Joe Koke Memories

Written by Jak Koke with contributions from Jeff Koke and Jacqueline Clark
Presented at Joe’s funeral by Jak Koke

Good afternoon…

I am Jak Koke, Joe’s eldest son. Jeff and Jacqueline have asked that I speak on their behalf as well as my own. I’d like to thank everyone for coming. Appreciation also goes to Father Jared for the mass and Zoey for arranging the music.

Before I begin…

…I want to invite everyone to the reception afterwards. Sign the guest book and enjoy food and drink. We’ve done our best to create a nice experience for everyone to share memories of Dad.

I do wonder what Dad would think of it though… He liked to go big on events. He might ask why we didn’t book Linda Ronstadt or The Who. Or why we aren’t doing this at the summit of Mauna Kea, or as some kind of memorial bicycle tour.

To that, I’d say, “Come on, Dad, we’re doing our best. At least we got apple fritters and diet coke.”

As I was working on this eulogy…

…I started thinking of it like a trailer for the movie version of Dad’s life. It’s easy to find dramatic events and even some action scenes. But it’s hard to make a good trailer when everyone knows how the story turns out.

Spoiler alert: The main character dies in the end.

But like all tragedies, it was how the protagonist lived that matters… and the impact Dad had on those of us who knew him: That impact was profound.

When I was 12…

…Dad and I embarked on a journey that would help define my identity. A two-week bicycle tour where we carried everything on the bikes themselves, including tent, sleeping bags, clothes, tools, cooking gear, and food.

About five or six days into the trip, I was getting tired and fatalistic about the whole thing. We’d gone a long way, but this was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Then, late one afternoon, somewhere in Indiana, we hit a rainstorm. So, by the time we found a campground in the dark, everything was wet and we were both starving.

As we set up our camp in the pouring rain, I found myself exhausted and cold and running on fumes. We used our little backpacking propane stove to heat some water and added it to one of the dehydrated food packets – mystery chicken something something. It tasted objectively terrible, and I grew depressed and fatalistic about the trip … I wanted to give up.

We didn’t even split the mystery chicken into our respective mess kits. Dad just added the hot water to the foil bag, waited a few minutes for the dried food block to rehydrate, and we grabbed spoons to start eating. The mystery chicken was very liquidy, like soup almost, and we both ate out of the package at the same time as rainwater dripped off our ponchos into the bag. I was so hungry.

After a few minutes, Dad pulled the bag of soupy slop away and said, deadpan, “Stop eating out of my side of the bag.”

I just stared at him, saying, “What are you talking about? It’s soup; it doesn’t matter which side—” And stopped because he was just grinning at me.

And I laughed. And he laughed. And after that the food didn’t taste so bad, and even though it still rained, I felt better. I felt I could keep going.

And that’s what we did, pedaled on! And even though the trip didn’t get easier, it felt like we’d survived the worse it could throw at us. So, when we encountered the mountains in Pennsylvania, it was just another obstacle—hard, but one I could get through…as long as Dad was with me. We made it all the way to New York, averaging nearly 90 miles a day for the rest of the journey: over 1200 miles in total.

That trip with Dad showed me that I could accomplish really hard things. And that he would support me.

The other thing I learned from him: It’s okay (even as a man) to be silly and vulnerable sometimes.

You see, Dad had a gruff, crusty exterior

He didn’t really do small talk or nod and say socially reassuring things. Dad only ever spoke when he had something relevant or important to say. It made us listen; it gave his words more weight.

But underneath his hard candy shell, he was caring and generous. For people he knew well, he’d joke around, and go out of his way to help, to be supportive, and to mentor and teach.

Dad often invited students along on road trips to see natural wonders and to offer a deeper experience than they could get in the lecture hall and lab. Many became long-lasting friends.

Some of you may remember the graduation parties at our house. Students and friends would gather for barbecue and beer and… of course… Obstacle Course Croquet!

Because for Dad, regular croquet was way too tame. So, he started a tradition of setting up an obstacle course, different every year, with wickets set in weird and super difficult locations—mounted to tree trunks, floating in a kiddie pool, or at the tops of makeshift wooden ramps.

He loved how people reacted to it – at first shocked, then they’d rise to meet the challenge… and laughter and enthusiasm would ensue.

