Times-Picayune, New Orleans, Sun. Mar. 10, 1901, Page 12
"MAGAZINE MARKET JOE.
===========================================
A Touching Tribute to a Unique Character
It was an ostentatious, yet neat, funeral, a pretty hearse and one carriage, and in the carriage were the five mourners. Sincere ones were they, for they had loved Joe well for his many excellent qualities of heart. Joe was not a bright fellow, but what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in kindness, and he was always jolly. He was the soul of good nature, and the most obliging and accommodating man that could be found.
Man, woman and child who visited the Magazine market knew Joe. He had a voice like a fog horn, yet clear and merry. Morning, noon, and all day, in fact, Joe held forth around the market. His ostensible employment was in helping Mrs. George Zimmer, who kept a chicken stand, but his work was light and demanded but little of his attention, so his 'boss' let him do pretty much as he liked during the hours in which his services were not in demand. Joe was a part of the Magazine market, and was up when the first butcher appeared int he early morning hours, and his voice always announced in loud stentorian tones the hour for closing up, which was noon. 'Shur up!' he'd yell through the market, and then the butchers and the dealers and hucksters would laugh and put away their meat, doff their white aprons and commence to scrape their stalls. It was not Joe's command that caused them to close their stalls, but they knew that Joe got his cue from the market commissary, and that the time had really come.
Joe imagined that he was market commissary, and nothing could convince him any differently, as long as he did not draw the pay, why nobody objected, and it seemed to do the half-witted fellow so much good to think that his commands were being obeyed. He was always ready to do anyone a good turn. Friend or foe, (but of the latter Joe had none), acquaintance or stranger, it was all one to him. Just hint that a service was required at his hands and on the instant Joe stood ready to obey the bequest or request of anyone. He had been in the employ of Mrs. Zimmer for the past twenty years, five of which he spent in the country on a farm near Rayne, La. Joe, however, missed the market while in the country, and he was only too glad to get back and assume the duties of his imaginary office.
Winter and summer, wet or dry, warm or cold, Joe was always on hand during market hours, and he never wore shoes. Once during the bitter cold weather which prevailed during February, 1899, he was induced to put on a pair of shoes and socks. The biggest, softest, widest pair that could be found were purchased for him, and at the urgent request of friends, who did not want to see the poor fellow suffering from cold, he put them on. It was a sight to see Joe with shoes on. A more uncomfortable, wretched being did not live. He did not appear to know what to do with his feet. They were in his way, and he almost fell over himself every step he would make. He would stand with is feet wide apart and glance down at his nether extremities in supreme disgust, and a happy man was Joe when the weather moderated and he could again walk barefooted. Exposure toughened him, but it did not make him impervious to the weather.
Joe took cold some time since, and jokingly his friends used to say to him, 'Joe, you'll die of consumption if you don't take care of that cough.' Joe would laugh at what he considered a huge joke, and those who warned him really thought that their warnings were unnecessary. He had weathered so many storms, had walked barefooted through the cold-flagged market on the coldest and wettest days, yet passed through the ordeal unscathed, so they thought that Joe would speedily get over his cold. He got thinner and thinner, and his cough became more and more hollow. Then sometimes the blood would pour from his mouth, but unless someone saw these hemorrhages they would never have been known, for Joe did not realize the danger he was in, and if he did, he cared not. About a week ago Joe became so weak and emaciated that he could not get up one morning to go to market, and hemorrhage succeeded hemorrhage. They thought that he would rally, however, and a doctor was called in to attend him. Medicines were prescribed, and Joe, being a good patient, took the doses he was told. Then he was sent to the Charity Hospital, and he lingered there until last Friday at noon, when he died.
They passed the hat around in the neighborhood of the market which he had enlivened for so many years, and in a very short time sufficient money was collected to defray the expenses of his funeral. They laid the poor fellow out upstairs in No. 1920 Camp street, where he slept during the past twenty years, and a great many people visited the place and took a last look at the goodhearted, generous character before the coffin lid was screwed down upon him forever. At 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon the funeral took place and the body was brought to the Valence street cemetery, where it was laid to rest forever. There was an air of sadness pervading the vicinity of the market yesterday, and Joe's death was the cause of it. 'Many a rich man,' said one, 'is lauded up to the skies after his death who deserves the eulogies preached over his corpse far less than did Joe deserve the words of praise which came from the lips of those whom he had served so faithfully and joyfully during life.'
