A Good Age to Die
The question of a "good age to die" has lingered in my mind for much of my life. It's a reflection of my own journey, shaped by the people I’ve met and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. Life is fragile, and its fleeting nature is often masked by the illusion of invincibility we carry in our youth. I learned this truth early, but Mark Harshberger was a man who seemed to defy it until his very last breath.
Mark was unforgettable—a state champion wrestler, a fearless hunter, and an accomplished fisherman. His physical prowess and relentless determination left a mark on everyone who knew him. Yet, his greatest strength was also his greatest weakness: an unyielding belief that he was indestructible.
Mark and I became friends while working in construction. It was hard not to admire his courage, his sheer audacity to push boundaries. He was the kind of man who lived every day as if it were his last, a trait that made him both inspiring and exasperating. I saw myself in him—at least, the version of myself before I turned fifteen, when I realized that living on the edge wasn’t living at all.
One particular day on the job stays etched in my memory. We were working on a three-story building when Mark decided to jump from the roof into a dumpster below. It was a reckless stunt, the kind that makes your stomach churn just watching it. But Mark landed unscathed, standing up with a grin that seemed to challenge the world to try harder to stop him. A coworker, perhaps emboldened by Mark’s bravado, decided to follow suit. He landed safely but awkwardly, bouncing off the interior wall of the dumpster. I remember thinking, How long can a man play with fire before he gets burned?
Mark lived life in overdrive, and his stories reflected it. He once told me, almost casually, that he had gone through three windshields. To him, these near-death experiences were badges of honor, proof of his resilience. To me, they were warnings, glaring signs that even the strongest among us can only cheat death for so long.
But life has a way of teaching lessons when we least expect them. For Mark, the ultimate lesson came in the form of a tragic and suspicious end.
Mark often spoke of his wife, a woman he admired for her marksmanship. He would tell anyone who’d listen about her ability to hit a bullseye at two thousand yards with a high-powered rifle. It was a skill he held in high regard, a source of pride in their relationship. But pride has a way of turning sour when trust is betrayed.
The news of Mark’s death hit me like a gut punch. Shot and killed by his wife, the details of his death were as shocking as they were perplexing. She claimed it was an accident, that she had mistaken him for a bear at fifty feet. The absurdity of her explanation was hard to ignore, especially given the circumstances surrounding their relationship.
It soon came to light that Mark’s wife had been having an affair with his brother. The betrayal was staggering.