Even as a kid, Dad was mischievous…

…and he never shied away from a shocking demonstration.

One time, he got a hold of some fuses that flashed lights on and off, and decided it would be interesting to see what would happen if he replaced the regular house fuses with them. Then, when all the power in the house started turning off and on – the lights, the TV, the music player – he ran out of the basement declaring the water heater was about to explode. His mother, who had a phobia of exploding water heaters, was not amused.

Another time: As teens, he and his friends Burrle and Tom thought it would be cool to launch a rocket into the sky… so they decided to make their own. Minor problem with that: the fuel they made wasn’t quite the right mix and instead of propelling the rocket, it just exploded… catching the roof of the garage on fire.

This in no way deterred Dad. And years later, when I was around nine or ten, he bought me a model rocket kit. Because, you know, it worked out so well the first time!

Dad didn’t wait for life to happen to him.

He was always learning, seeking new experiences… and he especially loved sharing experiences with other people.

There were family camping trips to places like the Grand Canyon, Zion, the Cascades, the Smithsonian and the Chicago Field Museum. There were the thousands of miles of cross-country bicycle tours with Burrle and Jacqueline and many others.

Also, in our house, listening to new albums was an event. Dad was an audiophile and took pride in his equipment (that he built himself), and he liked to play his music loud. When Pink Floyd’s The Wall first came out, we all gathered in the living room and were blown away as we listened to the entire, double album in one sitting.

When we were young, he read books to us that were full of adventure and intrigue – The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Watership Down, Dune. His reading inspired my love of fantasy and science fiction. Even now, when I re-read those books, I hear his voice in my head.

No, Dad wasn’t big on talking about his feelings…

…but he showed his love for us in his actions.

For example, when Jeff started his band Second Glance, Dad let them take over the garage and practice there. Later, after they got good and started playing shows in San Marcos and Austin, he took over running sound. He was hugely supportive of Jeff’s musical ambitions, far beyond merely coming to listen to him play.

Another example: When Jacqueline was 11, she followed Dad to the garage to watch him work on our ailing VW bus engine. He told her, “Don’t just stand there, help! Clean some gaskets.” So what if she was a girl? She could get her hands dirty. And that’s what she did.

And that mindset stuck with her. So that when, some years later, she convinced him to trade in their trustworthy, but boring Chevy S10 for a much cooler T-top Ford Mustang 5-liter GT, he could insist that she help with massive repairs that were needed.

And together they rebuilt the engine and replaced the radiator… and later Jacqueline upgraded the transmission on her own.

Dad helped spark a life-long interest in solving problems…

…sometimes in unconventional ways. He did that for Jacqueline, for Jeff, for me… and for countless students and friends.

Until he couldn’t…

A few years ago, Dad called Jacqueline one afternoon as he was driving home from the store. He couldn’t find his house.

This was a shock; Dad never got lost.

Jacqueline talked him through getting home. Thanks to location tracking on his phone, we knew where he was. When knew that he had actually driven past his driveway twice already without recognizing it. He’d forgotten where he lived.

Several months and a bunch of doctor’s visits later, he was diagnosed with vascular dementia.

Dad always prided himself on his intelligence; his whole identity was tied up in it. In his last few years, his perception of reality, which had been fueled for decades by a sharp and curious mind, became unreliable.

I am saddened to say that Dad’s agency eroded along with his memory and cognition. He lost his ability to drive. He lost the use of his credit cards, which were all maxed out because he would forget things he’d bought and order them several times. He could no longer take care of himself.

The depression and anxiety that came with this disease was orders of magnitude more difficult than what we’d faced in that rainstorm on our bike trip. This was not something that could be cured by a joke.

(I did warn you that this was a tragedy.)

Over the next half-decade, Dad adjusted somewhat to his new situation. His personality changed a little; but if there was a silver lining to that, it’s that the disease seemed to strip away his gruff shell, leaving only his kind-hearted core. And he would, occasionally, still make a wry joke or snarky observation.

It’s in his legacy, however, that we can find joy: his children and grandchildren, the thousands of students, and all the other people he influenced throughout his long life … including every one of you here.

Dad, for all the memorable moments…

…for the life lessons, for your impact on all of us: Thank you.

It has been an overwhelming privilege to be a part of your life, to experience your wit, your generosity, and your love.

