steudeblog

Remembering Joe

Below are the remarks I delivered at my father's funeral on October 10, 2026. I delivered the original eulogy extemporaneously and captured a transcript of the audio. I edited the language here for clarity (and to address a few omissions / minor inaccuracies, e.g., exaggerating how good at bowling my brother Jon is). I've tried to retain the 'spoken' delivery style.

My dad holding me on the doorstep of what I believe was my Grandpa Joe's house. I was maybe 1 or 2 years old.
Sitting on the porch of Grandpa Joe's house, ca. 1987-88

Greetings, everyone.

I have very tough acts to follow with my two siblings’ eulogies. I think it's a tribute to Dad that so many of those of us he raised are very well spoken.

If you don't know me, I'm Joe's son Michael, and I am a rhetoric professor. There aren't a lot of perks when your kid becomes a rhetoric professor. But one is that you'll get a decent eulogy. However, he's already gotten two, so some of this will be redundant.

Lifting me up on his shoulders while standing next to my brother Jon. We're kids on a vacation, probably to Branson or Disney World.

I had this realization this morning. We're renting a car while we're here in St. Louis, and it occurred to me that if if my dad were here, he would have asked me the odometer reading. It makes me sad that he wasn’t able to ask about it.

My dad may not have felt so out of place in a funeral home. My grandpa, Joseph L. Steudeman, worked for the Ambruster Mortuary as a hearse driver. This is how my dad landed his first job as a pallbearer. At this point in time, funeral homes would hire pallbearers. They would call people up to come and help carry the coffin if there weren't enough people in the family that were capable of carrying. And so, for a crisp five-dollar bill, Joe would ride along to a funeral. He would lift up someone that he had never met before and carry them to their final resting place. And that foreshadows what most of Joe’s life became: quietly lifting up the people around him, even if he didn't know them that well.

My dad as a 'lil kiddo standing next to Grandpa Joe's cab. Grandpa Joe also drove a cab. His two biggest claims to fame were driving Bob Hope from the airport and driving Dwight Eisenhower during World War II.

Memory

Remembering my dad feels like a huge responsibility partly because, as Jon pointed out in his eulogy, my dad remembered everything, all the time, about everybody. Just to give one example: a couple years ago when when my dad's health started to worsen, I sent him this notebook to learn more about his life. Each tab is a different decade, and I asked him a bunch of questions about his life in each decade. And only three or four months later, he sent it back and had answered everything. There were so many things that I am so glad I asked him about that I didn't know about him.

This book, which he referred to as the Book of Joe, has so many details I cannot believe he remembered so many decades later. He remembered growing up on Farlin Avenue when he was five or six years old. He remembered the last name of every family who lived on his street, as well as how many kids they had. This was the Baby Boom generation, so that was a lot of kids. He lists them all out, beginning with the one kid who lived at Jo, Joe, and Joey’s house (his mom’s name was Josephine, and his dad’s name was Joe, and he went by Joey, so what was what the neighborhood kids called his home). Then the Strathmans had four kids, the Drurys had nine, the Bormans had four, and so on for fifteen families.

My dad's map of the neighborhood he grew up in, ca. 1946-58. My dad's map of the neighborhood he grew up in in the 1950s. He drew this just a few years ago.

He just had this just incredible ability to remember things, and one of the places he always showcased that for me was in his skill as a cartographer of St. Louis. If I were going anywhere in town, he would draw me the most elaborate maps with these these detailed, meticulous drawings that would show all the roads you need to pass by, all the landmarks. Even after MapQuest and Google Maps became a thing, I would still often ask him to give me directions, just because one, I knew he loved doing it, and two, because those maps were really awesome. In fact, in the Book of Joe, there is a map that he drew of his neighborhood growing up in the early 1950s that includes pretty much everything west of Fairground Park.

Joe’s memory also can’t be discussed without his knowledge of sports. With the loss of Joe Steudeman, the world has lost maybe its best repository of Cardinals baseball statistics and anecdotes that ever existed, and as as Jon pointed out, his ability to strike up conversations with people based on his knowledge of sports was profound. People would come into the store at St. Louis Custom Gear, and no matter a person’s age or decade of Cardinals fandom, whether they grew up with Bob Gibson or Willie McGee or Matt Carpenter, he could initiate a long in-depth conversation.

