Blog #1- The Mourning Seventies
The day started in my soggy version of hell. I stood in the rain with six mourners staring at a smudged picture of Mr. Evans. As the ink ran down the soaked picture of Evans, it almost looked like he was crying. Not at being dead; in that moment, death seemed like a welcomed alternative. No, I imagined him crying at the sad crowd that stood at his vigil. Of the seven of us, two were more interested in his small inheritance than his death. His niece and cousin came in from out of town to gather up his belongings and money and go back to wherever they had come from. Three of the mourners were Evans' chess opponents. That was really the only place I'd ever seen him; he almost always took up a seat in the park and played chess, usually with Old Man Jenkins. The last two attendees were my mom and I. My mom was a real sucker for dead people. In the 70's she spent most of her time going around protesting for them. She had forced me to come to the vigil instead of get...