Uncle Joe

I went to bed last Thursday evening having written a memoir for the prompt “Showing Up”, then was awake at 5:00 AM Friday morning with a completely different story in mind. I woke up thinking about someone I once knew, and whom I had not thought of in a very long time. As one memory of him after another unfolded, I thought about how his curious behaviors were because of mental health issues. My recollections began to fall together in a pattern that, surprisingly, fit the melody of the song “The Weight” by The Band. My memoir poem/lyrics follow.

Uncle Joe

©October 17, 2025

Ernie Stricsek

Off the bus at Henry Street

Looking for his sister’s place.

Straw hat, tan suit, wingtips on his feet

As weathered as his face.

“Hey kiddo, you’re Mary’s grandson!

Here, help me with my suitcase.

I’ll take my duffle, ‘cause it weighs nearly a ton.”

Joe, you just can’t do this

To just show up ain’t right

Joe, you just can’t drop in

You need to call or write

Joe would sip his coffee, in halts and starts he talked.

Of all the places he’d been to, he took the bus or walked.

“I’ve seen the Grand Canyon! And hiked the Black Hills.

Didn’t care much for Chicago, the Windy City gave me the chills.

Joe, this ain’t what you do

To show up out without a clue

That you were coming this way

And needed a place to stay

Of my grandmother’s brother, not much was ever said.

My grandfather would grumble,

“He’s nothing but a hobo, and not right in the head.”

“Do good in school!” My grandmother urged. “If you don’t’,

You’ll end up like Uncle Joe instead.”

Joe, you just can’t do this

To just show up ain’t right

Joe, you just can’t drop in

You need to call or write

It would be years before I learned more

Of my grandmother’s brother Joe.

He returned from the war, hero’s honors and a small amount of fame

“Joe became a cop, got hurt breaking up a fight.

Took a pipe to the head, then never was the same.”

Joe, this ain’t what you do

To show up out without a clue

That you were coming this way

And needed a place to stay

Was early June of ’67 that I saw Joe walk past my school.

Waved to him from the window, as he trudged on by.

His tanned face cracked a smile; he waved and mouthed “Hi.”

“Where’s Uncle Joe?” I asked when I entered the house.

“We sent him on his way; the man is but a louse.”

Joe, you just can’t do this

To just show up ain’t right

Joe, you just can’t drop in

You need to call or write

Then one day a letter did arrive, would Uncle Joe be coming for a stay?

My grandmother opened it and learned her brother had passed away.

She sobbed, “He died alone, and in a strange place.”

For the rest of my life, I’ll remember his wave and the smile on his face.

Joe, this ain’t what you do

To show up out without a clue

That you were coming our way

And needed a place to stay