Happy birthday, Jo
She would have turned 80 today. Some days I miss her so much. I miss hearing her voice, her deep, throaty laugh. I miss being able to talk to her about anything. To unload and rant a little. To feel heard and supported, even when she disagreed. To hear her hard-core common sense, tinged with compassion and a pinch of tenderness.
My sister-in-law was one of a kind. A Southern girl to her bones, she’d been born and raised in Kentucky. When my brother first introduced her, none of us knew quite what to make of her; she was unlike anyone else in the family. Outspoken, tough and funny, with colorful expressions delivered in a thick Southern accent that made everything she said sound charming and musical. She soon blossomed to an enormous presence in our family, owning a room when she entered it, always approachable, ready for fun, and rarely shy about giving her opinion.
She never wore a coat, even in the cold winter months. She said they were “too bulky,” especially when riding in a car. But without one, she’d complain loudly: “Damn! It’s cold enough to freeze my granny-hammer!” I don’t think any of us ever figured out where or what one’s granny-hammer is, exactly, which is probably a good thing.
Fiercely loyal, she was protective of those she loved. When I left my first husband, she was furious that I had chosen to walk away with nothing from the marriage. For safety reasons, we packed up my stuff at the house while he was away at a conference. I took only what I’d brought into the marriage and left the rest for him. “He’s getting off scot-free!” she raged. “I’d leave him a cup, a bowl, and a spoon, and take everything else!”
Older than my brother, she was close to my mom’s age and they became the best of friends. She taught my mom to play poker and they would wile away the afternoon hours at the kitchen table, playing cards, drinking Pepsi and the occasional pitcher of margaritas. Each had endured a less-than-fairy-tale childhood and I think they found solace in that commonality. She was also close to me. I miss our long talks, when I was in the process of becoming an adult, taking my opinions and perspectives for a test drive. She was often in the passenger seat, guiding, allowing, straightening. She was a natural mom, a natural coach.
She loved all kinds of music and a favorite singer of hers was Johnny Mathis. To this day, when I hear Johnny Mathis singing, especially at Christmas time, I think, “Oh Joey, why did you leave us?”
For a time, I was very angry with God for taking her. Out of fear, mostly, because how in the world would we ever get along without her? Some people leave bigger holes than others when they leave. Holes that can never be patched.
As if to gift us with a final perfect memory, at her request, her funeral was not really a funeral in the conventional sense. There was no minister droning on about how mourners will be comforted (when?), the intensely sweet smell of wall-to-wall flowers, with an undercurrent of a melancholy instrumental playing softly in the background.
No, instead of that, she requested that family and friends share stories and their memories of her. We laughed a lot, which is exactly what she would have wanted. When the last person had finished, my brother got up and somehow kept his composure long enough to talk about his wife. At the end, he told us: “Being married to JoAnn made me a better man.” Then he explained what all the shot glasses of tequila were for. It had been JoAnn’s request that at this final gathering, everyone do a shot of tequila in her honor. So, when everything was ready, my brother raised his glass and said, “To JoAnn!” and we threw back our shots.
That was in the spring of 2003. She died just six months shy of her 60th birthday. So young. The space she left is still just as empty and hollow today as it was back then.
Today she would have turned 80, and we would have celebrated till the cows came home.
Happy birthday, Joey.