Mardi Gras day was always nailed with delight by Joe. He always celebrated the day and paraded the streets all day long in disguise. This was one day in the year that Joe was not available for messages. An Indian costume was his ambition, and thus disguised he would visit his friends and patrons in the neighborhood. Of course his guise was easily penetrated, but this did not bother Joe in the least. He took all jokes at his expense in good part, and no matter what was said to him, his reply was always of good nature and accompanied with his hearty, loud laugh. Sick as he was, and with death starring him in the face, Joe did not let even last Mardi Gras day pass without his visits to his friends and disguised as an Indian. Among those whom he visited were Mr. Otto Thoman. Of course, the latter knew him the moment he came in, even before the hollow cough to which the poor fellow gave vent was heard, 'That's a bad cough you have, Joe,' said M. Thoman. Joe did not answer, but he laughed, satisfied that he had paid one more visit. His full name was Joe Bloom, and he was a native of Covington, La. He was about 42 years of age and had been a frequenter of Magazine market for more than half of his lifetime. They will miss him around there, and to-day, when the good people of the congregations of St. Alphonsus, St. Mary and the French Catholic church, on Jackson avenue, attend mass they will wonder at the absence of that familiar, yet uncouth figure and miss his boisterous, infectious laugh, and his loud voice.
There are some people who cannot be replaced, and Joe was one of them. It would be difficult to find his equal here, or anywhere else for that matter."
"MAGAZINE MARKET JOE.
===========================================
A Touching Tribute to a Unique Character
It was an ostentatious, yet neat, funeral, a pretty hearse and one carriage, and in the carriage were the five mourners. Sincere ones were they, for they had loved Joe well for his many excellent qualities of heart. Joe was not a bright fellow, but what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in kindness, and he was always jolly. He was the soul of good nature, and the most obliging and accommodating man that could be found.
Man, woman and child who visited the Magazine market knew Joe. He had a voice like a fog horn, yet clear and merry. Morning, noon, and all day, in fact, Joe held forth around the market. His ostensible employment was in helping Mrs. George Zimmer, who kept a chicken stand, but his work was light and demanded but little of his attention, so his 'boss' let him do pretty much as he liked during the hours in which his services were not in demand. Joe was a part of the Magazine market, and was up when the first butcher appeared int he early morning hours, and his voice always announced in loud stentorian tones the hour for closing up, which was noon. 'Shur up!' he'd yell through the market, and then the butchers and the dealers and hucksters would laugh and put away their meat, doff their white aprons and commence to scrape their stalls. It was not Joe's command that caused them to close their stalls, but they knew that Joe got his cue from the market commissary, and that the time had really come.
Joe imagined that he was market commissary, and nothing could convince him any differently, as long as he did not draw the pay, why nobody objected, and it seemed to do the half-witted fellow so much good to think that his commands were being obeyed. He was always ready to do anyone a good turn. Friend or foe, (but of the latter Joe had none), acquaintance or stranger, it was all one to him. Just hint that a service was required at his hands and on the instant Joe stood ready to obey the bequest or request of anyone. He had been in the employ of Mrs. Zimmer for the past twenty years, five of which he spent in the country on a farm near Rayne, La. Joe, however, missed the market while in the country, and he was only too glad to get back and assume the duties of his imaginary office.
Winter and summer, wet or dry, warm or cold, Joe was always on hand during market hours, and he never wore shoes. Once during the bitter cold weather which prevailed during February, 1899, he was induced to put on a pair of shoes and socks. The biggest, softest, widest pair that could be found were purchased for him, and at the urgent request of friends, who did not want to see the poor fellow suffering from cold, he put them on. It was a sight to see Joe with shoes on. A more uncomfortable, wretched being did not live. He did not appear to know what to do with his feet. They were in his way, and he almost fell over himself every step he would make. He would stand with is feet wide apart and glance down at his nether extremities in supreme disgust, and a happy man was Joe when the weather moderated and he could again walk barefooted. Exposure toughened him, but it did not make him impervious to the weather.
