The Very Unexceptional Life of Arnold Sampson

The funeral home was empty. I have lived down the street for my entire life, and whenever there was a funeral the whole town would know. If not for the fact that word travels fast, as it does in a small suburban hamlet such as ours, but for the excess amount of cars that typically line the side streets because the parking lot only holds about eight cars.

So when my mom and I pulled into the barren lot, we were sure the woman who gave us the details had told us the wrong date, or time, or address. But sure enough, we walked in the front door and there was an open casket at the far end of the small, stuffy room.

There were exactly three people in attendance other than myself and my mother. Two of them sat somberly, gazing vaguely in the direction of the casket. The other stood in the back corner of the room-- a tall woman with short, dark hair. She was dressed like a teacher who had just come from work, not planning to stop at a funeral on the way home.

I had never been to such a sad funeral. And that’s not to say that the death of my great uncle, my grandmother or my mother’s best friend had not been sad-- of course they were sad. But this was a different kind of sad.

Because of the lack of crying, and the fact that there was no family for us to greet, and no flowers to enhance the ambiance of death, I had to see the body inside of the casket to believe that this was a funeral. And unfortunately, it was.

He looked like such a kind, gentle man laying there with his hands crossed on his torso and his chin gallantly pointed up towards the ceiling. Dead people always scared me, but he looked so sincere, and his body looked so accepting of his lifelessness.

The few photos that were set up around the room confirmed my assumptions. His soft smile, kind eyes and charming demeanor jumped off of the surface of every photo, knotted into a ball and lodged into my throat, causing a massive, tear inducing lump. I couldn’t help but cry-- and I didn’t even know him.

My mother held my hand, and I could tell how uncomfortable she was. But she is an empath, much like myself, and so we cried together over the casket of this stranger.

Most funerals are filled with friends and family reminiscing on memories of their late loved one. But this one was awkward and silent, and we didn't know how long would be appropriate to stay at such an unironically lifeless funeral for a man who we did not know. So we sat for around 30 minutes, and decided to pay our final respects and leave.

As we walked out, the woman with the dark hair who looked like a teacher followed us towards the exit. She asked if I was Jennifer, to which I affirmed. She wasn’t a teacher, she was a retired lawyer who volunteered at the local Veteran’s Memorial Association. Her name was Sue and I had corresponded with her a few times over the phone nearly three years ago, and then again the night before the funeral. My mother and I spoke to her for a few moments, plainly omitting our curiosities as to why the room was empty.

Without being prompted, Sue explained to us the very unexceptional life of Arnold Sampson. She spoke of how he was an only child, whose parents died when he was young. He never married, and he lived his life in a small house, in our small town, next to the small church where he spent a lot of his time. He was a Vietnam War veteran who worked as a construction worker in Manhattan for 40 years, and he retired when his neighbor left him a generous sum of money, which he put into his house and savings, and donated to his church and the VMA.

Towards the end of her seemingly rehearsed bio-monologue, Sue reached into her bag and handed me a little black notebook.

I am normally inquisitive and personable and can talk about anything with anyone, but that day, the most distinctively bizzare day of my life, I asked no questions. I listened and cried and spent a concerningly short amount of time wondering why I was at a funeral for a man who I didn’t know, speaking to a woman who I had only spoken to a few times on the phone.

I held the black notebook in my hand, impetuously thanking her, not even asking what it was, who it was from or why she gave it to me-- or why she invited me to the funeral in the first place. But the VMA had given me a lot of money a few years back for a college scholarship, and so I painted a picture in my head where a lone vetern passed and Sue was tasked with recruiting attendees for his expected empty funeral. I was indebted to the VMA, so I would have gone to a funeral every week if they had asked me to.

As we were driving home, I opened the notebook.

And there it was. A handwritten letter, a makeshift will, and a journal entry all wrapped in one. The man wrote briefly about himself-- I learned more from Sue than I did from the man’s own words-- and he wrote a little about me.

There are no words to describe how I felt. The car was moving, but my body was frozen completely in time, the moment I read my name off of the first page. "Dear Jen," it read.

Arnold thanked me for coming to his funeral, stating he knew there wouldn’t be many in attendance. He lived a lonely life, but he was okay with that. He found meaning when he joined his church and the Veteran’s Memorial Association. He loved his dog who passed long before him, and he loved his life. He felt accomplished and proud, even though the extent of his self awareness lead me to believe that he was in denial of his lonliness.

I kept reading.

Because of the money left to him by his neighbor many years ago and the investments he had made throughout his life, he had the means to give back to his community, so he single handedly set up the fund that put me through four years of college.

As my mind was racing, I began wondering how he could know anything about me when I knew nothing of him. The scholarship was anonymous and was branded as an allocated fund from VMA member donations who wanted to help someone in the community pay for college. I was never told about any individual who contributed to the fund, and it was never about my personal journey.

When Sue granted me the scholarship during my senior year of high school, she asked me to write a letter updating her of my progress each year. She was not a veteran herself, but the daughter of a veteran who loved volunteering and bringing her legal background to the VMA for assistance.

I always assumed she wanted to see that I was keeping up my grades, not partying too much, and staying enrolled in school to verify that I was worthy of keeping my scholarship. I figured perhaps she would read the letter each year and file it away once she saw that I wasn't wasting their money. But still, I sent the yearly letter, and in fact, at the time of the funeral, I was about to send my final letter as I was entering my senior year of college.

In addition to the letters, I sent pictures of my service trips and volunteer efforts, of my friends and family and accomplishments throughout the years. I probably updated Sue in more detail than she expected, but I was a storyteller, so every year I made sure to romanticize my life, and sought validation from the person who held the key to my future.

The letters were always mailed, with no response. I assumed my yearly check was confirmation that I was doing well in her eyes. I did all of this to show my gratitude, even though I knew my picture wouldn't be hung anywhere, and Sue would be the only viewer.

This, the notebook told me, is what brought Arnold joy in his final days. Sue shared everything with Arnold after the first year. Once he read my letter and saw my life in pictures in front of him, he spoke about me often.

He wrote how knowing that he impacted my life in this incredible way fulfilled him; how even without children or family, his life was gratified. He even swore it kept him alive for three more years than he should have lived.

Arnold spoke of my heart as if he was with me in Guatemala building houses. He spoke of my intelligence as if he sat next to me in my philosophy class where I questioned everything I had ever known. He spoke of my smile like he was on every hike, every walk and every trip I took throughout college.

The black notebook spoke of what he claimed to be the true meaning of life-- things like purpose, fulfillment, gratitude, and charity. But it brought me more saddness than joy. What was the point of all of this--changing my life and remaining anonymous? Arnold was a loner, and I wept thinking about how I could have been his friend.

The final pages asked me a favor-- one that pales in comparison to what Arnold had done for me. He asked me to carry on a scholarship fund in his name, with his remaining fortune, and to help young women like me follow their path. In this, he created a path for me.

And although my hands didn’t want to loosen their grip when it came time, I passed Arnold’s black notebook to the next recipient, and cried enough tears for all of people who did not attend his funeral.