An obituary for Harry Stamps

Who is Harry Stamps? Excellent question. He was the dean of Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College, but, as his excellently written and tear-inducing obituary explains, he was also "a ladies’ man, foodie, natty dresser, and accomplished traveler" who held the secrets of the world's greatest BLT sandwich and went to his deathbed despising Daylight Savings Time (aka The Devil's Time). A man after my own heart.


  1. The “Awesome” and “Deaths” Tags really shouldn’t be next to and in that order together.

    1. Feh.  Sez you.  Today, in my neighborhood, the sun rose shortly before I had to take my daughter to school.  I don’t need it up any earlier than that.  And the sun will set around 7:00 PM, and will continue to set at 7:00 or later until after Halloween.  And that suits my selfish personal goals and standards just fine.  I always hate running out of daylight in the late afternoon, when I have actual stuff to do outside, but since I have no cows to milk nor fields to till, I don’t mind at all occasionally driving to work in the dark.

      Daylight Savings Time all the livelong year ’round for me!

  2. It’s not possible he had the secret to the world’s greatest BLT, as I received it directly from my grandmother and have kept it secret since.

  3. We need to do away with the time change, but the only good way would be to just not “fall back” one year; basically eliminate Standard Time.

    1. I have a better idea. Instead of aligning ourselves with Flat-Earthers and Young Earth Creationists, why don’t we just change our working hours?

      1. “aligning ourselves with Flat-Earthers and Young Earth Creationists.”

        Whose ass did you pull that totally bogus association from?
        (Oh, and as far as another thing that always comes up in this debate: Fuck what it’s like in the early morning, mornings always suck anyway.)

        1. Were you aware that the whole time/ clock/ noon/ midnight thing was supposed to be based on the earth’s rotation?

          1. Still doesn’t make accusing me of “aligning” with flat-out rightie kooks like that anything other than borderline libelous, or at least a bad-faith, dirty line of argument.

            All I know is that I feel a good 30% less depressed on a chronic daily basis once we leave the Hellish Cloud of Gloom that is Shit Time Standard Time.
            Accuse me of self-centeredness for that, but lumping me in with loons like the ones you mentioned is like me accusing you of “aligning” with eugenicists and believers in divinely endowed monarchy for that time you claimed that the lower orders shouldn’t get too much leisure time because they just waste it on stupid reality shows.

  4. I’d be willing to lay money on his having written that obit himself. When I read a complete stranger’s obituary and think “I wish I could have hung out with that awesome dude” it’s usually the case, and properly so.

    “a plain pocketed T-shirt designed by the fashion house Fruit of the Loom” … still laughing at that line.

  5. There are no obits or eulogies, like Southern obits/eulogies.  Those folks can write a proper send-off to the Great Hereafter.

    1. Got any examples you could share?  I’m curious, as I’ve never heard one from or about a Southerner.  In fact, I’ve attended maybe half-a-dozen funerals or memorial services (a grandmother, a great aunt, two brothers, another aunt, and mom’s second husband, as far as I can remember), and they all took place in or near San Diego, and none were remotely memorable.  Though some–sadly, not all–of the departed people were quite memorable.

      Come to think of it, one of the services was Greek Orthodox, and thus constituted the only time in my life I’ve ever kissed a corpse.  Did not expect to do that, but since everyone in line before me did, I figured it was the polite thing to do.

      Yes, under the right circumstances, if Jenny Piccolo jumped off a bridge, I suppose I’d jump off a bridge, too.

    1. There’s a glass figurine of a praying mantis on my mother’s mantel.  I sent it to my dad for Christmas a few years before he died.  He spent the last 12 years of his life on dialysis.  The figurine was a tribute to a story he told me and my brother about a mantis he kept in a shoebox as a child.  I was told later by mom that when dad opened the gift, it was a few moments before he saw the mantis in the glass (although it was well rendered) and understood why I’d sent it.  Then he got very quiet, he was fighting back tears.   My father’s stories are one of the primary reasons I have a library in my house and chairs dedicated to it’s enjoyment.  He’s the reason every friend I’ve ever had warmed up my attention by telling me a funny story.  We daughters aren’t just listening; we’re spoiled for any lesser character.

  6. When I attended Jefferson Davis Junior College in 1971 and 1972, I was more of a Mr. Drago and Mr. Burford fan than I was a Mr. Stamps fan. I had just one class with Mr. Stamps in my two years at the school. I was in a number of Mr. Drago’s history classes, and the room was his stage. He had the ability to inform and entertain. That was refreshing to me after six years at an all-boys Catholic school in Biloxi with teachers had become brothers to avoid the Vietnam War and then left once the war ended. Mr. Burford was the librarian. I still have the odd memory that when I was a sophomore, Mr. Burford let me play Richard Brautigan’s “Trout Fishing In America” spoken-word LP on a record player in the office for a few other students. I don’t think I was trying to impress anyone. I know no one was impressed. Maybe I just thought it was humorous playing it in the office of a kindly curmudgeon who drove a blue-and-white Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. But your appreciation for Mr. Stamps has topped those little recollections. I work for the newspaper that printed the obituary and the paper is just down the road from where Mr. Stamps taught.

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