A Tale of Two Deaths, similar but not quite the same. As the virus is not the sole arbiter of For Whom The Bell Tolls. It tolls, too, for me, having lost two genuine gems.

They might not be rock ‘n’ rollers, but they were the rock solid type of people who served as The Rock for their families and all those who loved them. Those people always came first over themselves for a pair of northeners, as in long-time stalwarts in North Hudson, who typically put aside their own needs to the point of running ragged with tiredness while selflessly being of service — on the job or in all other facets of their lives.
The Kozy Korner big sign said it best, or maybe worst, about these people who were larger than live for those who depended on them: JoEllen Rest in Peace. “Rest” is not a way you would look at those two dynamic duos, even as especially in one case, they kept pushing themselves into their bigtime numbers of upper years. And then aside from Kozy, which closed for a day for one of the first times you will see because of a passing, there was that sign on Agave Kitchen’s marquee — Never Forget. Such sentiments are not just for the military and those THEY serve.
Without further ado, we are talking about JoEllen Steele, who remained in the work force until I saw her at KwikTrip, doing her thing, just a couple of days before her recent death, and Dorothy Cardarelli, who made it to 88 and still was more concerned about my wellbeing, and making sure I had an overflow amount to eat, than her own.
And not long before I sat down to finish this writing, there was a third obviously loved soul with those binding, (in a good way), North Hudson ties, who passed on, named Mike Smith. I can’t say I knew him, but I’m sure I would recognize his face.
But the two women in that trio I knew well, in maybe a more intimate friendship way then most others. I met JoEllen when she was in her several-year stint with Mudd’s and Sudd’s as the (only) day bartender, and yes for that very workhorse of a server it was almost every day. We both had our life-defining stories and shared with each other freely, as I had been dismissed from a job I for the most part loved, and the people too despite it being the local and now failing Right Wing Republican Rag, let’s call it was it is, as 16 years of busting my ass at all odd hours was rewarded with an (absolutely no fanfare even though that was typical and somewhat variable depending on your politics) dismissal by downsizing with about ten others when their ilk killed the national economy. Every free moment felt unusual, as I strived to rebuild my business that included regular publication with the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram and Milwaukee Journal and then its after-merger follower in the land of mega-corps like Forum Publications out of the Dakotas (don’t matter South versus North, same shit) as it then became the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel. So no fire in the morning hours somewhere around town, I had again spare time as I forged my post Forum emergency work plan — pre-virus day version — and JoEllen was a mainstay who kept me on the straight and narrow with that. I’d appear at some point in the afternoon if the powers that be were too busy golfing to get back to me until the next day, and we’d share how both of our day’s were going, as it would be 5 p.m. somewhere, but it really didn’t matter as editors weren’t quite yet putting in those insane work hours that would be the case soon — as in arrive late and leave early — but that’s not in the Newspaper Grunt Worker mode. So for now, the NoDoz Infused Days were just not there, but JoEllen and her attentiveness were along with some great movies on TV of sentimental value, for a good 45 minutes or more, and before Call Waiting rose matters to the top …
So is this sour grapes? Maybe, but the truth reins true. And that is the point here. JoEllen’s death is underscored as a tremendous loss by words such as these, that do not do it justice, but showed her compassion and siding for sentiment, if not a lack of tolerence for all the usual BS — unless it came from a joke by me that would make us both laugh. And she would listen and listen. Her responses were short and might not even involve her own need of that particular day. Then there is Joe, who has a gift or it could be called otherwise, and has been, of running off at the mouth.
