The Funeral Planner by Lynn Isenberg Page B

Wall Street are eager to know who will eventually take over control and when, with respect to its affect on the direction of the company and its stock market value. But to date, the bench strength of the powerhouse board has failed to convince Mr. Pintock to utter the name of a single candidate, either in-house or out.”
    I close my eyes and think of Tara. I reach inside my bag, pull out a flashlight pen and hold it upright. I flick it on and quietly recite the kaddish prayer for Tara.
     
    The last of winter begins to melt, making way for mud puddles and the smell of new foliage. A horn honks from the dirt road outside Uncle Sam’s cottage on Clark Lake. Andy stands inside the cottage and turns to Uncle Sam, Sierra and me. “That’s my dad. I’ve got to get to my piano lesson now.”
    “Hey, thanks, Andy, for giving us your time,” I say, sharing a quick hug with him.
    “Yeah, you were great,” says Sierra from behind a high-end video camera.
    Andy hugs Uncle Sam. “It was fun! See you guys later!” He scoots out the door.
    “Let’s see if we can get that magic hour of light,” I say.
    Uncle Sam, Sierra and I walk onto the backyard deck overlooking the lake at sunset. The ice begins to break apart, revealing baby ripples of water against the shoreline. Sierra places the camera on a tripod.
    I turn to Uncle Sam. “Be yourself, and remember to rephrase my question inside your answer, cuz no one’s going to hear me when we finish cutting it together.”
    Sierra crosses over to Uncle Sam holding a small lavalier microphone in her hand. “Can I hook you up for sound?”
    “Absolutely, I’ll take a beautiful girl hooking me up for sound any day.”
    “Why thank you, Mr. Banks.”
    “You can call me Sam.”
    “Okay, Sam.” Sierra smiles.
    “Hey, are you flirting with my production crew?” I tease.
    “Why not?” He smiles back as Sierra finishes. “You okay with it?” he asks her.
    “Actually, I’m flattered,” she says, and turns to me. “We’re good to go.”
    “Uncle Sam, you ready?”
    “Ready.”
    Sierra lines up a master shot with a wide-angle lens. I stand to the side of the camera.
    “Keep your eyes on me, Uncle Sam. Not the lens. Warmup question number one. What’s your favorite hobby?”
    “My favorite hobby is fishing on Clark Lake. It takes patience, and, well, that’s a metaphor for life…because without the joy of the journey, there’s no joy of the catch.”
    “Hold it,” says Sierra. “The breeze is blowing his hair in his face and there’s a hot spot on him.” She readjusts his hair and powders his forehead. He blushes under her cosmetic touch-up. She smiles at him and returns to the camera.
    “Tell me about your other hobbies,” I suggest. “Like whistling.”
    “I love to whistle. It’s how I communicate with myself and nature. Puts air in your lungs. Makes you feel alive. Just put your lips together and blow.” He puckers up and whistles the tune of “Fishing Free.” An obvious sense of contentment washes over him as he gestures toward the beauty around us.
    Sierra and I watch, mesmerized by the ease with which he handles the art of living. He finishes the song, looks at the landscape and offers his trademark line,“It’s a beee-utiful day!”
    We break into a round of applause.
    Uncle Sam blinks repeatedly several times, revealing shyness graced with humility. It’s an endearing mannerism and I watch Sierra capture it on tape.
    I glance at my guide sheet. “Okay, Uncle Sam, tell me what you are most proud of in your life.”
    He takes a moment, then replies, “I’m most proud of my love of life.”
    “Can you explain what you mean by that?” I ask.
    “I wake up every day and appreciate every moment. It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or the sun is shining. It’s all beautiful. I’m very proud of that.”
    “ That’s beautiful,” says Sierra.
    I feel a pain in my heart I can’t define. Will I ever feel that way? I fumble through my papers to