How Much Fun Can Be Had Discussing a Children’s Book about Death?

How do you go to a book club with reading the book? Not unless you need a social outlet, and prefer that it be among people, adults, who like to read. You confess to the host that you misread the reminder message: Wasn’t this an author event? As a man who wants more friends, that event would have more people. I want to make friends among those who think, are kind and read.

The hour-long meeting at the Minneapolis Hennepin County Library surprised me. The seven of us, strangers, enjoyed morbid humor, which the book “Will My Cat Eat My Eyeballs..?” stirred. Mortician and author Caitlin Doughty wrote it. The first surprise of the hour: that five participants accepted my promise to mostly listen. (I hadn’t read the book; I didn’t admit to this.) The book answers children’s’ questions about death.

During digressions about from the book’s lessons about customs and legalities, we considered deaths in homes, on flights, on the sea, ancient (100-plus-years-old) histories of medicine, tombstone inscriptions and death rituals we laughed. 

Our laughter about archaic death rites and superstitions, religious and science-informed perspectives the conversation reminded of books that’re related to Ms. Doughty’s. “The Facemaker” and “The Butchering Art,” which I read this year took place in similar eras of history, and ignorance about the sciences. This digression was the second surprise: how often the conversation veers into thoughts and memories of related books and films. These showed how old the bases of death customs and beliefs are.

From the emotional distance of the meeting room, we laughed about facets of death; Funeral directors can prey on mourners.

**Embalming is bad for the environment.
**Why the dead aren’t declared dead mid-air.

**Cemeteries are running out of space; burial plots should be leased for a term, not sold.

**One tombstone read “I told you I didn’t feel well”.

I hadn’t read the book for this month, and forgot having registered for this book club. 

Even as participants used the book as a reason to describe how relatives dealt with death. This, because a bunch of matters, which few people (want to) consider, intrigue us about and make us laugh at death. They stirred us to say “why not”? 

The best surprise was, I had been anxious and pessimistic been about joining these strangers. (Minnesota Nice is a rude misnomer) Few Twin Citians venture beyond pro-forma courtesy into substance. How much the women made me laugh, and satisfied my wit. I was the lone man at the club. None evinced interest in being friends. But life has taught me that make new friends in middle age and amid Minnesota nice is a chore, oft Sisyphean.