I wrote this part of the speech, but lacked the voice to deliver it without breaking down.  Cam read it out and did a wonderful job: 

I think we all would like to express our thoughts about Joan, because she was so very loveable.  Joan had some pretty impressive editing skills. 

When we wrote up some remarks about our parents, and when I did an intro to our mom’s children’s book, Joan took the stuff we wrote and made simple changes that tightened the message and improved it, made it more direct and sweeter. 

I thanked her for the changes, which were so well done, and she said “Well, that’s what I do.” 

She was talking about a skill that she used at work, but one could broaden the comment to her life.

  When she interacted with you, it made things better. 

Her friendship felt like a sort of Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. 

She was a good listener and a good talker, empathetic and generous and smart and humorous and incisive.

 We could just hang out and chat with her, or share deep emotional secrets with her.

 If you told her your troubles, they were diminished. 

It was a kind of quiet superpower. To be able to brighten any room where she was. 

She was a welcome addition to whatever gathering she’d join, always.  That is not news to anyone here, really.  We all knew her. 

And if we told her this, in so many words, I think she would have downplayed it.  She was humble about her people skills, though self-assured and with no false modesty.

There is an Oscar Wilde quote that I first heard in an old Pretenders song.  “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” 

I never heard Joan say that, and I don’t know if she was familiar with it, but that is a fair description of her attitude. 

Yes, we all have troubles, challenges, and as we are now reminded, we are all mortal, but some of us look around and enjoy the good things in life, and don’t bemoan the unavoidable negatives. 

Joan was a great one for walks on the beach, drinks at sunset, and enjoyable meals served up by the love of her life.  Just being with her and doing mundane things was nice.  Because she could always see the stars.

The first time Joan mentioned Fred to me, she told me that she’d fallen in love with a great, nice guy. 

And that love remained steadfast from that day to the present. 

She also loved her sons unconditionally.  She was just that way, loving and welcoming and perceptive without being judgmental.  

The volume of her long-lasting friendships didn’t dilute their quality.  Some of us only got to see her occasionally, but she was always as comfortable as old shoes.  You could pick up right where you’d left off with her, even if it was a matter of years. 

Maybe Stephen Hawking could explain it, but Joan rendered time and distance meaningless with her friendships and affection.

Joan wasn’t religious.  Those of us that are religious will contend that she is still here with us.  And here’s a funny thing:  those of us that are not religious will likely say the same thing. 

She has brought us together now, even if her body isn’t present.  But her influence is still here.  

It’s like leaving a glass of milk open in the refrigerator.  It takes on the flavor of the strongest thing near it.  We all have that in common.  I think if they had one of those crime-show CSI black lights that could shine and illuminate emotional attachments, they could point it at us now and we’d all look like suspects.  We have Joan glowing all over us.

Sometimes we may think of her and feel a tightening in our chests.  It may feel like heartache, but maybe it’s a hug.  We want her with us now, and to tell her to stay, and stay, and stay, and stay.  We can close our eyes to see her, see her smile, hear her laughter, smile at an incisive comment or a kind gesture.  Memories may seem fleeting, but they change us and create physical pathways in our brains.  The fact of those memories means she can stay, and does stay, and will stay.  Thanks for being your wonderful self, Joan.