American Joe

I am missing a memorial service Sunday for my Uncle Joe. He will be buried Monday by his family. When I think about Joe's life, I think of a typically American life. He was born and raised in rural America with four brothers, to parents who worked hard and taught him and his brothers how to take care of themselves, and each other. By all accounts he was talented in sports, especially basketball, but I never heard it from him. He joined the service, went to Okinawa, and returned with a wife. He had three kids, stayed with one company for most of his work life, had four grandkids, and just retired soon after his wife's death, and not long before his own untimely death. A typically American life, and an increasingly typical American death.



Joe's death surprised me. It surprised me because he was so healthy, it surprised me because it was cancer and it was fast. And it surprised Bruce. It surprised me that Bruce had gotten to know Joe, because it was on the court. Bruce was always impressed by Joe's skill on the court, he says you really get to know someone on the court which I know to be true from soccer. He says he was very competitive and always honest. Joe's highschool grandson CJ says he never beat Joe on the court.




It was hard for me to know Joe, as he was relatively quiet, that is quiet, at least, compared to my relatives; and when there was conflict he rarely seemed to be in the center of it. But there were a couple of times he surprised me with his words. At the end of one visit several years ago when we hadn't seen my youngest sister for some time, he asked us to tell her "he missed her quick smile." It seemed to cut to the heart of things at the time, and thoughtful.

When his wife of 35 or so years died recently, his words at her memorial were simple and very moving, and I will always remember him using a basketball phrase to describe his perception of his Japanese wife, he said "she played tall." I concluded he was a poet, if not always in words, maybe in life, and wise. (He spent less time sitting around and philosophizing and arguing than some of us, and more time doing things.)


I am clearly not a poet, but Bruce and Miranda recently came upon a poem that I would like to share. I don't know the author (I've heard of him) or whether he was writing this to describe sadness or tragedy or not, but I read it as simple wisdom of a child.


We Are Seven by William Wordsworth

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
--Her beauty made me glad.

'Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?'
'How many? seven in all,' she said,
And wondering looked at me.

'And where are they, I pray you tell?'
She answered, 'Seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother,
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.

'You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
Sweet Maid, how this may be?'

Then did the little Maid reply,
'Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.'

'You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then you are only five.'

'Their graves are green, they may be seen,'
The little Maid replied,
'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

'My stocking there I often knot,
My 'kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit--
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid,
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.'

'How many are you then,' said I,
'If they two are in Heaven?'
The little Maiden did reply,
'O Master! we are seven.'

'But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!'
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'