Memories of Joyce Marie "Richardson" May

In memory of

Joyce Marie "Richardson" May

Bowie, TX

May 16, 1929 - February 20, 2026

May 16, 1929 - Feb 20, 2026

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karleen hagan

Of course, somewhere deep down, I knew this moment would come. We all do—no one escapes it. And Joyce’s health had been slipping, with those frightening episodes that left us holding our breath. Still, nothing prepares you for the moment it becomes real. When the call came, it didn’t feel possible. And then, all at once, the memories came rushing in—soft, vivid, alive.
Joyce… one of the unforgettable “J’s” Richardsons—Joanne, Jean, and Joyce. Together, they were something extraordinary, but Joyce had a quiet magic all her own. I don’t think I ever heard her speak an unkind word. And that smile—she wore it like it was part of her soul. She couldn’t speak without it. It lit up everything around her.
She created warmth wherever she went. In the kitchen, she was pure magic—effortless, joyful, always making something delicious that somehow tasted like love. And her crafts… I still hold onto that green and white gingham suitcase cloth she made me. It’s such a small thing, but it carries so much of her. Even now, when I spot my suitcase among dozens of identical ones, I think of her—and smile.
And the laughter… oh, the laughter. That trip to Alaska feels like a lifetime ago and just yesterday all at once. Joyce, Jean, Joanne, and Ma—like a joyful whirlwind we could barely keep up with. Delaina and I thought we had a plan with that 4 a.m. Denali bus. We even woke up on time, listening for movement from the bedroom where the four of them were staying. Silence. Not a sound. We thought, “Well, I guess that’s that,” and drifted back to sleep. And then suddenly—the door opened. There they were, all four of them, completely dressed and ready to go, as if they had quietly slipped into the morning without a trace. It was so them. Effortless, joyful, unstoppable.
I was so lucky in those years when work took me to Dallas. Joyce always made sure I wasn’t just visiting—I was home. She’d pick me up, welcome me in, and every single morning there was breakfast waiting before I even made it downstairs. We had our traditions, like that Mexican restaurant we never missed. But one moment stays with me more than most. I was there in December, and Elf had just come on TV. I wanted so badly to watch it, but work was calling. So I went upstairs to Larry’s office to get things done. And Joyce and Larry followed me—not to interrupt, not to distract—but just so I wouldn’t be alone. They sat there quietly, watching the movie while I worked. That was Joyce. Love, in its simplest, most thoughtful form.
And her stories… she carried her past so vividly, like it was always just within reach. The farm, her childhood—she told those stories with such detail and life. We should have recorded them. Truly, they were treasures. Listening to her felt like stepping into another time, one filled with heart and meaning.
Just being near her was enough. The room felt different when she was in it—softer, fuller. You could sit beside her in complete silence and still feel wrapped in something warm and steady. That was her gift. Her presence alone was comfort.
Last week, I received my monthly Texas Highway magazine—the one Joyce gifted me every year. As I opened it, the weight of her absence hit me in a way I wasn’t ready for. That simple, thoughtful tradition… a quiet thread that connected us. And now, knowing that next year it won’t come—it aches in a way that’s hard to put into words.
And yet… I know that every time I think of her—and I will, often—I’ll see that beautiful, gentle smile. I’ll feel that warmth again. And somehow, through the grief, there will be a softness… and even a smile of my own.

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