Dying of old age in old-time Phoenix


My father died today, he was 96 years old. I just called some friends a few minutes ago, posted it on Facebook, and no one asked "what did he die of?", which would be just silly. He died of old age. And it's a reminder that you can be robustly healthy, and at some point your life will end. That's how it works.

I try not to think too much about death, but since I'm interested in history, and collect a lot of old photos, it sometimes strikes me that everyone there is dead. I like looking through the old Phoenix newspapers, and wonder about people's lives back in the day, and of course they're all gone.

How long people lived back then, other than being less than nowadays, isn't clear to me. You could point me to graphs and charts and actuarial tables, and I'd know less after looking at them than before. But I do wonder at what age people wouldn't ask, "What did he die of?", maybe the age that I thought all old people were when I was a kid, anywhere from 50 to 150.

I've visited a lot of cemeteries in Arizona, and they all make me sad. I feel sad when I see someone who died young, and I feel sad when I see someone who died old. There doesn't ever seem to be the right time to die. The thoughts that spring into my head are usually trivial things like "this person never rode in a car with seat belts" or "didn't live to see Rock n' Roll", or whatever reference pops into my head at the time. And sometimes I think that this person got to see the invention of things we take for granted, like electricity, or automobiles.

By the way, my father chose to not be buried, or have a marker. His spirit will remain alive for as long as people remember him, and I will.

Image at the top of this post: Greenwood Cemetery in the 1940s, Phoenix, Arizona.
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