Joseph Francis "Joe" Baptiste, 83, of Dartmouth died Thursday, October 24, 2013 at Royal of Fairhaven.
He was the husband of Theresa R. (Medeiros) Baptiste, with whom he shared 61 years of marriage.
Born in New Bedford on June 5, 1930, son of the late Joseph Baptiste and Elizabeth (Hayes) Baptiste, he lived in South Dartmouth most of his life.
Joe graduated from New Bedford Vocational High School, with a concentration in drafting. He also attended classes at Boston State Teachers' College and New Bedford Technological Institute. One of his earlier jobs as a draftsman at Brewer Engineering left him with many fond memories. With his much-admired boss, Given Brewer, Joe traveled to the Idaho National Laboratory in Arco in 1959 and 1960 to do stress analysis work on atomic submarine systems. He also worked on radar facilities on the Texas Towers, three-legged platforms set in the Atlantic Ocean that were used for surveillance during the Cold War. In 1962, Joe and his partner Ken Roberge founded Precision Bearing & Supply Company, a successful industrial supply company in New Bedford.
Joe was an accomplished, self-taught guitar and bass player. In addition to accompanying the family sing-alongs on guitar, he played in bands at various clubs and functions throughout the area. He also loved sailing, playing cards, and spending time with his family and friends. A skilled and resourceful craftsman, he was known for his carpentry and imaginative repairs. Throughout his life, he loved animals, both wild and domestic. He enjoyed riding horses, especially Red Gate, and enjoyed a series of cherished dogs in his life, most recently Pudge and Suki. His sense of humor was apparent to the last day of his life.
He is survived by his wife, Theresa; two daughters, Mary Elizabeth Baptiste and her husband Richard Allen of Laramie, WY, and Nancy C. Kyle and her husband Frank Pace of Pembroke, NH; a sister, Rita Lacala of Stoughton; and five nieces and several great-nieces and great-nephews.
He was the brother of the late Francis Baptiste.
His Memorial Mass will be celebrated on Saturday, October 26th at 2 PM in St. Mary's Church, South Dartmouth. In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made to St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital, 262 Danny Thomas Place, Memphis, TN 38105 or the charity of one's choice.
HEAT BUGS
(Written for Dad by Mary, March 2007)
Bright August Saturday,
Along the field's periphery---
A blaze of day lilies---orange stars nodding in leaves like spears.
Black raspberries---midnight blue, deep-ripe and sweet-smelling.
//
We ride the tractor, you and me,
Round and round the north field near the ice pond,
Parting the tangled sea of cut, fragrant timothy
Into curving, parallel rows.
Diesel smells, grating rhythm,
Steady beating machine.
Like the drums that accompany your guitar, your bass,
In yet another facet of your life,
So varied and full.
Farming brings a reprieve
From your store full of metal and rubber and harsh, dark things.
But you revel in the working parts, the pieces all fitting together.
You invest the time, do the work
To create a smooth moving machine,
Rhythmic, flowing,
The drone, a song, almost breathing.
Also breathing, coursing through me
Real and fluid as my own blood---
Your hearty laugh and voice in song and story,
Life-giving as rain to me,
Telling and retelling the enduring classics:
A glider in the church steeple,
Roasted potatoes in the Page Mill parking lot,
"How many thousandths in an inch?"
Ken's fan and the customer's toupee.
Your history--- now mine, too, through your artful telling,
Stories told over and over in laughter,
Always with the same punch.
We roll over the bumps, we take it all in,
Too noisy to talk, but your voice fills my heart.
I am soothed in a soft cocoon:
The smells, the sounds,
Sharp taste of green hay on my tongue,
And you.
You are nestled into the tractor seat,
Your capable hands guide the steering wheel.
On one arm:a shiny white scar,
A clean slice from a paper cutter, you've told me, at Voke,
"Hossin' around."
I sit on the wheel cover, both hands gripping the hot green wing,
Feet bracing the floor,
Balanced, secure.
Easy rhythm like our sailboat
Rolling over the waves in Buzzard's Bay.
We don't see the fox hole until the wheel lurches into it.
My feet break loose, arms flail,
Confidence flings like confetti.
I pitch to one side, over the edge---
Falling...falling...falling...
Until I feel an iron grip on my arm,
And you yank me back,
Back onto my perch.
We stop so you can fill the hole with stones.
As you kill the motor,
All around, in the trees---
Another steady drone, thick through childhood summers:
"Heat bugs."
This is what you have been for me all these years:
The strong arm reaching out to pull me back to safety,
Heat bugs screeching all around.