Remembering Uncle Joe

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.      ~Shakespeare

Uncle Joe was a gentle, kind man. His manner of speaking was memorable – slow and thoughtful - he often paused and sometimes closed his eyes when he spoke. I heard it was a stammer that carried over from childhood, but I always thought it was that he had so much to say that his speech couldn’t keep up with him. That didn’t matter, he had a deep, gentle voice and I loved the way he spoke to me, and always seemed delighted – surprised, even – to see me.

He was handsome - not movie-star handsome - more of the refined, professor-type hero from the 50’s sci-fi movies. He had fine features, dark hair and glasses. His eyes, blue and bright, were always thinking of something of in the distance – something the rest of us couldn’t see. He seemed happy with his life. He loved his wife, Lauraine, and his son, Joel, though there was always a certain sadness about him. Looking back now, I realize it was from the loss of his little girl, Janey, who died of a rare childhood disease before I ever knew her.  Her disease, like his grief, incurable.

Uncle Joe seemed so different from Aunt Lauraine, a fiery brunette with a laugh much larger than her petite size 4 stature. Even after years of marriage, he seemed to look at her with admiration, probably the way he saw her when they first met in high school at a dance near Hazleton (or was it Freeland?).  I wish I saw him more often, to hear stories of growing up with my father, Paul, and their little sister, Rosie, in that tall, white house with the cherry trees in the backyard that graced the path to Pop's upholstery shop.  He went to Penn State, became a chemical engineer, an avid photographer, and a good cook. He made baby carrots glazed with maple syrup and butter, and laughed when I said it was the best thing I ever ate. He was devoted father, loving grandfather and, the inspiration for my life’s work.

Concord Lighthouse, Havre de Grace

When I was young. Uncle Joe sent me a postcard of Havre de Grace, - depicting where the Susquehanna River’s 500 mile journey finally reaches the Chesapeake Bay. On the back, he wrote a simple note “Send me a message in a bottle.” I had, in all of my 9 years of life, an epiphany. The Susquehanna – my river – goes all the way to the Chesapeake Bay? I ran to the nearest atlas, and traced my fingers down the winding blue line that ran through central New York, northern Pennsylvania, back to New York, back through Pennsylvania and all the way to Maryland. The rain that fell on our roof, out our downspout, and down the street into the nearby river ended up hundreds of miles away in the sea by Havre de Grace.

All of a sudden, the world seemed so much smaller, so connected, and so independent of the man-made cities, roads, and borders placed on a map – that it would never seem the same again. It was my first inkling of how little I knew and how much I wanted to understand about the world.

Late last year, I called him at the hospital in Baltimore. We talked about his health and coming to Maine when he felt better. But before we hung up, I asked “Uncle Joe? Do you remember sending me a postcard of Havre de Grace years ago?” He replied yes, I think so. Then I told him how I never forgot it and what it meant to me. He paused, and with a voice even deeper and quieter than usual, he said “I never knew that, Suzy, thanks for telling me.”

It was the last time we spoke.