Joe in his 'mustache era.' I would've been 4 or 5 here, Jon was 1 or 2. Joe in his 'mustache era.' I would've been around 5, Jon was 1 or 2. It looks like we're dressed to go to a Cardinals game.

He loved remembering things, and he loved reminiscing. On some level, he would like what we're doing right here today, because we're just telling stories about things we remember about him, and he loved doing that. What’s remarkable is that Joe had nostalgia, but without that edge of of bitterness that sometimes accompanies nostalgia. His wistfulness about the past would not be accompanied by a sense of being upset that that past is gone, right? I even asked him two weeks ago at the hospital, “is there anything in St. Louis you regret that kids today won't get to see or do? Something that was there when you were a kid that is gone today?” His response was, “not really. Times change, and that's okay.” And I was thinking: for such a nostalgic guy, it is remarkable that he had an openness to change. I appreciated that.

Ritual

While my dad did not really like going to Catholic school—he didn’t enjoy learning Latin or a lot of aspects of religious education—he did internalize a sense of ritual and routine that carried with him. Most of my childhood, I remember his routine: He’d wake up around 4o'clock in the morning. He would pour himself a bowl of milk with strawberries, or he would eat a banana or an apple or some sort of fruit to get started. He would read the entire newspaper cover to cover, especially the sports section, and then he would get ready and go to work. After work, he would make us dinner most nights, cycling through about five different staple meals (my favorite was his mostaccioli; the secret ingredient in his sauce was grape jelly). After dinner, he got us ready for bed. We would watch New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh; he loved the theme song from that and would sing it and hum it all the time. And then he would work a little bit more until around 10 o'clock PM; and then he would get up the next day and do it all over again.

It’s incredible how busy he was, and yet he loved that he had a sequence that he could follow each day. Yet it was not a sequence that he was so beholden to that he would get upset if it got violated in some way.

Joe posing for a bowling tournament in 1973. My dad posing for a bowling tournament in 1973. He was 100% in his element when he was in a bowling alley.

Joe’s love of ritual and routine is a big part of why he loved bowling so much. Bowling is one of those sports where every time you do it, you do the exact same thing, right? And if you're doing it right and you're doing it well, you can execute the exact same way every time. I remember when I was a kid, he would take me bowling, just as he did with Jon and with Debbie, and he would teach us this traditional, old school bowler form. It was: You need to put your feet on the first and third arrow. And as you're going up to the lane, you need to eye that second arrow on the lane because that's where the ball needs to go to be on track for a strike. And when you're swinging with the ball, you need to let the ball's gravity pull your arm back, and then when it pendulums forward, when you release, imagine you’re shaking hands with the pins. And after every frame, he’d evaluate how that throw went, and give me some some simple feedback about like how I could do it better. It was a process that could always be perfected a little more.

What’s fascinating, though, is that for all this ritual he also was okay with whatever worked. As you know, my brother Jon, who spoke earlier, is also an excellent bowler. He's bowled countless impressive series and also rolled a 300 game, much like my father had bowled a 300 game. The thing is, Jon's style of bowling, if you've seen it, is very different from Joe's. Joe is methodical. Jon’s is wild. Sometimes Jon doesn't even put his fingers in like the holes. He just like chucks it down the lane like a rocket, careening toward the gutter, before at the last second it hooks back and explodes the pins. Despite the fact that he violated basically everything that my dad taught us, my dad still was proud of him and loved that he was great at bowling and didn't care about the how part, right? That's like how my dad approached routine. It was he he cared about it when it worked for himself, and would share the routine to help others. But he didn't feel a need to push it on other people.

Standing in a hallway as my daughter Celeste, age 2, sets up pins under his feet. Passing on a love of bowling to another generation--this time, my daughter Celeste.

Of course, as Debbie noted earlier, you can’t talk about Joe’s love of ritual without mentioning music. What I learned from him was how to love music. I didn’t just love specific artists he loved, although we both had some overlap—he got me into Harry Chapin. But he taught me how music can form part of the texture of life, part of the soundtrack that gives everyday activity a deep symbolic value. One habit I picked up from him—and this drives my spouse Stephanie and my daughter Celeste crazy—is the need to have a perfectly curated playlist before I go for a long drive… or a short one, for that matter. For Joe, music was a way of processing life. He had particular songs for particular moods and situations; they helped him make sense of things.

