Having been the only boy and the baby of four children born to a man who'd always wanted a son and whose wife had previously experienced three miscarriages, my coming had been much heralded. Later, resentful of all the attention I received, an older cousin derisively called me "little Jesus."

I reached my 13th birthday one month before the youthful, elegant John F. Kennedy was elected president. I matured as The Beatles became ever more popular and relevant to the world. It was a world spun by war, drugs, racial strife, a gender revolution, and it took me a long time to find my place in it.

I have come back to the fold of conventional life, but for many years I didn't feel as if I belonged anywhere. I slowly became a productive, responsible member of society -- a traveling salesman, a preschool teacher, a cab driver.

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The exigencies of life being what they are, I ended up being the only one of four children able to care for my senile and dependent mother. As if in recompense, I inherited her mildly comfortable resources. Since mood swings later made it impossible for me to work, this inheritance has been crucial in keeping me fed and sheltered.

My doctor and articles I have read say that people with mental problems die, on average, 25 years earlier than other people. Based on my mother's age at death, I figure to die at the age of 71. My three sisters, always having been active and having kept themselves in good shape, should outlive me.

So I recently found it advisable to write a will, which leaves 30 percent of my estate to each of my sisters and 10 percent to a nephew.

The will stipulates that this nephew will use part of his 10 percent to pay for my cremation. I have requested that he take my ashes to an observation deck on Mount Washington and send them blowin' in the wind above America's Most Livable City.

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The other night, at the suggestion of his wife, my nephew called. Saying his wife thought it would be cool if my ashes were scattered to the accompaniment of a Beatles song, he asked what I thought of the idea and, if I liked it, to choose a song.

With no need of time to consider, I replied, "The last song on Abbey Road, 'The End,' which concludes with ... 'And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.' " Composed by Paul McCartney, it was the last song the Beatles ever recorded together.

After I hung up, I became even more pleased by the idea. It felt as though I'd be leaving the fold again, returning to a time when little Jesus had hoped to change the world.

Cartoonist Rob Rogers does "Rob's Rough," an early look at his work and his creative process, exclusively at PG+, a members-only web site of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Our introduction to PG+ gives you all the details.