I read (and cried through) this during our recent celebration of my Dad’s life.

The Joe Farray I knew is from the perspective of the child seat attached to my parent's tandem bike as the baby of the family, sitting back and watching life unfold, taking things way too seriously.    

I always thought my mom was the glue, the one we could all count on, the rock.  It wasn’t until she died, 20 years before my father, my Dad would prove he had the same skill set. While he struggled for a bit to get his footing without her, he stepped into the role of being the glue, the rock, the role she had left behind for him. He became the one to pull us through the good times and the bad, just like that tandem bike.  He pedaled when my mom couldn’t, or simply didn’t want to, or wasn’t here to, up and down the hills of life.  And we were his witnesses.   

For years, my Dad worked his ass off.  I loved that he worked almost his whole life because it gave him purpose and I worried that once he left the wholesale produce market, he would begin to check out. The hours he spent away from us were spent with many of you (the people who worked at the produce market) and he loved it, almost every minute of it.  Maybe you too felt like he pulled you through the good times and the bad.  Or maybe he taught you things he didn’t teach me. Or maybe he was just fun to be around, which would be true.  Very true.  

My Dad took “the customer is always right” to another level.  He had the uncanny ability to make everyone around him feel special like you were the only person there. The customer, friend, sister, brother, child, niece, nephew, grandchild, great-grandchild, even in the hospital knowing every caregiver’s name, from the nurses to the gentleman who delivered his food, you mattered to him whoever was there at that moment.  He always made you feel special, never once playing favorites despite having them, joking around, goofing off and completely present.  Oftentimes, when my children were little, I would find him giving them squeezes and saying “Don’t fight it.  It’s bigger than both of us.”  That “it” was love. His love. He couldn’t help himself.  Later, retired, I’d call to check-in and he would say to me, “Jule, I’m in my board meeting” which was code for “I’m gambling your inheritance away with my buddies at Artichoke Joes,” but he always answered the phone. He was always there for us. I bet he was always there for you, too.  He was a class act.  

For twenty years after my mother’s death, I searched for a spiritual teacher.  My teacher was there all along, my father. The model he gave us, to treat others as if they mattered, to be fully present. This is his legacy.   He lived in the present moment before and after smartphones, before it was the answer to my burning spiritual quest.  He practiced loving the other without ever stepping on a yoga mat, gracing a church with his presence, or meditating.  All I really needed to do was look at my father, the self-proclaimed atheist who lived in the moment and believed in the good in everyone.

If you ever find yourself caught up in life’s drama, put that figurative produce market sales coat on, or imagine yourself behind him on that tandem bike and ask “what would Joe do?” Joe would pedal like hell and be there for you. Embrace his legacy, live every day like this and we too will live a life well-lived.