But then other Jo, that being JoEllen, would have her lowkey way of dealing with trials, of which she had plenty, and it hardly was long enough for even a J School lead to one of the many stories I would tell. I will thus describe her quips as this: Sly, wry and dry. But the main manner for JoEllen’s notoriety — everyone in the village quickly knew of her demise — was a caregiving spirit for her family and especially her children and grandchildren, without ever caring that it be returned in kind. Yes, she might have taken it, but what drove her is that everyone got what they needed, and a bit extra. As through what was seen at her newer job at Kwik Trip, in a couple of instances even wearing a chicken hat that covered most of her features while hawking legs and wings as the pandemic made sales a suddenly far more vital thing, as viewed by management and JoEllen dutifully stepped up to the plate, although maybe somewhat embarrassed but never to the point of being squeamish. And she probably would in short form worthy of one of my copy editors take me to task about what I said about the occasionally quasi-dirtbag management at the Star-Observer. Not that it was not true or not prudent, but maybe a tad bit unkind. That was not JoEllen, as she and her charitable efforts even benefitting her family and as simple as a ride to a school activity, were driven by her faith in God and how it was practiced as a Catholic parishioner, whenever there was a need for her to have strength. And for full disclosure, although well past a time when most would have retired, JoEllen was known for keeping a great figure, although pointing out she was still beautiful did make her embarrassed.
That strength drawn from God goes double for Dorothy, who I first met in an effort to do a massive cleanup of a fall, leafful series of acres at her resort that she still was managing at Trego. Dorothy again, didn’t really like the idea that she could no longer do the full task herself, but had the business sense to accept help, paid for by the fact there was a cool summer night stay involved at the perfectly spaced cabins and the great grub kept flowing to myself and a handful of others. And on this and a few other occasions, we all made our way to the local Catholic church a few blocks south of the Namekagen River resort when possible shortly before heading back to Hudson, where Dorothy continued to live. The cleanup was written up in the Catholic Herald and I also published quite widely a story about how myself and a Catholic youngster had our canoe dumped even before the first set of rapids after Dorothy carted us a few miles further into Wisconsin, on what wasn’t exactly a death trip, but had a degree of peril. Message: Respect how God shows himself in a desert if not wilderness experience and give homage to his Word and creation by our own example, in a way that is proclaimed in a 13-minute-plus song by my favorite metal group Iron Maiden in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I myself have chosen to provide this example by ripping through the song in a band I sing with, and although this is not Dorothy’s inherent Italian and polka cup of tea, she would listen to comparisons I would make and find subtle smile value in them. Same for JoEllen.
On the other end of things, Dorothy would typically trek to St. Patrick’s in Hudson for a weekly produce distribution, then take it upon herself to leave a couple of bags that same Tuesday morning with each house around the old neighborhood. Ever-cheerful, she seemed to thrive on the bits of conversation at each place. But at least for me, that is not where it ended. Even when Dorothy started having to live in an apartment for elderly residents, she alway was someone I could count on to borrow a few bucks from if I needed to travel to, say, the other end of the county and cover a big story, and didn’t quite have the gas funds. And I’d throw her way some dessert when I had it; her favorite was bagels of virtually any type, although she kind of drew the line, meekly, if they were too onion covered. She knew she would get it back, with a couple of extra bucks for her trouble, but that did not concern her, and if even a five-spot, she would surrend it without too much thought of what her own need might be just then. The song and dance that typically evolved was along the lines of gee, are you sure you can spare that, and here friend, just take it. I was a Packer fan, and she a Viking, but that didn’t matter as much as even the passing comment that qualified as humor and made her laugh for just a moment, again just like JoEllen, but the latter made sure she would groan a bit, too, while smiling. These were All The Small Things that I hoped, as did others, that could replace to some degree Dorothy’s loss of her husband Vincent, literally decades ago, but no one could replace her one true love.
And then the last time I tried to see Dorothy and did not succeed, was the day a big part of the planet might as well have died. Called a couple of times to the nursing home, and upon answering Dorothy said that something had come up, basically along the lines of watching a movie in the gathering area with a few others, and she would not be able to meet with me at all, much less come to the front door. I did come there with bagels in hand and a bit of fear in my heart. Dorothy had for the first time been seen, by me, as somewhat depressed earlier in the week, due I presumed because she was not living on her own or with family that always was front and center, her gorgeous grandchildren and gorgeous pet animals. Few more calls, Dorothy not picking up. You know the rest of the story. The virus had changed the rules of interaction and NO ONE could step foot inside the facility that had for a bit been her home. And Dorothy knew too, but couldn’t bring herself to tell me that last might-as-well be fatal time.
Dorothy died and I never was able to say goodbye.