Sadness Descends

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I’m sure you’ve all heard by now. If the village crier didn’t catch you, you’d no doubt have heard the pealing of the ancestral Buckford-Westington bells. Recent remodeling required that they be moved into the squash courts, but rest assured, we pealed them all the same. Because the worst has happened, friends and family. The truest tragedy has struck.

Uncle Chucky is…is…dead.

(Did you write in the ellipses, Bamford? Just like we talked about? Good. No, don’t type this, don’t…oh never mind, I’m too upset.)

I can hardly bear to think about it, let alone have Bamford type it. A guiding light of our familial life, snuffed out well before his prime, at the ripe young age of 113, just weeks shy of his birthday. Of his party! The greatest party the city would have seen. It will now be a wake, alas. A dignified, and classy, and above-all stylish wake. (Be sure to buy your tickets!)

Still celebrate? Of course we still will celebrate. For we are not deterred, we Buckford-Westingtons. We won’t let death keep us from honoring the deceased. We won’t let mortality intrude upon our revels. We won’t let Uncle Chucky’s leaving us be an occasion for anything less than the grandest, most regally-appointed funeral in history! A funeral to do him proud, and maybe convince his barrister to let us take a peek at that damned will of his. We’re going to send that delightful old coot off right, don’t you worry, and you’re going to be right there celebrating with us because of course you are, because you loved ol’ Chucky, because you wouldn’t miss it.

Plus, we’ll probably have some festive birthday hats, because young Elson can’t locate the receipt and so we’re stuck with them.

We’ll miss you, Uncle Chucky. You’re singing with the angels now. The cantankerous, old, Irish lilting angels.

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