We will never forget you.

by Teri Taylor

Joe Koke was a wonderful friend who made a lasting impact on my life and on the lives of my family. Over the more than 30 years I was blessed to know him, I watched him touch hundreds of lives in quiet, remarkable ways.

I first met Joe when I was a fellowship candidate. I had been interviewed by a SWTSU professor, but I was still on the fence about accepting the scholarship. After meeting Joe, however, his passion convinced me to take a chance on something completely outside my comfort zone.

Right out of the gate, it was proposed that we take a “road trip” to kick off my research experience. What? I was in a season of uncertainty in my career. My best friend and mentor had tragically died in a car accident. My principal was pushing me to fill her giant shoes, and up to that point I had mainly been a coach, bus driver, and baby biology/health teacher. Yet there I was, beginning a journey that Joe described as being like drinking water from a fire hydrant with one nostril closed. He wasn’t kidding. The man could describe a situation in fewer words than Webster’s Condensed could ever create.

Once I accepted that challenge, I was never allowed to look back. Joe became my teacher, my biggest supporter, my mentor, my confidant, and one of my dearest friends as he guided me through a fellowship and master’s program. He always wanted to co-author a book and even had a title for it: “Why Johnny Can’t Read in America,” about the failing education system. He saw, long before many others did, how education had been slipping and how public schools were sending less-than-prepared students into his classroom. I always felt Joe was like the canary in the coal mine, because he saw trouble light-years ahead of the professionals in “education.” His foresight drew me in and also encouraged his bride to step into education, because she was so well suited to being a strong role model and teacher with great common sense in the classroom. She did not need traditional teacher education training to be successful, and she certainly excelled in the short time she taught. Joe created a plan to help science teachers pair up with real scientists and paid them real money for their summer work. He changed the lives of those teachers, as well as the students who benefited from their summer experiences. That was Joe’s magic: a gentle push that rippled outward farther than anyone could measure.

This was a recurring theme in Joe’s life. He did not have a storybook childhood, but his mind was never allowed to rest. I think someone in his family should write about his life, because his journey was truly fascinating. Joe was probably the most intelligent person I had ever met, and he was always pushing people to reach higher goals—goals they may or may not have believed were within reach.

Joe never strayed from that path until he was derailed by Judy’s final cancer diagnosis. It nearly broke him, but he stayed faithfully by her side while continuing his work. He kept a journal of their experience, helping all of us make our way through the painful final months of Judy’s life. He helped us while also helping himself endure that heartbreaking season. Afterward, he went quiet for a while, until he found Carolyn. From then on, we stepped back somewhat and kept in touch less as he settled into retirement and his new life.

I will always remember his gentle and kind way of working with students in his lab. They did not always deserve him, but he was deeply nonjudgmental and always believed students would rise to the occasion if given the chance. He did not turn his back on anyone. Although some students did not always appreciate his sense of humor, Joe was honest and upfront with everyone he met. He did not sugarcoat what he had to say; he spoke openly in the lab, never with meanness, but with observations that were sometimes brutally honest and to the point. Bam! You had just been “Koke-ed.”

His road trips were never cut-and-paste experiences. They were adventures—the kind of education one could never fully receive in a classroom or lab. Joe modeled great teaching by giving just enough information, then sending his lab students out to explore questions on their own. He did not hover; he guided. He did not allow less-than-exceptional work to be served up. Instead, he sent people back to redo or rewrite until the work met his standards.

There were so many examples of Joe helping people in extraordinary ways. He could find a solution to almost any problem—whether it meant showing up to help change a flat tire, helping pull a student through emotional difficulty, or stepping in quietly in ways I heard about over the years and again at his memorial. That was who Joe was: a brilliant, kind soul who will be remembered fondly in the lives of hundreds of former students. I hope his brilliance endures in all the lives he touched. I can only imagine that he is now fully blessed with all the answers he ever pondered in the universe.

Lastly, Joe loved his family. He had his “wall of fame” in the lab, filled with some of his favorite students, and adventures but the family pictures in his office were his true pride and joy: his children and grandchildren. He enjoyed a wonderful and fulfilling life, but I think he was happiest watching his children and grandchildren grow into such wonderful, successful human beings. They must know what a great man they had the good fortune to have in their lives. I know I was lucky to have met him, worked with him, and been blessed to call my friend.

