What if you died and got to attend your own funeral—but nobody knew the real you? Inspired by the life and letters of my Great Uncle, Fred’s Funeral opens with Fred’s ghost discovering he is dead. Think A Christmas Carol, but the ghosts arrive too late. Here’s how it begins.

It is thin and wavering, the barrier Fred Sadler knocks against. But no matter how hard he tries, he cannot pass through. He is like timber in a lake, submerged and waterlogged and the boys above him are gulls in the sky. Fred Sadler doesn’t know he is in that disagreeable place - reserved for those who predetermine there is no life after death but who, upon dying, discover indeed there is more.

It’s the damnedest thing. Fred Sadler waves and calls out to his cousin Birdie and his brother Thomas as the two boys beckon him closer. They are youngsters, just how Fred Sadler remembers them and he longs to be with them. Behind Birdie and Thomas, a strange grove of glorious verdant trees glows and sways. Beyond the trees, Fred glimpses the pure blue brilliance of water. The two boys peer toward Fred Sadler and Thomas asks Birdie, “Is it Fred? Can he not cross over?”

Fred tries again to penetrate the misty layer but he’s held back. Something whispers, As through a glass darkly.

Fred hears the voice of a long ago Congregationalist Church minister breaking through his consciousness like a radio suddenly tuned into a station. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

What in the blue deuce?

On the other side of the ethereal boundary, Fred’s whole family is congregating, all the people who died and went on before him. All the souls he’d felt certain he would never see again. There’s Fred’s mother wearing the look of sweet worry she’d borne after the war, and there’s his father - so proud of Fred, and Pauline, lovely lithe Pauline, laughing and twirling, and by gum there’s Fred’s old friend Stanley!

Hello, hello!

A noise below startles Fred Sadler and he realizes with a jolt that it is October 12, 1986 and he is floating near the pocked beige ceiling of his room in York Manor Home for the Aged. Inches from his nose is that horrid brown stain from the flood in the bathroom upstairs – it’s unmistakable - he’s spent years lying on his back studying it.

Am I dead?

Fred Sadler thrashes, trying to locate his brother and family and the lush green world but it’s vanished. Dammit! Where did that dream go? They are expecting me. I want to go back!

Fred’s Funeral is available on Amazon in e-book and paperback. Click here to read more about it.

Did you have a relative who served in WWI? I’d love to hear about them.

I send you original essays every week—always free, always yours. If my writing matters to you, consider becoming a paid supporter at $5/month. No extra perks, just the knowledge that you’re keeping this work alive.

For more information about me and my books visit my website by clicking the image below.

Fred’s Funeral took years to write—piecing together letters, memories, and silences into something true. If this excerpt landed for you, a tip in the jar supports the kind of slow, careful work that brings forgotten stories to light.

Tip Jar!