Joe took cold some time since, and jokingly his friends used to say to him, 'Joe, you'll die of consumption if you don't take care of that cough.' Joe would laugh at what he considered a huge joke, and those who warned him really thought that their warnings were unnecessary. He had weathered so many storms, had walked barefooted through the cold-flagged market on the coldest and wettest days, yet passed through the ordeal unscathed, so they thought that Joe would speedily get over his cold. He got thinner and thinner, and his cough became more and more hollow. Then sometimes the blood would pour from his mouth, but unless someone saw these hemorrhages they would never have been known, for Joe did not realize the danger he was in, and if he did, he cared not. About a week ago Joe became so weak and emaciated that he could not get up one morning to go to market, and hemorrhage succeeded hemorrhage. They thought that he would rally, however, and a doctor was called in to attend him. Medicines were prescribed, and Joe, being a good patient, took the doses he was told. Then he was sent to the Charity Hospital, and he lingered there until last Friday at noon, when he died.
They passed the hat around in the neighborhood of the market which he had enlivened for so many years, and in a very short time sufficient money was collected to defray the expenses of his funeral. They laid the poor fellow out upstairs in No. 1920 Camp street, where he slept during the past twenty years, and a great many people visited the place and took a last look at the goodhearted, generous character before the coffin lid was screwed down upon him forever. At 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon the funeral took place and the body was brought to the Valence street cemetery, where it was laid to rest forever. There was an air of sadness pervading the vicinity of the market yesterday, and Joe's death was the cause of it. 'Many a rich man,' said one, 'is lauded up to the skies after his death who deserves the eulogies preached over his corpse far less than did Joe deserve the words of praise which came from the lips of those whom he had served so faithfully and joyfully during life.'
Mardi Gras day was always nailed with delight by Joe. He always celebrated the day and paraded the streets all day long in disguise. This was one day in the year that Joe was not available for messages. An Indian costume was his ambition, and thus disguised he would visit his friends and patrons in the neighborhood. Of course his guise was easily penetrated, but this did not bother Joe in the least. He took all jokes at his expense in good part, and no matter what was said to him, his reply was always of good nature and accompanied with his hearty, loud laugh. Sick as he was, and with death starring him in the face, Joe did not let even last Mardi Gras day pass without his visits to his friends and disguised as an Indian. Among those whom he visited were Mr. Otto Thoman. Of course, the latter knew him the moment he came in, even before the hollow cough to which the poor fellow gave vent was heard, 'That's a bad cough you have, Joe,' said M. Thoman. Joe did not answer, but he laughed, satisfied that he had paid one more visit. His full name was Joe Bloom, and he was a native of Covington, La. He was about 42 years of age and had been a frequenter of Magazine market for more than half of his lifetime. They will miss him around there, and to-day, when the good people of the congregations of St. Alphonsus, St. Mary and the French Catholic church, on Jackson avenue, attend mass they will wonder at the absence of that familiar, yet uncouth figure and miss his boisterous, infectious laugh, and his loud voice.
There are some people who cannot be replaced, and Joe was one of them. It would be difficult to find his equal here, or anywhere else for that matter."
Times-Picayune, New Orleans, Sun. Mar. 10, 1901, Page 12
"MAGAZINE MARKET JOE.
===========================================
A Touching Tribute to a Unique Character
It was an ostentatious, yet neat, funeral, a pretty hearse and one carriage, and in the carriage were the five mourners. Sincere ones were they, for they had loved Joe well for his many excellent qualities of heart. Joe was not a bright fellow, but what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in kindness, and he was always jolly. He was the soul of good nature, and the most obliging and accommodating man that could be found.
Man, woman and child who visited the Magazine market knew Joe. He had a voice like a fog horn, yet clear and merry. Morning, noon, and all day, in fact, Joe held forth around the market. His ostensible employment was in helping Mrs. George Zimmer, who kept a chicken stand, but his work was light and demanded but little of his attention, so his 'boss' let him do pretty much as he liked during the hours in which his services were not in demand. Joe was a part of the Magazine market, and was up when the first butcher appeared int he early morning hours, and his voice always announced in loud stentorian tones the hour for closing up, which was noon. 'Shur up!' he'd yell through the market, and then the butchers and the dealers and hucksters would laugh and put away their meat, doff their white aprons and commence to scrape their stalls. It was not Joe's command that caused them to close their stalls, but they knew that Joe got his cue from the market commissary, and that the time had really come.
Joe imagined that he was market commissary, and nothing could convince him any differently, as long as he did not draw the pay, why nobody objected, and it seemed to do the half-witted fellow so much good to think that his commands were being obeyed. He was always ready to do anyone a good turn. Friend or foe, (but of the latter Joe had none), acquaintance or stranger, it was all one to him. Just hint that a service was required at his hands and on the instant Joe stood ready to obey the bequest or request of anyone. He had been in the employ of Mrs. Zimmer for the past twenty years, five of which he spent in the country on a farm near Rayne, La. Joe, however, missed the market while in the country, and he was only too glad to get back and assume the duties of his imaginary office.