One of dad’s favorite songs from Harry Chapin was a song called "Short Stories,” and the lyrics go:

“I have seen the sun that’s behind the rain; I have felt the joy that’s behind the pain. Did you ever go soft, did you ever run wild? I’ve been a hundred years old, I’ve been a newborn child. I have found a smile in the midst of tears, and I can find a heart in the midst of fear. Short stories, that’s what we live. Short stories, babe, just take what they will give. Short stories, that’s all it’s ever been. Don’t worry ‘bout the ending, babe, before we begin.”

My dad just loved storytelling so much, and he loved the way that music could channel those stories and provide him a way of interpreting the highs and lows of life. And he left that love of music to me, as well.

Joe Coolest

Me and Joe on vacation, standing in our swim trunks on a beach somewhere. Me and dad, a couple of modest guys out on the beach.

As others have already mentioned, Joe possessed a legendary coolness and chillness, even in the most like stressful of situations. There's a favorite anecdote of mine from when Randy was a kid and my dad was raising him. It’s from before my time, but every time I’ve heard the story, I’ve thought, yeah, that's my dad. For a health class or a science class in school, Randy conducted an experiment where he measures people’s heart rates while they played the Intellivision game Astrosmash. (It’s an old arcade style game.) Randy would measure people's pulses while they were playing the game to see whether their heart rates went up or down while they played. Everybody's went up, as you’d expect, since they were playing a stressful video game. Joe's went down.

The results of that experiment speak to how my dad processed challenging situations. The only time I remember my dad getting visibly angry was not at a person, but at a piece of furniture. We were trying to move and he couldn't get a dresser to cooperate with him, and so he might’ve said a curse word or two. But that’s the only time.

Joe with me as a baby, on a tacky plaid couch. He kept his cool, even when I couldn't.

I’ll admit, sometimes his resistance to confrontation could be a little bit frustrating. As an employee, when I was working at the Jamestown Mall, sometimes somebody would pop into the store at 9:28 PM, and we were supposed to close at 9:30 PM, and they'd say, "Hey, I've got an embroidery order. I need it tomorrow for my kid's birthday.” He would always do it. And I’d always be annoyed, because he’d be my ride, and I’d be stuck there with him!

As I've looked back on those situations, there's like two things I want to take away. One is that he had my dad had an endless ability to give other people the benefit of the doubt. If someone had a made-up story about why they urgently needed the order tonight, he would still trust them, even if he knew deep down they were probably lying. He would still, in that moment, say, "Well, if I were coming in with that story, I'd want them to trust me. And I I owe that to others.” A big part of his patience was a tremendous empathy, an ability to understand where others were coming from.

Dad with my Grandma Josephine as a baby. My dad with Grandma Josephine when he was a baby.

My dad also had a deep understanding of what is worth getting upset over. There's there's a particular part in the Book of Joe here that I'd like to read. For some context, my dad was only 21 years old when he lost his mom. And during his first marriage, he also lost two children who were under the age of three. He had never really brought it up or mentioned it, but I asked him about it here. Here's what he said:

“I tried to treat everyone as I would like to be treated. I guess I have changed a little because of Laurie and Jill. Prior to them, nothing really bad ever happened. After that, and my mom, I realized that things can change in a heartbeat. It is not worth creating or extending conflict. I feel most comfortable when people are good to me, so I try to be that way to others. I really tried to be the same as it relates to Deb, you, and John, and hopefully that shows.” (And of course, my dad also mentioned Dan and Randy throughout this notebook as well).

This speaks to his philosophy and his view, and why he was so calm. It’s partly because he understood the gravity of situations, and understood that if something is not a huge, life-altering, tumultuous crisis, that maybe we don't need to all make each other anxious over this. That’s one of the hardest lessons my father learned, and it’s one I strive to live by, though it’s not always easy.

Dad sitting by me on a bus outside Disney's MGM Studios. On a bus outside Disney's MGM Studios. The many road trips we took as kids would've been a lot more stressful without Joe Coolest behind the wheel.

Selflessness

That brings me to the last thing I wanted to talk about, which is my dad’s selflessness and his compassion. One place where this really sticks out to me is in relationship to my mother Lynda’s pets over the years. One of like my fondest memories of my dad was probably not one of his fondest memories. When we lived on Naumann Drive in Waterloo, my mom had quite a few outside cats. Outwardly, my dad didn’t seem to be a huge fan of these cats. But he still fed them and took care of them, leaving food out in the garage for them to eat. I remember one winter, raccoons kept coming into the garage and eating the cats’ food. My dad would go into the garage with a broom and valiantly ward off the raccoons so the cats would have food to eat. There’s no way he would’ve bothered doing that if he didn’t actually care about these animals.

