Dr Winston Small and I once occupied adjacent rooms at UWI and debated weighty topics. Such as: would you know if you had died? Or could you transition straight into the afterlife without being aware?
Suppose, say, you were driving home, fell asleep and slammed into a wall. Unless you heard your name in the CBC death notices, might you not carry on smartly thinking you were alive?
Of course, you’d know if you went to hell.
But I doubt Heaven is the place of unending bliss that is popularly claimed. No human could tolerate, far less, enjoy, that. As Shakespeare says, “when they seldom come, they wish’d for come, and nothing pleaseth but rare accidents”.
So Heaven must be similar to earthly life, except that unusually nice things happen to you from time to time. And there’s one big difference to which we shall come.
I’ve had a number of near-death experiences.
My donkey bolting out of a side road straight into the path of a Hopewell cane truck hustling to make a last trip. Another donkey jumping sideways right in front of a Rocklyn bus. There was no possible escape.
People in the bus actually phoned my mother and told her I was dead.
I tumbled into a massive water tank at Vaucluse when I was a boy and went to the bottom; I couldn’t swim. I was almost caught by the very dangerous stepfather of a girl while she and I were experimenting. And in later life, I’ve fallen asleep many times at the wheel.
So am I alive? It’s unlikely. Far too often really nice, special things happen to me which harken to a more ethereal abode.
Take last week. Four and twenty sixth form Queen’s College students, most of them females of extraordinary beauty and predilection, sang Happy Birthday for me! Right on my front lawn. Moreover, they did it in three different languages! That had to be Heaven.
But the clincher proof comes from Brother Ted.
He sadly informs that there will be no tuna casserole in Heaven. On that Biblical scholars are agreed.
Unless, of course, you’re a Muslim.
I love tuna casserole. Like most men, I married my wife for tuna casserole. And enjoyed it every week for some years.
Then suddenly, without warning, it was all over.
“Not tuna nite,” she declared. No explanation, no nothing. I now realise why. I had gone to Heaven and such is forbidden there.
And when was that? Close as I can recall, Dipper Barrow was Prime Minister when last I had some. If any of you went to my funeral or heard the notice, let me know.
But don’t pity me. Knowing I won’t get gives me unlimited freedom to ask. Some tell me it’s because I’m not rich like Bizzy. That can’t be true. Recently an attractive young lady’s slacks kept slipping down and she kept pulling them up. I offered her a million dollars to leave them be. And she refused.
Others point out that I’m kinda not too good-looking. This is true. Ian Estwick left two tickets to Laff-It-Off Gone Madd for me with Linda, daughter-in-law of Sir Charles Williams. And, realising from the radio ad that ugly people had to pay an extra 25 cents admission, she kindly taped a quarter to one of the tickets.
There are probably many other husbands who aren’t getting any. One confessed this to Sanka Price a few weeks ago. But he and other fellow sufferers need not despair. It seems every once
in a while we departed souls get to gorge on tuna casserole to our hearts’ content.
And we’ll all be singing: “Back to back, belly to belly, ah don’t give a damn, ah done dead already, back to back, belly to belly, is a jumbie jamboree . …”
If I hear of any upcoming dates, will post same.
• Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
