PB9 The Grim Reaperette

Last Tuesday morning I knew I was going to die. I didn’t suspect. I didn’t wonder. I KNEW! And soon. Last year, a pet rabbit, beloved by many at GHS, disappeared and was found dead. The “science” teacher, explained that the rabbit knew that the end was near and had wandered off to find a quiet place to expire. Did you read the recent news reports of a cat that sleeps next to hospital patients the day before they pass on? I WAS that rabbit. It was time for the cat.
It started at Buckeye Lake Saturday afternoon. My loving wife of some 25 years and I anchored the boat and raised a toast to being empty nesters once again. While eating our lunch, however, I couldn’t help but notice a particularly malevolent Blue Heron lingering nearby. When I woke up Tuesday, my head had swollen to the size of a beach ball, the inside of my skull was being pummeled by siege guns, and my temperature was off the scale. I knew at once that I had contracted avian flu from the heron.

I have been following this insidious disease for many years, but little did I know that I would become the first U.S. fatality. Still, my duties on earth were not done. I slowly pedaled my bike to school because I didn’t trust myself to drive. My eyes had become little slits that barely allowed me to take in my surroundings. But I knew that the story of Jamestown and Plymouth, the morning history lesson, was too important to leave to a substitute teacher. Of course, I felt obliged to inform my students of my condition so that they could take precautions. Trying to put a positive spin on the horrific news, I reminded them that although many of us were to die, the survivors would get lots of time off from school. Somehow I got through Tuesday and Wednesday, but I still had one more duty to perform; open house at the high school. I pulled myself together for one last gallant effort, and wheezing, spitting, and coughing, passed on to the parents for the last time my philosophy of education.

When I got home I told my LWOS25yrs that this was it. I went over the arrangements I have made for the final send off. She was very sad but managed to remain composed. She only questioned my request for a Viking funeral. “Do we really have to burn the boat? “Yes!” I replied, “And, I want the Granville High School Band playing “ The Saints go Marching In” all the way to Lake Hudson.” Next I penned a note to Professor Santoni, forgiving him for the hateful things he had written about me in this very newspaper. Finally, I gave a final hug to my faithful Lab, Blackie. That’s when I “lost it”. She, too, however, took it surprisingly well. Blackie looked at me with those huge brown eyes as if to say, “Whatever. Do you have a dog biscuit?” I tossed down the last swig of Nyquil and put my head down on my pillow for the last time.
I awoke Thursday morning feeling remarkably well! Could it be that Nyquil is the long sought remedy for bird flu? Further research required. In any case, I had looked Death in the face and she had blinked. Obviously my Maker likes what I am doing and wants me to keep it up. I went off to school with a new sense of purpose and a feeling of well being.

My grandmother Palmquist, a true pioneer of the old West, feared nothing, including death. I try to be like her. As the old country and western song says, “I wanna go to heaven but I don’t wanna go tonight.” Still in all, it is a useful exercise to remind ourselves from time to time that we aren’t going to be around forever. I appreciate life more now having survived those two horrible days. But I sure wish I hadn’t sent the note to Santoni. You know I’m right.