Uncle Joe, RIP

Uncle Joe, Uncle Bob, Aunt Nanette, Dad about 2006

My Uncle Joe died today.  He was 89 and 6 months.  I add the 6 months because he was determined to make it to 90.  Nearly every time I saw him lately, he would comment that he hoped he could at least make it to his next birthday, because he had to outlive his brother, Bob, who had died 4 months short of 90 while sitting on the couch. After that he didn't care; he just didn't want to linger.

He almost made it.

Not sure if he died from his COPD/emphysema or the aneurism in his aorta.  It doesn't matter.  He passed peacefully, sitting on his sofa in his pajamas, almost exactly like his brother.

He was one of the most interesting people I have ever known.  He was an artist, a free-spirit, a raconteur.  He was one of the lucky elderly who had his mind until the end.  He had a joke for every occasion and a story to match.  Often you wouldn't know if he was telling a joke or a true tale.  He would start out, "That reminds me of the time I was in this little pub in Ireland..."  And he had been in many little pubs in Ireland or France or Spain, so what he was about to tell could possibly be true, but 9 times out of 10, it was the set up for a fantastic joke.  I can't remember a single one, but he had hundreds tucked away in his mental file cabinet and could pull them out with ease.

He joined the Army Air Corps during World War 2 and trained to be a waist gunner in a B-17.  He was supposed to be shipped over to Europe to fight the Germans, but the war ended before he could leave.  He then got orders to head to the Pacific to battle the Japanese, but Japan surrendered, so he didn't go there either.  I think at one time, he might have had a little regret that he "missed out," but as an older man, he realized how lucky he was.  I can't imagine him fighting in a war.  He had too gentle of a soul for killing.

He led a most fascinating life, residing for awhile in Paris after the war.  He told the story about a time when he was sitting in a little cafe off the beaten path (yes, this one is true) when who should sit at the table next to him but Tennessee Williams!  He said he looked up, and who should be walking across the street loaded with books but Truman Capote.  He thought to himself, "Holy cow!  I wonder what kind of literary tete-a-tete I'll hear today!" and scooted a little closer to the authors' table.  Capote walked up to Williams and plopped his armload of books on the table and said simply,  "I'm pooped!"  Uncle Joe got a big kick out of that.

He was a glass is half full kind of guy.  An eternal optimist.  He had a full head of mostly black hair and wore glasses on a chain around his neck, which he needed mostly just for reading.   He was the last of my relatives to kiss me on both cheeks, the French way after my grandmother.  He always called me "Dear."

Uncle Joe could build just about anything.  He loved plumbing for the "puzzle-like" problems it presented.  He was using a jigsaw up until last year to build a desk for his computer and a work bench for his art but then the dust got to be too much for his lungs.

His closet was full of navy blue shirts and khaki pants with the occasional black or dark green shirt.  He said having all his clothes the same color cut down on decision-making and simplified his life.

He loved to cook.  He made Spanish rice and apple tarts and just recently, I got him some fresh rhubarb and cinnamon sticks so he could stew them together without ruining the nice pink color of the rhubarb.  He liked grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from Panera, bread from Blue Dog Bakery, and bourbon, any kind.

He painted like a boss.  Watercolor in his later life, oil in the early years.  I hung rows of paintings in the hallway of his last apartment and other assorted paintings around the family room.  They were like snapshots of his travels through Canada, France, Spain, Ireland, the Bahamas, wherever he had been.  If the light fell a certain way along a hedgerow of arborvitae or against the side of a barn, he painted it.  He made amazing collages of tickets and napkins and programs of events.  He collected folk art and old editorial cartoons.  He read the New Yorker and had email and knew how to surf the web.

He donated his body to UofL School of Medicine.  He had been a professor, chairman of the art department at the University of Kentucky for many years.  He said he taught students in life and wanted to continue teaching after he died.  "I won't need my body anymore," he said.  "If I can continue to educate after I'm gone, why not?"

That was just the kind of guy he was.

I wish I could meet with the students who will learn from him over the next few weeks and months.  I would like to tell them that this was not just some 89 year old guy with COPD.  He was an extraordinary gentleman, a gentle and kind man, the kind that they don't really make anymore.  Be good to him.  Learn from him.  Then go out and make the world a better place.  That would make him happy.