Rest well now, Joe, and enjoy your latest adventure. Until we meet again.

T.K.Taylor

by Tracy Toliver-Kinsky

Joe was an incredible mentor who saw potential in his students and created opportunities for them to develop the knowledge, experience and confidence needed to succeed. He supported our professional growth while also encouraging adventure, taking us on cross-country trips to research experiences and conferences, with scenic stops and national parks along the way.

He and Judy welcomed us into their home for Sunday dinners and invited us to join them when their son’s band was playing locally, making sure we had a sense of community. His guidance and personal investment in his students left an enduring impact on many that will never be forgotten. I personally will always be grateful for Joe’s mentorship. He inspired me to pursue a career in science and academia, a path I have truly loved.

by Sarah Kane

Hello to Joe’s family! I have met most of you, but it has been a while. My name is Sarah Kane, and Joe was my mentor for a Master’s program at Texas State. Attached is a picture of us from that time. Joe led a fulfilled life, but I also know that his passing brings sadness and grief. I personally find it difficult to believe one of my life’s greatest mentors is no longer with us, but I also believe his legacy lives on through all of us. 

Words cannot convey the impact Joe Koke made on my life and career. Dr. Koke taught Cell Physiology, a notoriously challenging course offered in the Texas State Biology Department. Little did I know, as a feral undergraduate experiencing their first existential crisis, that this course and Dr. Koke’s mentorship would be the catalyst for my eventual career. I thought medical school was in my future, but shadowing MDs proved boring to me. Dr. Koke asked if I had any interest in research, and I had to admit I had no idea that was even an option. I will never forget my first experiment in Joe’s lab – sitting in a dark microscope room, squealing that not only did my experiment work, but I was the first person in the world to have this new knowledge. I was hooked on research from then on.

Joe perfectly balanced hands-on mentorship with knowing when to let go and allow his students to fumble around, make mistakes, and learn from them. This is exactly how I aim to mentor my team now that I run my own research laboratory at the University of Wyoming. To say that Joe impacted my life is such an understatement. He opened my eyes to an entirely new career path and supported me throughout. He was always there to provide letters of recommendation or to just chat about life. I am forever grateful for his mentorship and friendship. May he rest in peace. 

Joe and Judy were our best friends for many years. We did everything together, from playing cards to traveling to spending Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve together. 

We watched movies at their house on Friday nights, (well, Joe, Judy and David did while I fell asleep on their couch). We went dancing at the Eagle on steak night. We held both of my daughters’ wedding showers at their home. When we moved to Colorado, Joe and Judy made it a point to travel up to see us regularly. 

They remained true friends, celebrating our victories and quietly supporting us through our struggles. Our children grew up together. The Koke family was and still is an integral part of our lives.

I have missed them every day since we moved away. I know that Joe is finally back with Judy, probably still keeping an eye on us and our kids. Rest in Peace, my wonderful friend. You are loved and missed.

Peggy and David

by Charlie and Sharon ONeil

Sharon and I will be out of state on the day of Joe’s memorial, and we are very sorry to miss it.

The Koke house was always a welcoming place. Judy was everybody’s friend of course. Joe was somewhat harder to read, but in the end we knew his Grumpy Bear manner was not real, and he was a very kind person.

The obituary made us remember all the things he did for his children, and how many of his students we met when visiting his house. He did a lot of things quietly to help his kids and the community like lining out the soccer fields and coaching the hardest team to coach.  He always found a way to enable even the worst players a way to contribute to the team.

I (Charlie)also happily remember the road trip he and I (and cousin Mark) took to the west coast one summer and how he loved Oregon and how he loved to drive (fast!). We visited Jak and Jacqueline and he dragged me down to the Oregon beach, talking about how beautiful it was. He laughed when I was surprised at how cold it was.

He was a wonderful man.

by David Gates

It would be possible to write a whole novel about the life of Joe Koke. There’s his dry wit, his brilliant intelligence, his wonderful academic career, his strong commitment to family life and community values. However, for me it was his friendship, open mindedness and his generosity that I will never forget. 

