Joan Louise Maloney began her long, 82-year journey on Feb. 28, 1943, at Alta Bates Hospital, 2450 Ashby Avenue, Berkeley, California 94705. She was one of the top 10 students in Vallejo High School’s Class of 1960 and received a $100 scholarship from the Vallejo Federation of Teachers. She became an English teacher, inspired by the words of President John F. Kennedy: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”

At the end of her journey, as Mrs. Joan Louise Clazie for more than 60 years, she took up permanent residence at Sacramento Historic City Cemetery, 1000 Broadway, Sacramento, California 95818.

Joan had progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), which affects an estimated 10 to 12 people per 100,000. There is no cure and no specific medication approved for its treatment.

People with PSP typically fall backward, and that is what happened to Joan in February 2020. She broke her leg, and her PSP was misdiagnosed: an outcome that is, unfortunately, common.

PSP is a rare neurological disease and remains largely unknown to the general public. That is likely to change, however, as the Rev. Jesse L. Jackson, Sr.’s openness about his diagnosis brings national visibility to a condition that urgently needs greater public awareness, earlier detection, improved treatment options, and ultimately, a cure.

PSP is characterized by the gradual deterioration of specific areas of the brain that control movement and balance. Over time, body functions and motion become increasingly rigid. Joan’s cognitive abilities, however, were not affected.

Joan and I had just finished breakfast: fresh orange juice, crispy O’Brien potatoes, a soft-boiled egg, and strong, black French roast coffee. Joan’s caregiver, Suzanne, was chatting with us when I noticed flashing red lights outside our window.

A fire truck was blocking our driveway.

I hadn’t called 911, and neither had Joan or Suzanne. Just as I stepped outside, a firefighter emerged from the neighbor’s garage.

“You gave me a scare,” I told him, laughing.

Moments later, another firefighter approached our front door.

“I thought I recognized that voice,” he said. “I’m Scott; I just wanted to check in on Joan.”

Scott had been one of the first responders to a previous emergency at our home. This wasn’t a call: It was a social visit. He simply wanted to see how Joan was doing.

After he left, I joked with Joan, “My wife is getting social calls from a firefighter; I can’t believe this!”

Suzanne grinned. “He is cute,” she said, then asked Joan, “Is he one of the firefighters you thought should be on a calendar?”

I just shook my head.

For readers who remember Paul Harvey’s classic radio segment “The Rest of the Story,” this feels like one of those moments.

After posting the story online, I received an email from Linda Pohl, the Pocket News advertising manager. I had been working with her about the Asian Culture Center coming to the GreenHaven-Pocket Farmers Market in the Elks 6 parking lot.  

“Was it Station 11 or 13?” she asked. A moment later: “So great … you know my son is at Station 13...”

She sent over a few photos of her son, Eric. Suzanne and Joan both agreed: he, too, was calendar-worthy. But he wasn’t the one who stopped by that morning.

Later, our youngest daughter confirmed the final piece of the puzzle: “I met Eric at Christmastime. He was one of the firefighters who came the first time. We briefly talked about Kennedy classmates. I’m older than him, though. He was very nice!”

And now ... you know the rest of the story.

After we had been married for 50 years, I would often praise Joan for being an excellent wife who kept her vows to love and cherish. I would then ask when she was going to start keeping her vow to obey me. I never got a satisfactory – or even respectful – response.

We dated for over three years before getting married. I would have married her sooner, but she wanted to earn her college degrees and teaching credential before promising to love, cherish and obey. She didn’t go to college to get her “MRS” degree. Joan wanted independence, not dependence. I should have known she was feisty before we were married.

And talk about feisty: Rather than call her “Joan,” just try calling her “Joanne.” I was very special because I had a pet nickname I was allowed to use: Joanie Baloney Maloney.

In the late 1960s, we took a weekend trip with my parents to Ukiah, where many from the Bay Area would step back in time for a magical ride through the redwoods on the world-famous Skunk Train.

We weren’t riding the Skunk Train, though. We were boarding a single passenger car powered by a diesel engine at the rear, operating between Ukiah and Eureka. It primarily transported mail for the Southern Pacific Railroad and occasionally picked up men working in logging or rail operations along its isolated, scenic route, about 100 miles through Northern California, passing the ghost town site of Camp Grant Flat.

We mistakenly thought it was the site of Ulysses S. Grant’s 1852-1853 military camp. That one, however, was located near Fort Jones in Siskiyou County and was used during the California Gold Rush era.

Our one-car train made a sudden stop: Wild boars were on the tracks, and they weren’t in any hurry to move. Supposedly, they had escaped from the California missions years ago.

When we arrived in Scotia, we toured the Pacific Lumber Company mill, known for its redwood production. That evening, we stayed at the historic 22-room Scotia Lodge, near the northern entrance to the Avenue of the Giants.I’ll never forget that night … or my wife’s actions.

