Monday morning, and the traffic was heavy as usual on the highway, as hundreds of us drove toward whatever it is that yanks you out of bed before you're ready.

There were signs of reluctant journeys: Travel mugs bobbed up and down, cigarettes were flicked out windows, car radios boomed. I was headed to work, grumbling to myself as my mind raced over the day's commitments.

Then I saw the two silver cars, and my grievances evaporated.

They were driving in tandem, which was clear by the way they wove in and out of lanes and by the white lettering on their rear windows.

"RIP Joann and Mom," read the message on the Honda Civic.

"RIP Joann," read the Sebring's. "AKA Wife/Mom."

The side windows of the Civic included the dates of Joann's life: 10-25-59 to 4-02-08.

"Forty-eight," I said out loud. Two years younger than I am.

The cars' passengers stared straight ahead, their cars silently screaming their grief.

When a loved one dies, we often feel the disconnect between our world-stopping loss and the proof from strangers that life marches on. We want people to stop in their tracks and understand that we have suffered a blow that has changed us forever. Not a rational appeal, but so very human.

This was the first time I'd seen a person's life memorialized on a car window. Who was this Joann?

I scoured recent death notices in our newspaper and found an April 3 tribute to Joann M. Nelson (nee Peck), age 48. A call to the funeral home in Cleveland confirmed it was she.

Funeral director Joe Bican told me that 50 cars followed Joann's body to the cemetery. Thirty of them had writing on the windows.

"They used white shoe polish," he said. "I first saw people do this about four years ago. It's a city thing, not in the suburbs. And it's usually young people doing it, especially when it's another young person who's died."

Joann's large family is a close one, which was evident as soon as I started making calls. I left a message for her husband, Roger. Before reaching him, I talked with her sister Elizabeth Borgioli, who suggested I also call her sister Suzann Peck.

Then their sister Chris Kinser called, and right after that, Sharon Canterbury called to find out what exactly I planned to write about her sister. She told me to call her sister Lorri Wachenschwanz, which I did. Joann's daughter Sara was there, so I talked with her, too. Then I spoke with Roger.

One story at a time, Joann took form.

She was married for 21 years and had six children, nine grandchildren, 10 siblings and dozens of nieces and nephews.

When she was 18 and eight months pregnant, a stroke paralyzed her right side and left her unable to speak. She regained her speech, but not the use of her right arm. She learned to write with her left hand and insisted that she could change her own babies' diapers.

Joann walked with a limp for the rest of her life. After her last child was born, she had a series of strokes. The sixth one killed her.

She was full of whimsy. She once painted her kitchen floor white with black paw prints and used a feather duster to splash color on the walls. She loved children, hated bras and had a laugh that could make you forget why you were complaining. She was generous to everyone she met.

"It didn't matter who you were," Lorri said. "She'd help anyone."

Joann cherished family get-togethers. There were so many relatives that they had to rent a hall for holiday dinners. "Seven turkeys and three hams, and we still ran out of food," Sharon said.

Roger is a welder and a man of few words, but everyone said he was devoted to his Joann.

"I wish I was more talkative," he said from his home. "I wish I could tell you all the reasons I loved Joann. I'm not good at this part."

He said she loved to collect salt and pepper shakers. "Her favorite was always the one I'd just broken."

He took a deep breath.

"She helped me quit drinking."

Another breath.

"She really believed in me."

Silence. One more long breath.

"Yes, she did. Yes, she did."

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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