (it was the 80s) and grab my pom-pons.7

I try not to live with too many regrets. What’s the point, after all. But a big one, maybe one of my biggest, is that eventually I dropped band. For cheerleading. I think I had people advising me against this at the time, but I didn’t listen. The call of the pom-pons. I did get to go on one band trip, to Missouri where we stayed with the families of the St Joseph MO band.8 Good clean Greyhound bus fun.

Quitting band has paradoxically only increased my love for marching bands. Once when I lived in Madison WI as an adult, I bought a day pass for the regional marching band competition even though I knew no one competing. I see kids marching in parades or at halftime, knowing that this *might* not be the pinnacle on the high school clique pyramid. But I can see even if they can’t, that it’s truly so much cooler to love music, to play music, to go all in on the band vibe and do something together as a team. I think the band has become a LOT hipper since I was a kid, like homecoming king status,9 and that’s the arc of history bending toward justice right there. I almost always cry when I see bands now. I tear up for the awkwardness of youth, putting yourself out there, making memories, my own regret about quitting, and the fact that marching bands (and the flag corps, can’t forget them and their half-calf cowgirl boots) will never ever be replaced by a screen.

Make it a Band Kids summer.

I think my slow processing of the comment was more just my brain trying to evaluate, Chat GPT style, whether anyone had ever said anything similar to me in my life. I’m certain this was a first. As someone who’s online too much, I think I get jaded about catch phrases and bland jargon-y comments. So the specificity of this compliment, and all it evoked, made me happy for the entire day.

It’s worth mentioning, but I don’t think it’s terribly relevant here, that my first job was as a — you guessed ‘er — social worker. After college I moved from the Midwest to New York City and got a job as a social worker in a truancy prevention program based at 107th and Broadway. (The nonprofit doesn’t exist anymore, but my first boss at the agency was Geoffrey Canada, years before he founded The Harlem Children’s Zone. Talk about setting the bar high for a first boss…an absolute legend.) Here’s my honest performance review of me as a social worker: I did the job diligently and poured my heart into it, but I don’t think my skills were a match. I didn’t (and don’t) have the tenacity and sharpness of the best NYC social workers and I was in over my head. Career-wise, there were other vistas ahead for me. Still, I wouldn’t trade a minute. It was like cramming 10 years of life experience into a 2 year space. I don’t know how ever-present my smile was, though. It was stressful. And my clients were dealing with life stuff that I’d never even imagined in my South Dakota brain. I’m sure real social workers like would’ve managed a whole lot better than I did.

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So why did “smile of a social worker” compliment delight me so much? I think it means that I want to hear your story — the weirder the better — and if you need me to do something, I’m generally game. I’m not sure, in fact, if I’ve ever received a nicer compliment. What I try to put out there in the world came back the way I wanted it to. A moment of exhilaration.

I keep notes on the kinds of things I want mentioned in my obituary. (There she goes again, always with the obituaries.) This comment went on the list tout de suite. Not everything on my list is complimentary. I have a lot of what you might charitably call eccentricities. I wholeheartedly believe the best obituaries are a mix of the good and the utter mess. (My 177k obituary-reading TikTok followers agree: we like damaged people and we are all damaged people.)

I made a little video about it. In the video, I asked what little details you want to make sure get in your obituary. The only rule: no cliches. No “never met a stranger” or “smile lit up a room.” The comments on the video are perfectly unique and utterly delightful in every way. Go find them and it’ll make your day. And maybe YOU start a note on your phone about the things you want included in your obit? If so, I’d adore hearing what rises to the top. Don’t forget the weird stuff.

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I’m the kind of person who can remember what I wore for every single one of my school pictures, but I can’t remember almost anything I learned in any science or math class. Every time I read something about nature, it’s like a fresh revelation, but the truth is I probably “learned” it (maybe multiple times) years ago. A Finding Nemo approach to academics — constant breaking news!

