Gifts and forgeries

From Anna:


My memories, as I assume others’ memories are, come as short anecdotal moments that are triggered at the oddest moments.  Memory has this way of providing gaps where you are unable to recall and then at other times it hits you with such force it is equivalent to a punch to the solar plexus, leaving you gasping for breath at the force of the memory.  The acute pain, as everything around you forces you to remember, to recall, to make heretofore unseen connections in your universe.  That cat on the fence compels the mind to somehow connect it to that vague memory from Halloween when you were twelve.  That smell reminds you of hanging out during the holidays. That sound brings to mind that time.  We rely so heavily on memory, on our perception of how things were, for perspective.  We cling to our memories as a way to keep our loss alive, to keep them present.  And while I struggle against the pain, I am also grateful that I have those moments. And so it is with so many of moments of Joey in my life, since we were 10 years old in glasses too big for our faces and rhyming last names (Coyle and Doyle). 

I could tell you about watching football player Joey eat a Sonic brown bag special—two burgers, two fries (sub one for tator tots), one soda, and a milkshake—in one sitting.  I could tell you about the decapitated gummy bear on his rearview mirror in the Blazer that we watched morph through an Oklahoma year. Perhaps I could tell you about the shrine built in his mother’s house to my Furbie one Christmas. Or about the shrine that was created on his mother’s front porch and built of neighborhood newspapers that were laid out for the light up snowman and left for Joey to discover the next morning. Perhaps you want to know that he allowed himself to be held down and mascara applied to his white pale eyelashes so I could sate a curiosity of what he would look like with "real" eyelashes.  Or about our impending high school graduation and standing in the parking lot at Surrey on the US map—me on Mississippi and him on DC—realizing how far apart we were going to be. I could tell you about the love affair he had with the linen clothes he wore as an usher in my wedding. I could expound upon Tina’s story of a freezing Joey loose in Chicago (the high those days he was in town was a frigid Windy City 9°F) and in borrowed cold weather clothes--I think I knew at that point he would not settle in the Midwest for school. What I want to share, though, is actually from Joey’s own hand.

As Scott and I unpacked into our new place in Portland, OR, last August, I came across the wedding gift that Joey had given us. Even through the tears, we were able to laugh, as we have for years, over this gift and the note he had written. I am so thankful that I have kept the note from him—written not in a nice card, but on yellow legal paper in his barely legible scrawl and taped shut at one point.

It is this gift and note that, after our 9^th wedding anniversary and talking with Scott, I felt that I wanted to share with others because it so wonderfully captures the wry, sly humor of Joey. 

We were given two gifts, actually. One, for Scott, is a ratchet set for our 1976 Volkswagen bus—because every bus needs a great tool set to keep it running or to help get it off the road when it ceases to quit running.  The other gift, for me, is a signed copy of Robert Hunter’s A Box of Rain. For those who may not know, Robert Hunter was the main lyricist for the Grateful Dead.

Scott and I were quite impressed that Joey had gifted us with this “autographed” book until we read the accompanying letter (as written by Joey and deciphered by me):

           

So your big day is finally here. I felt I should write something to accompany my “gifts” to you and Scott. Before I start, I should apologize for any incoherency and for my handwriting, which is probably on par with the penmanship of a not-so-bright 3^rd grader. Anyways, I just want to tell you how extraordinarily happy I am for you both. Your wedding marks the first time that a friend I truly care for has been wed. Also, it’s the first time that someone my age has been married and I haven’t asked myself, “What were they thinking?” You and Scott just seem so happy together that it makes me happy for you. Plus, I think Scott is a great person, not to mention that his last name doesn’t rhyme with Doyle. As I write, I can hardly believe I’ve known you for 10-some-odd years. I can’t recount all that has happened in that time in this note, I will say that I think my life is better because I’ve known you, and I just want to say thanks. My rather feeble to say thanks, congrats, & good luck, come today in a ratchet set & poetry. I thought the tools were a fine idea for work on the van until my father asks, “Is it metric.” So call me later & I’ll get the receipt. The book just sounded rather appropo; I always liked the Dead’s lyrics, & I know y’all like the music. In case you already have the book, I forged his signature at the front to make it extra special…sorry. So again, I just want to say how happy I am for you both. I wish you the best wherever you are; and know that wherever I am, if you need anything of me just call. With that, I send all my love & well wishes with you and Scott on this wonderful day.

Little did we know that our dear Joey was a forger—albeit with a good heart and intentions—but one who I knew that I could take him for his word: wherever he was, if I needed anything of him, all I had to do was call.

