Joe

On March 5, 2009, my remarkable brother-in-law, Joe Johnson, passed away after a courageous battle against lung cancer. I wrote this tribute for him, and finished it several days before his passing, but did not have a chance to share it with him.

Joe

I grew up, the second oldest of six children, in central New Jersey, near the shore. My baby sister and older brother were the radical bookends of our clan, testing the boundaries with our parents, and helping to keep the foibles of the middle four in check. When I went to college, I joined a fraternity, and added many Brothers to my already sizable family. One day, I met a young freshman from a town near my parents’, and he chose me as his Big Brother, essentially a mentor. Not long after, my baby sister called to tell me that she was dating someone she really liked, and he was related to someone I knew. It turned out that she was dating the younger brother of my new fraternity brother. Eventually, they married, and now my Little Brother’s Little Brother is married to my little sister.

Joe is a great guy. Stocky in build, he’s always looked healthy and strong. As a longshoreman, he worked the docks in north Jersey for awhile, until he worked his way up to becoming a Captain for Circle Line, ferrying folks around the Statue of Liberty and across the Hudson River to Manhattan. On one trip, he even let my young son “drive” the boat, thrilling him and worrying the heck out of my wife.

Joe is the kind of guy who will do almost anything for anybody. He was a great son-in-law and friend to my father, who passed away last summer, and the two of them were often like peas in a pod. Every now and then, though, Joe would mischievously provoke Dad by asking him about doctors, ostensibly the bane of his existence. And Joe would also push Dad to achieve more. I remember a time about eight or nine years ago, when Dad was nearing the end of a long project, almost single-handedly reroofing the house he built about 50 years earlier. I had recently started helping Dad, respecting his leisurely pace; he was becoming a little nervous about being on the roof and had begun to welcome the help. Joe came over one day, and talked Dad into finishing the last ten percent in one shot. Actually, he made it tough for Dad to say, “No,” by simply ripping off the rest of the old roof.

About six years ago, Joe got the news that we all dread – he had cancer, a particularly nasty kind of non-small cell lung cancer. It was the same type that had claimed his own father at an early age. Joe’s genetic predisposition certainly increased his risk, but no one ever would have ever suspected it, given his apparent health and age (early forties). He had surgery to remove the cancer and half of one of his lungs, and followed that with rounds of radiation and chemotherapy.

For a while, things were looking good – he went back to work, got most of his energy back, and returned to doing most of the things he did before. His continuing treatments have been difficult, and at times, he’s had to slow down, but his recovery from the surgery was nothing short of remarkable. He has beaten unbelievable odds with his determination, and his indomitable spirit and drive. While incurable, his cancer has found a formidable foe.

I’ve now known Joe for over thirty years. In that time, I’ve never known him to feel sorry for himself or feel that he is better than anyone else. Ever since his initial diagnosis, Joe has made a point of enjoying life and his family. He’s spent a lot of time with his three wonderful sons, sharing their love of baseball, enjoying outdoor sports, and taking them places. I know that he’s great for my sister, and a great dad for his boys. His example of class and fatherhood is one that he can truly be proud of, and the world is certainly a better place because of a guy named Joe.

One More Day

Six years ago, my Dad, Wm. Clyde Morgan, was diagnosed with lung cancer. He passed away on July 1, 2009. The gift of the last six years is due to several doctors and nurses who took a sincere interest in him, and the wonderful care that my mother and sisters provided.

He kept his sense of humor to the end – in the week before his passing, he was expressing frustration at not knowing what the plan was for his treatment, and said he was going to call hospital information and ask about the condition of Mr. Morgan in Room 585. I remember telling people how we would know when Dad was getting better – he’d start telling jokes.

When my Dad was sick this last time, I kept thinking I’d see him tomorrow, so I could learn more about his life. He kept fighting to see one more day, out of his deep love for Mom and our family. Sometimes, I’d see him the next day, and he’d look stronger than the day before. He’d lived for one more day, and I’d still think I’d see him tomorrow.

He ran out of tomorrows. Now what we have are yesterdays, the memories of the fine man he was, his infectious smile and laugh, his sense of humor, his great wisdom, and his sense of honor. He’s left a great legacy in our memories, and we’ll always keep him in our hearts.

He fought the good fight. He finished the race. You done good, Clyde.

Eau de Clyde

I find myself remembering an odd but very comforting thing about my Dad, who passed away on July 1, 2009 – when I was a kid, we’d all gather around him when he came home from work, wearing this cologne – a proprietary blend, I think.

I call it Eau de Clyde: one part Mennen Skin Bracer, one part coffee (milk, no sugar), one part sawdust, two parts perspiration, one part Pall Mall, and one part Miller High Life.

Even after 45 years or so, it still lingers…

Circle of Life

I think I’ve figured out the circle of life. At birth, we start with a clean slate. In childhood, we learn everything. During our teen years, we think we know everything, and others, particularly parents, know nothing. Early adulthood is the time when we test everything we know. As we reach midlife, we realize that almost everything we know is wrong. Then come our senior years, when we no longer realize that almost everything we know is wrong and don’t really care. Finally, in old age, we’ve forgotten much of what we knew, and the slate is clean again. The circle is complete.

Watching infants can be fascinating. Armed with only some pre-programmed instincts, they begin to connect the dots of their surroundings, and express their delight as they figure things out, and dismay as they meet with frustration. Their innocence, though short-lived, brings joy to those around them. To see them develop is rewarding in itself, but helping them balance their successes and failures and not allow either to define their existence, pays dividends as they grow and contribute to society.

As the hormones kick in, and the bodies begin to mature, the minds of children take on an air of independence. They test the limits set by others, and develop a feeling of invincibility. Unfortunately, for some, tempting fate is a losing proposition. Fortunately, for most, they survive, either by luck or by design. Luck is their own, but design is usually in the form of someone else’s guidance or protection.

Young adults begin to take on responsibility, and experience true independence. This new perspective is often quite revealing, and they begin to appreciate the guidance and protection they’ve received throughout their lives. Their parents, who for so many years became stupid, miraculously recover and become smart again. As they become parents themselves, they begin to understand, and yes, even emulate, the parents they swore they’d never be like.

As we reach midlife, we consider whether we’ve made all the right choices and taken advantage of all of the opportunities presented along life’s way. We realize that we haven’t, and try to make up for it while there’s still time. We see reality differently, with less optimism and more pragmatism. We know that the present is the only truly manageable dimension of time; the past cannot be changed; and the future can be planned, but what will be, will be.

In our senior years, complacency sets in and we become more and more steadfast. Intellectual atrophy begins to take its toll, and we don’t think as deeply anymore or worry as much (at least, not about important things). As we ease into old age, memories may begin to fade and the dots may begin to disconnect, but the memories that remain are as vivid as can be, and should be captured for future generations. We find ourselves becoming dependent on others to help us balance our successes and failures. Those who help are often the same ones who have a full schedule taking care of children, shouldering their responsibilities, and managing their own lives. But they help willingly, because they are deeply indebted to their elders, who have made so much possible through their generosity, and whose wisdom remains a source of inspiration.

So, enjoy and nurture the wonderment of a child. Be patient, yet strong, with a teenager who pushes your buttons, or takes unreasonable risks. Accept responsibility and become independent as soon as you are ready, but you alone are accountable for your actions or inactions. When you start to study the balance sheet of your life, don’t panic; take the time you have left and make a difference. Try hard not to become complacent, and keep your mind sharp by keeping it active. Above all, be thankful for all you have, generous with all you give, and gracious for all you receive. With that, you’ll truly make a difference.