When a woman's husband of 42 years died of pancreatic cancer, she knew immediately that she didn't want a traditional funeral. He had always said funerals were for the living, not the dead. And that the living should be celebrating, not sitting in pews looking miserable.
So instead, she rented out the back room of the bar where they'd had their first date. She served his favorite food. Brisket, cornbread, and an embarrassing amount of banana pudding. She hired the bluegrass band he'd followed for thirty years. She put up photos of him laughing, not posing. She invited everyone he'd ever loved and told them to tell their best story about him.
It was, by every account, the best party anyone there had ever attended. And he would have absolutely loved it.
This is a celebration of life. And it is becoming, for many Americans, the preferred way to mark a death.