As his cousin it was from early adolescence onward and although we lived 120 miles apart he played a role more as a friend than as a relative in my life. Then during our university years his studies overlapped with mine at the University of Oregon and we even lived together for a time at ‘Grandma’s house’ on 11^th Avenue in Eugene. I especially remember my month long visit with Joe and his wife Judy at Edmonton, Alberta, during the Summer of ‘69 when he was studying for his PhD degree at the University of Alberta, and there were my many visits to the family in San Marcos, Texas as well as at Cindy and Bill’s house near Washington, DC. 

I don’t know if it is possible to speak to those who have passed on or not, but if it is possible I would express my appreciation to Joe for the many lessons of life I have learned from him through his friendship, especially those concerning our relationships with our parents. Here, there is a great deal of gratitude for a debt that can never be repaid. His was a life well lived and a lesson that is both direct and inspiring while pointing, sometimes in a very delicate way, to the better way to live.

Thank you, Joe.

by Alexandra Loupe – Granddaughter

On June 16th my Papa Joe passed away at the age of 83. He was an amazing grandfather, taught me that the words I used mattered, helped me with my science fair projects, and sometimes snuck me out of Mass to get a Diet Coke at the gas station across the street.

He supported me in all my hobbies, took me on trips and bike rides (taught me to only rest in the shade), and loved me, my brother and cousins.

He’s reunited with my Nanny, and I’ll miss them both until I see them again

by Kim Maka

Growing up in San Marcos, Texas, in the 1980s was its own special type of challenge. A small university town caught between Austin and San Antonio, it mirrored our teenage years, caught between childhood and adulthood. While we had our ups and downs with school and friends, what I remember most are the adults who helped guide us through those rough times and who made the transition into adulthood easier.

Those people included Joe and Judy Koke. I first met them in 3^rd grade when Judy was my Girl Scout leader. After recruiting my mom as a co-leader, Judy adopted us into her family. Jacqueline, Shawn (my sister), and I were forced together a lot, and as happens, we became friends – a status we have maintained through today.

I remember Joe being somewhat terrifying when I was a child. He was stern, with a sardonic sense of humor I didn’t usually get. But as I grew older, I learned to appreciate the truly kind soul inside the gruff exterior. When I was in high school, Joe assisted me with a biology science fair experiment that got me all the way to state. He helped me come up with the hypothesis and allowed me to use his lab equipment to run my experiment. It was the first time I had ever succeeded in a science fair project (I am more of an English kind of gal), and I have him to thank for that.

Later, when we were in college, Joe helped my sister open her first bank account when our own father wasn’t there to do so.  I still remember his horror that a 20-year-old didn’t know how to write a check. He took my sister under his wing, helped develop her focus on her biology major, and fostered her growth as his lab assistant. He helped her learn how to be an adult. Whenever either of us needed anything, whether it was a trip across town or help with schoolwork, both Judy and Joe were there. They were our second parents.

Losing Judy was hard. Losing Joe is like the end of an era. I remember one of the last encounters I had with him before the series of strokes began to erode his memory. I was in Santa Fe at a State Bar program. I decided to walk across the square at lunch to see what was being sold in the open-air market and found myself passing Joe. The non-sequitur took us both by surprise. We stared at each other for a second before we realized that yes, we were both in Santa Fe on the same sidewalk at the same time. After a quick hug and briefly catching up on our lives, we went our separate ways, but I was so tickled to see him and see him doing well that it made my day.

Joe, I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for the care and guidance you provided us throughout our early lives. You and your family are still a cornerstone of my life. I remain best friends with your daughter, and in fact, live with her today. I am so privileged to have known you, and I cherish the family you brought into this world. You will be missed, and you will always be deeply loved.

by Lee Ash-Cantu

When we were in the big flood of 1989, the Koke’s stepped in to help. My cabin on the San Marcos River in Martindale got five feet of water in it. We lost most of our belongings, including a roof over our heads. My daughter and I were invited to stay in what Joe called his graduate apartment, in the attic of their home. We stayed for 3-4 weeks and then my sister Peggy, had an apartment open below her in the Denver area. All our stuff fit into the back of Joe’s mini van and Joe followed my little Toyota car, all the way to Colorado. He help unpack my stuff, visited with Peggy and I and stayed on Peggy’s couch overnight. Then he got up early the next morning and drove back to Texas. He didn’t let me contribute to his gas and was so humble and just smiled and accepted my hug as payment for kindness. But I have always remembered him and Judy and their loving friendship. They also gave the best holiday parties and I miss them both still today. ❤️