“The undertaker, Winthrop Ogletree, was waiting in the foyer of the large, rambling Victorian house at the end of the Street of Tides where he practiced his trade. . . . “I’ll get right to the point, Winthrop,” my grandmother said officiously. “I’ll be dying sometime after my sixtieth birthday and I don’t want to be a burden on my family. I’m going to pick out the cheapest coffin you carry in this boneyard and I don’t want no high-pressure salesmanship trying to get me to buy some million-dollar box.”
Mr. Ogletree looked both hurt and offended but answered in a mollifying voice. “Oh, Tolitha, Tolitha, Tolitha. I’m here only here to serve your best interests. It would never occur to me to try to talk anyone into anything. I am here only to answer your questions and to be of service. But Tolitha, I wasn’t aware that you were ill. You look like you could live to be a thousand.”
“I can’t think of a more horrible fate,” she answered . . .
* * * *
“I don’t want no smile on my face when I kick, Winthrop,” Tolitha ordered. “You better write that down. I don’t want to be grinning like a chessy cat while folks go peeking over the side. And I want you to use my own personal make-up. Not that cheap crap you use.”
Excerpted from “The Prince of Tides,” By Pat Conroy