Well, you’re either going to believe this or you won’t.

In my wild youth, there was a roadie living rent-free in our band house because, while we somehow managed to pay our bills, he was a roadie — which is to say he was a beggar who happened to be able to lift a Hammond B3 organ.

We called him Crazy Larry and I’ve been unable to resist writing about him over the years because he was hilarious and brash and would do just about anything to amuse us in the hope someone might toss him a beer or a slice of cheese. I suppose he might also have been thought of as a trained seal.

One time, Crazy Larry hit upon an idea to assuage his ongoing bout with hunger and poverty. He scraped together $10 and bought a suit in a local Goodwill, then began scouring the obituaries.

His theory was that the deaths of young people invariably drew huge crowds and, as such, in his suit and looking sad, he could pass anonymously – just another obscure classmate drawn by shocking tragedy at an age when such things weren’t supposed to happen — amongst genuine mourners at the receptions. And, of course, while he was there, Crazy Larry could chow down from the mountains of free food typically available at such gatherings (which is called a “repast,” I believe).

Though he successfully pulled this outrageous plan off a few times, it quickly short circuited and he acknowledged it was too creepy and disrespectful — even for a brazen nut like himself.

I thought of this recently because my wife Eileen and I just returned from Texas and the funeral of my sainted father-in-law, Robert McGregor Jenkins — a remarkable and excellent man who actually laughed years ago when I told him about Crazy Larry’s Death Food Scheme. And the truth is that, in the most literal sense, the snacks we consume after funerals, wakes and other memorial services are perhaps the most precise definition of “comfort food.”

I suppose this ritual has changed over the years.

Folks used to show up at a repast and there would be card tables laid out with several casseroles contributed by neighbors or relatives. And pies! I’m sure the “easy leftovers” aspect of both was a big part of that; the Loved Ones could be spared meal prep during protracted periods of grief.

“I guess I’ll just heat up that green bean casserole. We need to eat something. And wasn’t that nice of the Myersons to bring it?”

“Well, yes. But there’s tuna AND mushrooms in it. Who does that?! Is there any of the Lassiters’ coconut cream pie left?”

After my father-in-law’s funeral, we retreated to a community room adjacent to the church, but no casseroles awaited. Instead, the parish staff had prepared an array of sandwiches along with salads and desserts.

This was the second time I’d encountered the Sandwich Buffet approach to Death Food. Two years ago, when our friend Dave passed, his service was in the Lutheran church he’d attended as a boy. Munching a ham and cheese on a roll, I remarked to my friend Jeff that there was a nostalgic sort of charm to the homemade sandwiches, as though hearkening back to childhood and the idea of toting your own lunch to school — a lunch lovingly prepared by your Mom back when the world was young and we’d never get old.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the idea, I think,” said Jeff, who also grew up Lutheran. “That’s a thing in a lot of churches. A feeling of family and connection. At our house, the phone would ring and my Mom would answer and talk a minute, then hang up and put on her coat. ‘Somebody died,’ she’d say. ‘Gotta go make some sandwiches.’”

I think we’ll all feel better heading off to the Great Beyond on a full stomach.