My father, Burt Howe, was an enigma.  He was a modern day Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde.  He was a man of many faces. 

At times he could be the sweetest, funniest, most wonderful person in the room, bringing a fresh smile to every person that he met.  He was jovial, convivial and intelligent – full of stories – a twinkling eye.  Over the years he earned the nickname “Sweet Old Burt” (“SOB”) which he wore proudly. 

But at other times, he became an angry, irrational tyrant.  He could be the meanest, angriest, most ornery son of a bitch you could imagine, angering those around him and causing even his friends and family to turn away.  At those times the moniker “SOB” applied equally as well.

In his travels he acquired a large lapel button that he displayed prominently at his home and loved to show to anyone who visited.  It read: “SOB – Ask Me Why.”  It was a statement that, on many levels, fit the man.

•     •     •

One sultry summer evening many years ago, he and I sat in nylon deck chairs, watching the sun slip into the water beneath the birch trees at his cottage on Gun Lake in northwestern lower Michigan.  Our conversation eventually turned to death and dying, and finally to epitaphs.  “Just a minor asshole in a valley of giants,”  I told him I wanted mine to say.  His was more pragmatic: “Here lies Burt Howe, teacher of science and mathematics for 40 years - but he couldn’t figure this one out.”

•     •      •

On a clear Florida morning in April of 1998, Burton L. “Slug” Howe passed away due to complications arising from a slew of cancers that spread through his body.  In the end, it wasn’t pretty, but death is seldom pretty, and often it can be merciful.   I’m sure that on some level he must have been sorely disappointed to have lived almost three-quarters of the 20^th Century, and yet failed to sample so much as a taste of the 21^st.  In retrospect, he hasn’t missed that much. 

Sweet Old Burt (SOB) was buried in a small cemetery near his hometown at the headwaters of a tiny creek that springs gently from the sandy soil of Mason County before meandering into the Pere Marquette River for a short run to Lake Michigan.  He had spent a boyhood in the woods and dunes that surround that river, and the cemetery contained the graves of his mother, father, grandparents and a variety of aunts and uncles. 

After the service, the funeral director took my brother and sisters and I aside to make a few decisions.  My father’s will insured that the entire funeral would be paid for, including the stone, however we would have to decide what the stone should say.  We would all be leaving town shortly thereafter and he needed a decision. 

We boggled.

I knew that it had to be distinct.  It had to hold some hint as to the nature of the person who no longer took breath.  I told my brother and sisters about the epitaph that he had shared years ago by the lake.  But it seemed long and unwieldy and we decided against it.  We were searching for something meaningful to put on the stone, something that showed the humanity of the person buried there.  “How about,” I suggested, “SOB – ask me why”?  I expected my siblings to object, but we needed a quick decision, and it struck us all as appropriate.  As I recall we all nodded in agreement.  The deal was done.  The stone was carved.  The epitaph was written.

•     •     •

I’ve always felt a little uncomfortable about that gravestone over the years.  I can’t help but wonder what his friends might think when they visit the grave.  “What kind of a thing,” I imagine they remark, “is that to put on your father’s gravestone?”  And I’m afraid I can’t disagree.  I’ve debated many times whether it might be best to just replace the stone with a more traditional one and be done with it.

But I don’t think that Sweet Old Burt would agree. There is far too little humanity written on gravestones.  A person must search far and wide before they can get beyond the usual “born and died”  dates and repetitious religious platitudes.  But when you do stumble upon a stone that reveals something about the person – who they were, what they thought, what they valued, how they were perceived – you have to celebrate it, capture it, revel in it and take part of it home with you.  There can be humanity in death.

So in the end, I decided to leave it.  It’s a statement.  It’s irony, and SOB loved irony.  Within another dozen years or so, most all of his old friends will be dead.  And then, for as long as the polished granite can withstand the elements, the grave of Burt Howe, Sweet Old Burt, the SOB, will stand testament to the nature of the man.  The dense, cold granite should last well into the 22^nd century and beyond.  And through those centuries, quiet visitors will stop and reflect on who this man might have been… and why this was written of him.

So go there some time.  Head about a mile west out of Scottville, Michigan to the grove of whispering oaks and maples on the south side of the road.  Take the first of four entrances, the only one on the east side of the steep ravine that slices through the cemetery.  Bear to the right around the rough “figure 8” and park your car when you reach the top of the eight.  Step out of your car and look directly to the rear.  Just to the right of where they dump brush into the ravine, sharing a small row with two other graves, sits the polished, pink granite gravesite of Burt Howe.  It’s so close to the road that you risk backing over it if you try to move your car.  Visit at the crack of dawn and the sun will be shining directly upon it: 

Burton L. “Slug” Howe. 

Born - Jan 15, 1925.  Died - April 5, 1998.

SOB – Ask me why

And if you go there, ask him why.  Tee up a golf ball and duff it into the woods.  Talk about the weather. 

 I’m sure that SOB will enjoy the company.