Farewell to Jo, my “Big Sis”

We weren’t really brother and sister, at least not in the genetic sense. We called each other Big Sis and Li’l Bro anyway.   How that came to be is that, one day, shortly after her real brother died, we were talking about losing siblings, and she learned that I had lost both of my sisters, one to sickness and one to an auto accident.  I observed that since she was out of brothers. and I was out of sisters, perhaps a sort of adoption was in order.

Hence, Big Sis and Li’l Bro.

We had a few things in common.  We were both born in Michigan, for example. We both were blues aficionados, especially, we were both huge fans of guitarist Coco Montoya.

We met while we were both working as caseworkers for the PA Department of Public Welfare. As it happened with those of us in the trenches of the “war on poverty”, a group of us got close, and formed friendships that lasted far beyond our retirements from that agency.

We were both authors. Jo was a poet as well. One of our group, a published and well-known  local poet himself, often encouraged Jo to write poetry.

 I was most definitely NOT a poet, Jo often said that I was too much of a “Philistine” to appreciate poetry, let alone write it.

I have some of her prose writing that I will cherish. There were bits and pieces of stories she told so well, committed to a digital legacy of sorts.  

 Jo told some great stories about adventures she and her brother had while growing up, mostly in Florida.

 

My favorite “Jo story” was the one I called “The Great Train Adventure”.  She and her brother, Skip, hopped a slow moving freight train and ended up in another state.  The train slowed enough for them to get off after several hours, and they ended up hanging out in a laundromat, the only place that was open that late at night.   Seeing two young kids hanging out in a laundromat, late at night, a local called the police, which led to a call to their parents.

 It goes without saying that, after initial relief, their parents were not happy.

 My continual prodding for her to write the story down only, I am sorry to say, produced a handful of paragraphs of what was sure to be an epic on par with any of the tales from “Lake Woebegone,” or from Jean Shepard. 

I think that she was a much better writer than me. I told her so many times.  Perhaps I might be able to look at work she saved on her tablet, but did not share.  I would not presume to try to put it all together, as tempting as it might be.  I have my own style, and could never imitate Jo’s. 

No matter.  Jo’s work will be published on the hearts of those of us with whom she shared it. 

She was a unique individual. Her personal history included being a part of the “summer of love” in San Francisco during the late 1960’s.  It also included living in the mountains of Peru among the natives, as a student of anthropology.  

It was always a mystery how the group of us ended up in that place, at that time. Our little group’s backgrounds were so diverse, that I can only conclude that it was meant to be, and I am eternally grateful that our lives have been so enriched by each other’s presence.

I think that I can use one of Jo’s poems to sum up her life :

“I swam in the ocean with manatees and a turtle

I prayed in the corners of my bedroom before

I would open the window and escape

I would be careful not to wake my sister.

I would sometimes gather my brother

I would often sit quietly in my backyard

I would breathe in the sticky air

I would exhale fear and doubt

I would be blessed.”

No, my friend, it is we who were blessed.

I will miss you, Big Sis.