Joe wrangling my mom's dogs Lizzy and Lucky. Joe wrangling my mom's dogs Lizzy and Lucky when we lived on Naumann. He wore this Cardinals jacket regularly for as long as I can remember.

Likewise, sometimes I got the impression my dad wasn’t a huge fan of my mom’s dog Charlie. After my dog Hodges passed away, though, my dad sent me the sweetest email to commiserate. He wrote, “Although not my favorite pet, I took the passing of Charlie hard. Your mom spent a ton of time at Randy's house, so that meant Charlie and I were alone together a bunch. I had just moved into the Condo and mom was still in the house in Maryville. She called me at work and told me she had to take him [to be put down]. I felt awful for I hadn't seen him for a week and did not get to say goodbye.” I remember reading that and thinking: of course my dad loved Charlie. That’s who he was.

Dad with Hodges, my hound. There was never any question that my dad loved Hodges, though. They understood one another's energy. I'll miss them both dearly.

My dad’s way of showing compassion was, for most of his life, not always the most overt or obvious. He wasn’t cold, but he reserved his hugs or “I love yous” for the situations where they meant the most. The way he showed love was through acts of service.

My Aunt Bobbie came here today, and I’m so glad she was able to be here. I remember when my Aunt Bobbie’s husband passed away, he left her with a massive collection of Hot Wheels cars. My dad offered to sell off the Hot Wheels for her. I remember it became this months-long obligation—he had to learn how to use eBay and how to price out all of these different cars. We had tubs of hot wheels and stacks of pricing guides sitting around our house. By the end of it, he knew arcane details and could, for example, tell you the ideal starting bid for a 1972 Corvette Hot Wheel in green. He developed a whole area of expertise just to be nice for someone he cared about, and that’s just one example of who he was.

Dad with Aunt Bobby in 1951. My dad with Aunt Bobbie in 1951. (Grandma Josephine loved dressing him up like a cowboy.)

When I was in high school, I was going through like my first bout of depression, and my dad I don’t think knew how to address it. He didn’t talk to me about it a lot. But what I know now from talking to my old high school teachers, from from the people around me at that time, is that he was doing so many things that are invisible to me that were acts of love. He did so much to try to to help me through that time and support me. He was calling up my teachers every day. He was going out of his way to set up like therapy appointments. He channeled that love into the best way that he could think of to help me.

When I got involved with the speech team, he recognized that activity was helping me pull out of that depression, and he supported me in that at every step. I remember he would go along and judge at my speech tournaments, which sometimes meant getting up at 4 o’clock in the morning to ride a school bus to Harrisburg, Illinois. He’d ride along and then have to watch sixteen-year-olds provide their amateur analysis of the Iraq War, which is not a fun thing to do on a Saturday. But he did it. And it was because he wanted to support me in an activity that helped me make sense of my life and turn some things around.

My dad and me, sometime my senior year of college. Dad visiting sometime during my first or second year of grad school.

Debbie already spoke to those last few weeks when my dad really opened up. I would say even the last few years that my dad’s tendency to not be forthrightly huggy or sentimental really started to change. He started to say "I love you" at the end of phone calls. He started to give more hugs. He started to be that sort of sentimental person that I think he always was inside. He's said some of the sweetest and most heartfelt things I've ever heard someone say. I truly believe he ended his life at peace, having said what he needed to say to all of us.

When will I remember my dad? I'm going to remember him whenever whenever I go to shake hands with the pins at the bowling alley. Whenever I laugh, because I've been told that my laugh sounds a lot like his. Whenever I fall in love with a new song or watch a baseball game. Whenever I hold my daughter Celeste and hope that I can be as good a father as he was for me.

And so, to conclude, I think it's best here that we end on Joe's favorite movie quote, which was from Back to the Future Part Two, where Biff Tannen says, "Let's make like a tree and get out of here.” Thank you all.

Joe, Jon, and me as kiddos. I miss you, dad.

Liner Notes

There's so much I didn't say here that I wish I could. A few small addendums:

Photo of me, Stephanie, Joe, and Lynda on my wedding day. A photo of Joe, Lynda, me, and Stephanie on our wedding day.