The World of Joe

Joe was a happy fellow, beloved by the staff at Broadmoor School in Mentor.

I delivered this address at a memorial mass for my brother on Dec. 21, 2013. After many rehearsals, I walked up ready to deliver it confidently. My voice cracked on the first line and emotion led me to recite less than house. Since his death I continue to find ways to express the feelings, and this eulogy only scratches the surface.

My brother was among the rare people in this world who never had to speak a word to leave an impression. Due to his disabilities, he created his own methods of communication, a language of subtle noises and hand gestures that required no words.

There’s a lot he could not tell us. We will never know what pain Joe had. He couldn’t tell us what he felt. Thank goodness we all knew his frequent smiles. If given the chance, he could brighten a room with his smile.

Joe recognized people. Hopefully many of you in this room experienced his handshake. If you were extremely lucky,  he might have urged you to vacuum with him.

When we lose someone, one of the hardest parts is the little quirks go missing. Joe loved unique things. He had an army of bears to accompany him. His other favorite was a sheepskin throw from New Zealand. Mom brought it home as an accent for the living room couch. Minutes after its debut, Joe claimed it for himself. No efforts to stop him ever changed that.

His favorite appliance

We still know Joe’s joy at hearing loud electronics like the electric carving knife or the mixer whipping up cake batter. No one loved a shave or haircut more than Joe, but only if it involved an electric razor. We will never why, but all of those appliances brought him happiness.

One appliance topped all the others. Joe's focus became laser-sharp anytime a he saw a vacuum. Jenny even used to let him know she was going to run it so he could have a front-row seat.

He loved the vacuum so much that on his last day of school in Columbus, the janitors fired up their equipment as he walked out. If that isn’t a tribute to someone who leaves a deep impression, I don’t know what is.

Music was a big part of his life. A high school friend of mine reminded me recently how Joe would listen when people played the piano we had in the living room. I know Jenny remember him listening to you practice minutes before lessons.

We still know his laughter at hearing certain Disney or Muppet songs. If there was one voice outside the family and friends that resonated with Joe, it was Jim Henson’s. Sometimes at night, after Mom put him to bed and turned on his record player for the last spin of the night, he would laugh from the darkness.

Sharing the couch, early 1990s

What you can never take away from Joe is that he had a full life. A short life, but a full one. When Dad worked overseas in the 1990s, Joe proved himself an able traveler again and again – India, China, Singapore, Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii.

He logged every mile we did. Not once did he complain. His smile never sagged. He never fussed. He still didn’t like posing for photos, but he otherwise soldiered through.

That could explain why I felt his absence when traveling. When I traveled the country and he could not follow, I always made a point to return with new shirts for Joe. He went to weddings. He walked the beaches at Gulf Shores and on the Atlantic Coast. He walked the Great Wall of China, stood at the lip of Hawaiian volcanoes, and watched penguins ride the evening surf onto the South Australian Coast.

Smiling at Mom, in a Beijing revolving restaurant.

You cannot mention Joe without mentioning the wonderful job our Mom did of caring for him all those years. Everyone who knew him misses him, but no one feels his absence more acutely. For the most part, you can follow his entire life in those pictures. 

Mom documented his life from the maternity ward to jubilant kid in a Burger King crown. We watched him grow from a happy teenager to a wizened man sitting on the porch, listening to the wind chimes play a gentle tune.

When I went through them – alone twice, then with Nancy and several dozen times since – one photo stuck out more than any other. In that photo circa 1994, Joe lies on the carpet of Honolulu hotel. He looks out across the Pacific Ocean.

What he saw we’ll never know. He could be watching people on the sidewalk 30 floors below him. To me, he’s looking to the horizon, a horizon unlike any he saw in his short life. I can’t say he looked hopeful, but I like to think he did.

I think that is a particularly important for those who grieve.

Joe’s journey on this Earth has ended. He has left us for a much-deserved rest. We can’t lose sight of how much those seizures hurt him. Those of us who live without him can follow the silent advice he offers in that picture. We look to the horizon, keep hope alive and keep Joe’s memory alive. For a person as unique as Joe, it’s the least we can do.

Gazing hopefully at the horizon, Honolulu high-rise hotel, July 1994