The Deal :: Personal Narrative Writing

The Deal We had a deal, Ada and me. We decided that, since neither of us expected to live forever or get out of this existence alive, which ever one didn't die first would spend the funeral of the one who made it out first telling bad jokes. This wasn't going to win either of us any friends among the family or gathered mourners but we didn't care. In our rather humble opinions people took death far, far too seriously anyway. As I told Ada many times, â€Å"having been dead once, the whole experience is highly overrated.† And she agreed, having been dead once before herself. There were no bright lights, no family waiting, nothing to make the entire experience one worth revisiting, but as death was as inevitable as taxes, we both realized that the next time would probably be the time we got our exit visas from this cycle of reality stamped, and soundly. Now, I feel I need to explain a couple of things before we go much further. Ada is, rather was, my grandmother. A â€Å"southern lady† of the old school, she could achieve more with a raised eyebrow than a raised voice. No one in the family wanted to see that look of disappointment on her lovely little face so we all strove to make life as easy on her as possible. Her husband, my late grandfather, had been saddled by his parents with the name William Homer. He had once been a star athlete in high school and had won awards in every single sport offered in their little hometown. Baseball, football, basketball, you name it, he played it, he mastered it, he made it his own. And it didn't get any better when he became an adult. Just more intense. Homer had boxes of trophies in closets all over their house, racks of them displayed prominently by the most current achievements and their position of honor was ranked by the difficulty of the task. Any flat surface that would hold some shiny bit of bric-a-brac that had his name on it and some amazing feet of athletic achievement he had conquered was coated in a heavy furniture wax and summarily crowded in with the little men holding golf clubs, bowling balls, olive laurels or just simply their own hands over their heads. The Deal :: Personal Narrative Writing The Deal We had a deal, Ada and me. We decided that, since neither of us expected to live forever or get out of this existence alive, which ever one didn't die first would spend the funeral of the one who made it out first telling bad jokes. This wasn't going to win either of us any friends among the family or gathered mourners but we didn't care. In our rather humble opinions people took death far, far too seriously anyway. As I told Ada many times, â€Å"having been dead once, the whole experience is highly overrated.† And she agreed, having been dead once before herself. There were no bright lights, no family waiting, nothing to make the entire experience one worth revisiting, but as death was as inevitable as taxes, we both realized that the next time would probably be the time we got our exit visas from this cycle of reality stamped, and soundly. Now, I feel I need to explain a couple of things before we go much further. Ada is, rather was, my grandmother. A â€Å"southern lady† of the old school, she could achieve more with a raised eyebrow than a raised voice. No one in the family wanted to see that look of disappointment on her lovely little face so we all strove to make life as easy on her as possible. Her husband, my late grandfather, had been saddled by his parents with the name William Homer. He had once been a star athlete in high school and had won awards in every single sport offered in their little hometown. Baseball, football, basketball, you name it, he played it, he mastered it, he made it his own. And it didn't get any better when he became an adult. Just more intense. Homer had boxes of trophies in closets all over their house, racks of them displayed prominently by the most current achievements and their position of honor was ranked by the difficulty of the task. Any flat surface that would hold some shiny bit of bric-a-brac that had his name on it and some amazing feet of athletic achievement he had conquered was coated in a heavy furniture wax and summarily crowded in with the little men holding golf clubs, bowling balls, olive laurels or just simply their own hands over their heads.