Winter and summer, wet or dry, warm or cold, Joe was always on hand during market hours, and he never wore shoes. Once during the bitter cold weather which prevailed during February, 1899, he was induced to put on a pair of shoes and socks. The biggest, softest, widest pair that could be found were purchased for him, and at the urgent request of friends, who did not want to see the poor fellow suffering from cold, he put them on. It was a sight to see Joe with shoes on. A more uncomfortable, wretched being did not live. He did not appear to know what to do with his feet. They were in his way, and he almost fell over himself every step he would make. He would stand with is feet wide apart and glance down at his nether extremities in supreme disgust, and a happy man was Joe when the weather moderated and he could again walk barefooted. Exposure toughened him, but it did not make him impervious to the weather.
Joe took cold some time since, and jokingly his friends used to say to him, 'Joe, you'll die of consumption if you don't take care of that cough.' Joe would laugh at what he considered a huge joke, and those who warned him really thought that their warnings were unnecessary. He had weathered so many storms, had walked barefooted through the cold-flagged market on the coldest and wettest days, yet passed through the ordeal unscathed, so they thought that Joe would speedily get over his cold. He got thinner and thinner, and his cough became more and more hollow. Then sometimes the blood would pour from his mouth, but unless someone saw these hemorrhages they would never have been known, for Joe did not realize the danger he was in, and if he did, he cared not. About a week ago Joe became so weak and emaciated that he could not get up one morning to go to market, and hemorrhage succeeded hemorrhage. They thought that he would rally, however, and a doctor was called in to attend him. Medicines were prescribed, and Joe, being a good patient, took the doses he was told. Then he was sent to the Charity Hospital, and he lingered there until last Friday at noon, when he died.
They passed the hat around in the neighborhood of the market which he had enlivened for so many years, and in a very short time sufficient money was collected to defray the expenses of his funeral. They laid the poor fellow out upstairs in No. 1920 Camp street, where he slept during the past twenty years, and a great many people visited the place and took a last look at the goodhearted, generous character before the coffin lid was screwed down upon him forever. At 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon the funeral took place and the body was brought to the Valence street cemetery, where it was laid to rest forever. There was an air of sadness pervading the vicinity of the market yesterday, and Joe's death was the cause of it. 'Many a rich man,' said one, 'is lauded up to the skies after his death who deserves the eulogies preached over his corpse far less than did Joe deserve the words of praise which came from the lips of those whom he had served so faithfully and joyfully during life.'
Mardi Gras day was always nailed with delight by Joe. He always celebrated the day and paraded the streets all day long in disguise. This was one day in the year that Joe was not available for messages. An Indian costume was his ambition, and thus disguised he would visit his friends and patrons in the neighborhood. Of course his guise was easily penetrated, but this did not bother Joe in the least. He took all jokes at his expense in good part, and no matter what was said to him, his reply was always of good nature and accompanied with his hearty, loud laugh. Sick as he was, and with death starring him in the face, Joe did not let even last Mardi Gras day pass without his visits to his friends and disguised as an Indian. Among those whom he visited were Mr. Otto Thoman. Of course, the latter knew him the moment he came in, even before the hollow cough to which the poor fellow gave vent was heard, 'That's a bad cough you have, Joe,' said M. Thoman. Joe did not answer, but he laughed, satisfied that he had paid one more visit. His full name was Joe Bloom, and he was a native of Covington, La. He was about 42 years of age and had been a frequenter of Magazine market for more than half of his lifetime. They will miss him around there, and to-day, when the good people of the congregations of St. Alphonsus, St. Mary and the French Catholic church, on Jackson avenue, attend mass they will wonder at the absence of that familiar, yet uncouth figure and miss his boisterous, infectious laugh, and his loud voice.
There are some people who cannot be replaced, and Joe was one of them. It would be difficult to find his equal here, or anywhere else for that matter."
"MAGAZINE MARKET JOE.
===========================================
A Touching Tribute to a Unique Character
It was an ostentatious, yet neat, funeral, a pretty hearse and one carriage, and in the carriage were the five mourners. Sincere ones were they, for they had loved Joe well for his many excellent qualities of heart. Joe was not a bright fellow, but what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in kindness, and he was always jolly. He was the soul of good nature, and the most obliging and accommodating man that could be found.