The Joshua Tree aka the Yucca Palm is (drum roll) FLEXIBLE. Its innards are mostly hollow and let me repeat: it’s a flexible tree. It thrives in extreme desert climates and it grows in the direction of the wind. Its shape is dictated by the environment and each one is unusual and different. In other words, they live in a hellscape and they adapt to form something of beauty. They can accommodate tragic circumstances while still staying strong.

If there was EVER a metaphor for what we need today, this has to be it. I’m not trying to start a fight about politics, but you have to admit that a lot of people are going through something.

The Joshua Tree has been a symbol of survival and resilience for lots of people throughout history, among them Native Americans, Mormons, and of course Bono!

So let’s remember that we too can adapt to harsh conditions without sacrificing our core. Bend but don’t break. Recognize your Dr. Seussian beauty. Call on your inner Lorax and Be Like Joshua.

A quote I love:

“Small people come in all sizes.” (A smart and shady quote from the brilliant )

What I’m reading:

Still Life with Remorse by Maira Kalman

What I’m watching:

The Lincoln Lawyer (if you’re a Michael Connolly fan, it’s NOTHING like the books, but it’s good junk food)

BOO: Best of (recent) Obituaries:

You made it this far? Congrats!! This newsletter is still morphing based on my whims. It’ll probably be different every time. Thanks for rolling with it! Mary

Is it too much to ask that my tiny-brained 58-year old self just has a simple place to share her quirky stories? Everything’s feeling complicated at this moment. *sigh*

But I’m nothing if not a diligent Girl Scout, looking for an assignment to get an A on. So here I go. I’m researching the options and trying to teach myself the ins and outs of each. In the TikTok melee, I added Instagram (no I don’t love Meta but yes I feel like that’s where a lot of my followers from TikTok already were, and yes I feel like the life stories I share could benefit everyone, so it’s a bit of an ethical dilemma but for now, I’m there). I also added YouTube, which feels like a new language but also full of possibilities because of the opportunity to share longer videos and then maybe clip them up into pieces for other purposes.

I also added this Substack! Thank you for finding me here! I’m not typically a writer. But this too could be a fun challenge since Substack allows for audio and video too. And if you have suggestions for what kinds of things you want to see here, lemme know.

I made a Bluesky account too, but I haven’t done anything with it yet.

As you probably know, I’m not an “influencer” in the traditional sense of the word. I’d be doing my thing, sharing obituaries that fascinate me, no matter what. I’m not waiting for brand deals; I just like storytelling. And I’ll be forever grateful that so many other people like it too.

If you are so inclined, share this with your friends. Coming soon, the obituary content that you know and love. For now, I’m glad you’re here with me!!!

I’m so glad you’re here. If you found your way to this page via my social media accounts, welcome! If this is all new to you, welcome!

Find me on Instagram, YouTube, and for as long as we can do it, TikTok. And share this Substack with others!

A little intro: My name is Mary McGreevy. A couple years ago, I started a TikTok account where I share obituaries that caught my eye and gave me insight into my own life. I’m telling you, Hollywood should dig into obituaries like I do; the stories are utterly unique and captivating. Funny, outrageous, brutal, poignant, short, long, surprising, historic, sly – it’s all there. Sure, these people are dead, but let me tell you, the dead tell tales that matter.

After I started posting these videos, an amazing thing happened. People started watching. And sharing. And commenting. And sending me even more obituaries. The community has grown beyond my wildest expectations, and it’s the best chapter of my life (don’t tell my family). Without a doubt, these stories resonate.

I’ve even gotten the chance to do some public speaking and writing on the topic of what the stories of the dead can teach us about life. I love it. Utterly. Life is always surprising, as obituaries constantly remind me. If you’re interested in having me speak to your group, I’d love that. Find me here.

Even more astonishing is how this work – of highlighting the littlest (and therefore most important) details in a person’s life – has changed ME. I confess I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about achievement and finding a passion (worst career advice ever) in the world. These obituaries have convinced me, a stubborn B, that you/I are so much more than our resume. The little things, truly, are the big things.

More to come, but once again, I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone’s got a story, no exceptions. So let’s start sharing.

Mary

PS: For more about me, recent book recs, and things that inspire me, see here! And for more about Tips From Dead People, right this way.