More than almost anything else, I really hate knocking the doors of the dead

It happens only rarely, but it happens

One day in the spring, when trying to register voters, I had the misfortune of asking for three different dearly departed folk at one and the same house. The woman, on whose porch I stood, was very very nice about the whole matter -- but the third time she said, "Oh, he died several years ago too," I really felt like a schmuck. How many times can you say, "I'm terribly sorry"?

On Friday afternoon, I skipped two doors. An hour or two earlier, I had heard a woman screaming, "Oh god! oh god!" a few streets over from where I was walking, and almost immediately afterwards, a couple of patrols flashed past. When I finally worked my way down my list to that cul-de-sac, there were five police cars and two ambulances blocking the street. So I finished the rest of my list and then came back. The ambulances were gone by then, but a crowd of neighbors was in the yard of one house, and two patrol cars were still in the opposite driveway. Both those houses were on my list, but I figured neither of them would want to see me, so I by-passed them, finished the rest of my list, and called it a wrap

On Saturday, I once again heard "He's dead," after asking for a name on my list. And, as usual, I apologized: "I'm terribly sorry. I was hoping to share some information with him about where he could vote." His son said, "It's OK," thanked me, and offered me his hand to shake