At home, I’m always awake before Joan. But that morning, she was up first and told me I needed to get going.

“I want to go back to sleep,” I said.

“You do, and I’ll throw a glass of water on you.”

“I dare you,” I replied, rolling over.

Almost instantly, I was soaked. Joan smiled and said, “You dared me!”

“But you got the bed wet!” I protested.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t have to clean it up.”

Later, while waiting for our delayed train, I thought I heard a whistle in the distance. Joan didn’t. I told her Indians used to put their ears to the rail to hear if a train was near. I snapped a perfect 35mm photo of her kneeling beside the tracks, listening. Somehow that slide disappeared. To this day, she swore she didn’t know what happened to it … “and that’s the absolute truth.”

I once got in trouble for telling her father we’d borrowed his folding chairs for a Sacramento Democratic Women’s Club event at our house. I think he was proud – but not thrilled – that his daughter was club president. When Rose Ann Vuich, the first woman elected to the California State Senate, came to our home, we didn’t borrow the chairs. I’m not sure why; we could have used them!

Sheryl McClurg, editor-in-chief of John F. Kennedy High School’s newspaper, and Rachel Weintraub, the Clarion’s feature editor, attended that evening. Rachel later wrote a beautiful story about Sen. Vuich’s remarks.

Rachel reported, “At the time of her first visit to the Capitol, Senator Vuich was told by another senator that she was going to cost the state thousands of dollars because they would have to build a women’s restroom on the Senate floor.” They converted a Xerox room into a restroom, and a hand-painted sign on the door read “Rose’s Room,” with a red rose beside it. “At least I have some seniority in one area… even if it’s just in bathrooms!” said the good-natured senator.

I asked Joan to proofread the story, and she had the audacity to change “the home of Mr. Stephen B. Clazie, the Kennedy Clarion adviser” to “the home of Joan Clazie, whose husband is a teacher at John F. Kennedy High School.”

Joan was my substitute at JFK High for a week. At the beginning of class every day, while I was taking attendance, my English classes had to copy a sentence off the blackboard and correct any grammatical mistakes. That week, Joan had the sentence every day dealing with how I had a brick fall off our roof and hit me in the head. When I returned to school, the news quickly spread after first period that I was back. My students from the afternoon classes came by early in the day wanting to see the stitches in the top of my bald head.

I had a concussion and had been home with Joan giving me reports on how the classes were doing. She never said anything about the daily sentences being about the brick and my hard head. The students thought my wife was funny!

Joan could be funny and loved giving me a hard time. “If you’re going to dish it out,” she’d say, “you have to be able to take it!”

We never had any major arguments, but we did have our moments. During one disagreement at the kitchen table, Joan left the table, took a couple of steps into the living room, quietly flipped a wall switch and returned to her seat. The record player suddenly blasted: “Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.” It was the first time, but certainly not the only time, that I heard the lyrics to Mac Davis’ song. Joan smiled while our daughters burst out laughing. My wife had secretly bought a Mac Davis album just to make a point.

I promised her there would be no memorial service, but as a journalism major married to an English major and my proofreader for over 63 years, I can’t help myself. I will love and cherish her deeply, and I will miss her every day. She will always be part of my life and will continue to appear, in some fashion, in my stories.

I wrote many stories about the GreenHaven-Pocket Farmers Market (GHP), and Joan loved going there on Sunday mornings. She would visit with many vendors and Elks Lodge No. 6 members.

She and Vic Cima, the GHP general manager – supposedly my friend – would always have a long chat. While they visited, I would be getting Joan’s coffee and something sweet to eat. Vic would always find a way to remind me that we were friends only because Joan was his girlfriend.

It became harder and harder for Joan to make those Sunday morning visits. The PSP was making every part of her body increasingly rigid. She was fully aware of everything happening with her disease, but she remained deeply concerned about me and our youngest daughter. She also worried about our extended family and about Suzanne, who had been her caregiver for almost two years. 

Joan never complained about what she was enduring. Her main concerns were that I take care of myself and our 16-year-old cat, Suzie. She was also adamant that I not have any type of memorial service for her.

This is not an obituary, nor a memorial, only a humble feature story from a man who cherished being both a journalist and Joan’s husband for 60 years, five months and 19 days. It is no “Baloney” that I cannot resist writing about my Joanie Baloney Maloney … or capturing her light through a camera lens.

When I first saw that smile, Joan was a young, starry-eyed 18-year-old. I teasingly called her my “punk teenager.” I never stopped, and in return she began calling me a silly old man whenever I asked to see that punk-teenager smile. Even decades later, she would still look at me, eyes shining, and offer that same wonderful smile.

This year, when I think of my punk teenager and whisper “Joanie Baloney Maloney,” only a perfect, aching stillness will answer.