You know, there are some parts of the newspaper that we all kind of… skip over. The sports scores if you’re not a fan. The classifieds if you’re not looking for a car or a lost cat. And then there are the obituaries. Yeah, I said it. We all do it, right? It’s not that we’re heartless. Far from it. It’s just… well, life. And in Kannapolis, when you’re flipping through the Independent Tribune, you might find yourself doing a little mental sidestep around that section, too. And that’s okay. I’m here to tell you it’s okay.
Let’s be honest, the obituary page can feel like a parade of people you vaguely recognize, or maybe someone’s second cousin twice removed. You see the names: Mildred Periwinkle, Earl “Bucky” Johnson, Agnes Crumplebottom (okay, maybe not Agnes, but you get the idea). These are the pillars of our community, the folks who’ve seen it all, from the glory days of the Kannapolis Cannon Ballers (or whatever they were called back then) to the latest advancements in… well, whatever the latest advancements are. And here they are, their stories laid out in neat, respectful paragraphs.
Now, before you go sharpening your pitchforks, let me clarify. I’m not saying these lives weren’t full and meaningful. Of course they were! Every person has a universe of experiences packed into their time on Earth. But as a general reader, just trying to get my daily dose of local news without getting too bogged down in the… finality of it all, sometimes the obituaries can feel a bit like a homework assignment I didn’t sign up for.
Think about it. You’re looking for updates on the new roundabout downtown, or maybe if the Yankees are still dominating the league (ahem, I mean the Kannapolis Intimidators, of course). And then BAM! You’re met with a detailed account of Wilbur Fiddlesticks’ lifelong passion for collecting antique doorknobs. Fascinating, truly. But does it affect whether I’ll be able to find parking at the grocery store? Probably not.
It’s like when you’re at a family reunion. You’re catching up with your immediate crew, the ones you actually want to talk to. Then Aunt Carol corners you and launches into a twenty-minute monologue about Cousin Bartholomew’s prize-winning petunias. You nod, you smile, you try to look interested. But inside, you’re mentally counting down the minutes until you can escape and go find the potato salad. The obituaries, for some of us, can feel like that Cousin Bartholomew petunia story on repeat.
“I’ve seen people read the obituaries with a speed that would make a cheetah jealous. It’s less about remembrance and more about a quick tick-box exercise for the local newspaper’s survival.”
And it’s not like these are tiny, two-sentence notices. Oh no. These are usually quite thorough. They’ll tell you about their birthdate, their parents’ names (who are likely also in a previous obituary you also may have skimmed), their graduating class from Kannapolis High School (Go Bears! Or Eagles? I forget), their first job at the textile mill, their marriage to Dorothy Mae, their children, their grandchildren, their beloved poodle Fifi, and their unwavering dedication to the local chapter of the Knights of the Golden Spatula. It’s a whole life story, condensed into a few hundred words. And while admirable, it requires a certain level of emotional investment that sometimes, on a Tuesday morning with a lukewarm cup of coffee, I just don’t have.
I’ve even developed a little strategy. I’ll glance at the names. If it’s someone I truly know and care about, then I’ll slow down. I’ll read the touching anecdotes. I’ll maybe even shed a tear. But for the vast majority of them? It’s a swift scan. A mental nod. A silent “Rest in peace.” And then it’s on to the more pressing matters of local governance and upcoming bake sales.
Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism. Perhaps it’s just the modern pace of life. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because we’re all so busy living our own lives, trying to make our own mark, that dwelling too long on the endings feels… premature. We’re more focused on the next chapter, not the final punctuation.
So, to all the Mildreds, the Earls, and the Agneses of Kannapolis, and to their families who are rightfully grieving and cherishing their memories: I offer my deepest condolences. Truly. And to my fellow readers who might share this same, perhaps slightly unconventional, approach to the obituary page? You are not alone. We can silently acknowledge, appreciate, and then… move on to the sports section. It’s not about disrespect; it’s about survival in the information age, one skipped obituary at a time. And hey, maybe someday, when I’m older, I’ll have my own elaborate obituary detailing my lifelong dedication to perfecting the art of the newspaper skim. Now wouldn’t that be something?