This one’s going to hurt.

Joyce Rogers, known to regular readers as Mom 2.0, died of a heart ailment Nov. 27. She was 74.

She struggled through two recent back surgeries and despite a gritty effort to recover, she continued to get weaker.

Joyce was the kindest, most generous, and most loving person I’ve ever known.

The day Joyce died, Bob — he’s Dad 2.0 — and I were alone at the house for a few hours.

Despite her great pain from the recent back surgeries, Joyce made Thanksgiving dinner for Bob, me, and my friend Yvonne.

Bob dug the leftovers out of the fridge and warmed a plate for both of us.

A great sadness washed over me as I realized this was the last great meal Joyce would ever cook for me.

But I thought about it some more. 

How lucky were we to have one last bite of Joyce’s delicious cooking?

The two men she loved most could share her gifts at the time we needed it most.

This is how Joyce blessed us all. 

I can imagine no better spouse, daughter, sibling, mother, aunt, neighbor, or friend.

Joyce and Bob were a divine union, a partnership that endured the tests of time.

The couple spent only about 10 nights apart in 48 years of marriage — seven of those came this year due to back surgeries.

As a schoolgirl, Joyce saw a picture of Mount Rushmore in a book. She thought she would never see something like that in person. But paired with Bob, they visited the great monument many times as they camped across the country, visiting every state except Alaska.

Point to a state on the map; they’ll have a story about something they visited there.

They often brought their nieces and nephews along for the journey, providing joyful adventures in nature and visiting important historical sites across America.

When Joyce and Bob traveled, nature and history were their focus.

But in 1991, when I came into their family, baseball parks became stops on the route.

The first Major League ballgame we saw together was at the old Tiger Stadium in Detroit to see the Yankees play.

Joyce and Bob weren’t fond of driving in dense urban areas.

So, when we parked near the stadium, a guy conned us into paying for an “easy-out” space.

In fairness, it was easy to get out — once every other car in the lot had left.

We rushed back to the campground, which closed at midnight. We were too late.

Imagine Bob and Joyce, both at age 41 and me, age 16, climbing a 10-foot fence to get back to the camper, whispering a silent prayer that the truck would still be there in the morning.

All this to see a ballgame. Joyce would not choose to go to a baseball game that didn’t involve one of her nieces or nephews.

But I was obsessed with the game, so she made it a part of her life and travels.

This was how she lived her love — by taking the things special to others and making them special to her.

Bob and Joyce preferred nature, but with me in tow, they ventured into the heart of Chicago to visit Moondog’s Comicland so I could buy a rare Doctor Who toy.

This pattern continued throughout her life. Joyce grew up afraid of dogs and eschewed them all her life.

But in later years, when her sister, Janell, and brother-in-law Jim, adopted two small puppies, the unthinkable happened: She began to pet, play with, and even hold dogs.

Joyce and Bob are the kind of neighbors that don’t exist anymore.

They introduced themselves to every new face in the neighborhood and watched after houses when people were away.

Neighbors became as close as family and they were always welcome.

Joyce kept an immaculate home. She needed glasses to read, but she could spot a microscopic piece of sock fuzz on the carpet at 100 paces.

Joyce was the great organizer. She kept lists on tablets. Grocery lists. Camping trip plans. 

She never forgot an ingredient, a piece of clothing, an appointment, or an invitation.  

The annual Fourth of July celebration constituted her biggest list of the year.

The holiday gathering was Joyce’s grand ball each year. She and Bob decorated the garage in red, white, and blue and played patriotic music over speakers as fans roared to cool us in the sweltering heat.

The workbench served as a buffet table that ran the length of the garage, piled high with grilled and barbecued meats, pork and beans, scalloped corn, and, of course, her famous potato salad, a dish she made so delectable that people requested it at every chance.

And oh, what we wouldn’t give for one more heaping spoonful today.

The Fourth of July was a massive one-day event, but Christmas was a monthlong series of gatherings large and small. 

The house was decorated like a showroom for a Christmas store. Over the years, Bob and Joyce collected approximately four metric tons of Christmas decorations. Their home would make Santa’s North Pole abode look like a flop house.

She kept each decoration and ornament in their original boxes and knew exactly where she wanted each bauble and light. She directed Bob to hang them and adjust them until they were exactly right.

Pristinely wrapped gifts for family members piled up under the tree and in the nooks on both sides of the fireplace.

The potato salad returned for the annual Christmas Eve gathering of the Rogers family alongside ham sandwiches, relishes, cheese balls, and a selection of the finest frosted sugar and spritz cookies ever baked.

Those cookies traveled. She shared them with family, friends, visitors, neighbors, widowers, and elders who just needed a little love and attention, the kind of love Joyce always stood ready to give.

She led us. She was the rope that bound our families and brought us together for uncounted celebrations.

The way our family shows love — the way Joyce taught us — is to show up.

Birthdays. Ball games. Concerts. Performances. Weddings. Anniversaries. 

And funerals, too.

She was always there to cheer us on and to pick us up when we fell. 

Joyce tended to her mother, sisters, brother, and in-laws. She and Bob paid regular visits to Grandma Lois and Grandma Rogers. 

She loved her nieces and nephews as if they were her own and stayed a part of their lives from birth and stayed right with them into marriage and adulthood, occasionally stopping to visit those who moved away.

Joyce often spent her evenings on the phone with her siblings talking about everything from personal problems to the minute events of the day.

Nobody’s birthday arrived without a card or gift. Every milestone was celebrated.

When we fell ill, she held vigil by our side. She helped family members move, decorate for Christmas, and, always, brought food.

During the pandemic, when we couldn’t gather for Thanksgiving, Joyce made a regular meal with all the fixings.

She and Bob ate alone and then drove around the city delivering platters of food.

Her love was not limited to those of us fortunate enough to be her family.

Joyce worked as a hairdresser for 38 years, back in the days when salons were called beauty shops and neighborhood women gathered to share the latest news.

Those customers became her family, too. She gave rides to the shop to ladies who could no longer drive.

She enlisted Bob to pick up one customer on his way to work.

Joyce fixed her hair and the customer waited at the shop until the end of Joyce’s shift. Joyce would take her to lunch before giving her a ride home.

When a customer died, Joyce attended the visitation or the funeral, a practice she continued well into retirement.

In one special case, Joyce and Bob invited the 15-year-old son of one of her late customers to live in their home. 

There is no tip big enough for that level of customer service.

I was that troubled teenager. I had lost both my parents, and another well-intentioned arrangement didn’t work out.

I would not accept their love because I believed I would soon be abandoned.

I did not know or understand the power of Joyce Rogers.

Her greatest gift to us was her unmatched ability to make people feel welcome, comfortable, and safe.

Oh, how I resisted her charms. 

But she matched my grief and anger with a relentless onslaught of love, patience, generosity, and terrific home-cooked meals.

I can tell you without hesitation or reservation Joyce and Bob saved me as surely as Jesus saved us all.

Joyce and Bob made me a better person and gave me the strength to see the light in the darkest days.

We need to cling to this light as we grieve Joyce’s death. We know her reward is Heaven, but those left behind must learn to live without her daily presence.

This is a hard task, but Joyce planned for this, too. 

All we must do is follow the example she set.

Find joy in family, friends, and nature. Stay in touch. Gather often and always have a great meal.

Laugh hard. Forgive easily. Love unconditionally. Pass the potato salad.

Follow Expresss columnist Daniel P. Finney at paragraphstacker.com.

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