Nanook of the Midwest

From Tina:

Gingimo. That was my nickname for Joe. There were other nicknames Joe had through the years, some of which may or may not have been more immediately decipherable (consider: Joey & Ginger versus Tablespoon & Paprika). But Gingimo was a nickname that was mine and mine alone. It came from a trip to Chicago back in the winter/spring of 2008 to visit Anna & Scott. The weather in Chicago was, not surprisingly, bitterly cold in comparison to DC. Joe was not a fan of extreme temperatures in either direction but cold seemed to have a singular way of bringing out his droll grumpiness. At one point during the visit Joe was exercising his flaneur tendencies, strolling through Chicago clad only in a DC-level winter coat and a thin knit cap he purchased from a kiosk after his arrival. At some point he typed out a text message to me stating simply "I feel like a giant @#$% ginger eskimo." In between giggle fits at the mental image of Joe dressed as a forlorn Eskimo on the shores of Lake Michigan, I immediately shortened this to "Gingimo" and began addressing him as such. I don't know whether Joe ever took to the nickname quite as much as I did, but it always captured in my mind an image of him, with his distinctive gait, weight shifted on one side, pausing briefly after a particularly biting gust off the lake, looking around and muttering with a twinkle in his eye and a half grin on his face. And that's when he pulled out his phone and typed a message with his signature dry wit to bring me into the moment with him, even from 600 miles away. Now it's my turn to continue sharing moments both mundane and extraordinary with him (even if the discussion is a bit one-sided) along with his friends and family.

Gingimo was an explorer in the same tradition of books, unknown foods, and meanderings of which I myself am an ardent subscriber. While our tastes and inclinations were far from identical, the overlap could not be denied. Nor could our mutual zest for experiencing new things, even those that scared us. I have always challenged myself to do those things that frighten me, hoping to discover a strength I did not previously see. Committing to a relationship with Joe was one such challenge; from the beginning our easily interlocking characters scared the daylights out of me. I think, perhaps, it also scared Joe at times. Or maybe that was just my bedhead. I will have to ask him that.

My bedhead, however scary it may have been at times (particularly after a bourbon-infused outing the night before), is not what springs to mind when I think of Joe's willingness to tackle things that scared him. The first memory revolves around my birthday last year, which landed just two weeks before Gingimo's passing. In a decision, which likely caused my parents some consternation, I decided to usher in my third decade by jumping out of a plane at 13,000 feet with a strange man strapped to my back. As my father noted he at least had been paid for such antics while I, inexplicably, was choosing to pay someone else for this experience. Joe took it upon himself to plan the logistics for the day, researching companies, coordinating timing with day's later festivities, etc. I was only responsible for showing up. I had tried to convince my brother to join me in the celebratory leap, but he wasn't able to fit it into his schedule. So what did Gingimo do? He made a reservation for two -- because he thought I should have in-air support for this venture, despite him clearly being disinclined towards such activities. Luckily for him, my brother was able to join at last minute. This allowed Joe to provide support from a picnic table on the ground with a book safely in hand. But knowing he was willing to jump out of a plane despite my assurances I was happy to go it alone...well some things say love and commitment without a word.

The second memory, which scared the bejesus out of me in its own way, occurred several months earlier after an evening of drinking with the UVA crew. I believe it was shortly after little Lizzie McCreesh had been born. Gingimo & I were lying in bed, discussing topics in a slightly disjointed manner as two inebriated people are apt to do. At some point our discussion turned to discussing Lizzie's general adorableness and the joy which parenthood seemed to have imparted on Patrick & Courtney. We were quiet for a while, staring at the ceiling and me quickly nearing slumber when Joe said quietly "We're going to have kids together, aren't we?" His tone was one of bewilderment and realization and also, a request for assurance. As was our tendency, we had never previously discussed such serious relationship questions directly. But I had known for a while that our future would involve redheaded bookworms with glasses and a tendency towards scifi and karaoke. I turned to Joe in the dark and, putting my hand on his chest, said simply "I hope so." Despite the dark, I could see Joe smiling his biggest full Okie smile. As usual, I had no doubt in my mind at that moment that ours would be a long, happy life together.

I am, not surprisingly, a different person than a year ago. My life has gone from being happily sketched out to being obscured by a fog covering much beyond the current moment. In some ways, this scares me more than anything. Except for one item. I will always have my Gingimo, my guardian angel through all of the adventures & surprises life has in store.