Courtney's ex-husband Mike Johnson (deceased)'s grandmother Patricia Crowley put mom's name on a national prayer list for the next year.  Patricia "Bearma" and mom regularly wrote and called each other.  This is a very sweet gesture.

Pam Uschk is the wife of Arizona Poet Laureate William Pitt Root, and a published, well-regarded poet in her own right.  I took private tutoring lessons from her at the UA in the early 2000s and we've remained friends.  I had asked her if she had any favorite poems regarding death, and this is what she sent me.

Erin, this is a poem for my sister. It's new. I wrote it last month.  (No line breaks inserted).

BLUE MOON 

Red as a placenta in a dusty lemon sea, the full moon plunges directly across from loss, from the birth of desert heat over the city restless in its carbon monoxide caul of dreams. Gamma rays pierce each cell of my body, the ghost of my sister, the vapor of her beauty, pierce coyotes screaming for blood to seal their hungry wounds this Easter Eve. Dawn clouds the color of heart muscles remember her, the way she painted dancers when she could not walk. Orange blossoms and gardenias reel on the drunken porch. Memory, too, is perfume. Judi loved lavender, sewed with silk, smithed silver, painted thick swatches of acrylics from her wheelchair, wielding the brush with one hand. Judi loved the wounded— the one-eyed Tom cat, a dog too old and afraid to adopt from the Humane Society, who wiggled into the crawl space under the house, lured out only by Judi crooning a shot of brandy to calm her dog nerves. Teen Judi stalked our farm ponds, springing muskrat traps with twigs, released foxes and rabbits from miserable ends, later held the hands of children bleeding out in Emergency Rooms, wrapped the length of her strong arms around distraught mothers in Pediatrics ICU. Gamma rays spear us all, leave no scar, no tattoo. Memory’s fine red ash stains empty hands. In our yard, wind shimmies two mesquites, slim as her too-early death, mesquites Judi planted despite doubts they would grow from such tiny stock dug from the curb. They thrive still, thorny limbs flexing, hung with lace green leaves, with yellow catkins resurrecting the first and last light of the world. 

Pam Uschuk, Spring 2018

Joan worked so hard for the arts here in Yuma. It was her way of life. As the first Director of the Cultural Council of Yuma, everyone was included and spotlighted.

I was so fortunate to have crossed her path AND have her as a friend.

She was always there for you with her support and encouragement. She was a strong advocate for women, passionate about life and I will always remember Joan for her unconditional love.

I know her family will miss her.

Neely and George Tomkins

My fondest memory of my aunt Joan was when she sent me a book called “My Pet Rock”, I was maybe 6. No one had ever sent me anything in the mail. I remember reading it over and over again, and thinking what a glamorous life Joan must be living to buy me a gift and send it all the way to Michigan. The book was so well illustrated- and made me feel so special. I kept that book until I was in my 20’s. Each year proceeding Joan would send me a book. All unique, all with a letter inside and all hand picked just for me. I will never forget how special these gifts made me feel. What an exceptional human. I will miss her for enterity. - Lisa