Man, woman and child who visited the Magazine market knew Joe. He had a voice like a fog horn, yet clear and merry. Morning, noon, and all day, in fact, Joe held forth around the market. His ostensible employment was in helping Mrs. George Zimmer, who kept a chicken stand, but his work was light and demanded but little of his attention, so his 'boss' let him do pretty much as he liked during the hours in which his services were not in demand. Joe was a part of the Magazine market, and was up when the first butcher appeared int he early morning hours, and his voice always announced in loud stentorian tones the hour for closing up, which was noon. 'Shur up!' he'd yell through the market, and then the butchers and the dealers and hucksters would laugh and put away their meat, doff their white aprons and commence to scrape their stalls. It was not Joe's command that caused them to close their stalls, but they knew that Joe got his cue from the market commissary, and that the time had really come.
Joe imagined that he was market commissary, and nothing could convince him any differently, as long as he did not draw the pay, why nobody objected, and it seemed to do the half-witted fellow so much good to think that his commands were being obeyed. He was always ready to do anyone a good turn. Friend or foe, (but of the latter Joe had none), acquaintance or stranger, it was all one to him. Just hint that a service was required at his hands and on the instant Joe stood ready to obey the bequest or request of anyone. He had been in the employ of Mrs. Zimmer for the past twenty years, five of which he spent in the country on a farm near Rayne, La. Joe, however, missed the market while in the country, and he was only too glad to get back and assume the duties of his imaginary office.
Winter and summer, wet or dry, warm or cold, Joe was always on hand during market hours, and he never wore shoes. Once during the bitter cold weather which prevailed during February, 1899, he was induced to put on a pair of shoes and socks. The biggest, softest, widest pair that could be found were purchased for him, and at the urgent request of friends, who did not want to see the poor fellow suffering from cold, he put them on. It was a sight to see Joe with shoes on. A more uncomfortable, wretched being did not live. He did not appear to know what to do with his feet. They were in his way, and he almost fell over himself every step he would make. He would stand with is feet wide apart and glance down at his nether extremities in supreme disgust, and a happy man was Joe when the weather moderated and he could again walk barefooted. Exposure toughened him, but it did not make him impervious to the weather.
Joe took cold some time since, and jokingly his friends used to say to him, 'Joe, you'll die of consumption if you don't take care of that cough.' Joe would laugh at what he considered a huge joke, and those who warned him really thought that their warnings were unnecessary. He had weathered so many storms, had walked barefooted through the cold-flagged market on the coldest and wettest days, yet passed through the ordeal unscathed, so they thought that Joe would speedily get over his cold. He got thinner and thinner, and his cough became more and more hollow. Then sometimes the blood would pour from his mouth, but unless someone saw these hemorrhages they would never have been known, for Joe did not realize the danger he was in, and if he did, he cared not. About a week ago Joe became so weak and emaciated that he could not get up one morning to go to market, and hemorrhage succeeded hemorrhage. They thought that he would rally, however, and a doctor was called in to attend him. Medicines were prescribed, and Joe, being a good patient, took the doses he was told. Then he was sent to the Charity Hospital, and he lingered there until last Friday at noon, when he died.
They passed the hat around in the neighborhood of the market which he had enlivened for so many years, and in a very short time sufficient money was collected to defray the expenses of his funeral. They laid the poor fellow out upstairs in No. 1920 Camp street, where he slept during the past twenty years, and a great many people visited the place and took a last look at the goodhearted, generous character before the coffin lid was screwed down upon him forever. At 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon the funeral took place and the body was brought to the Valence street cemetery, where it was laid to rest forever. There was an air of sadness pervading the vicinity of the market yesterday, and Joe's death was the cause of it. 'Many a rich man,' said one, 'is lauded up to the skies after his death who deserves the eulogies preached over his corpse far less than did Joe deserve the words of praise which came from the lips of those whom he had served so faithfully and joyfully during life.'
Mardi Gras day was always nailed with delight by Joe. He always celebrated the day and paraded the streets all day long in disguise. This was one day in the year that Joe was not available for messages. An Indian costume was his ambition, and thus disguised he would visit his friends and patrons in the neighborhood. Of course his guise was easily penetrated, but this did not bother Joe in the least. He took all jokes at his expense in good part, and no matter what was said to him, his reply was always of good nature and accompanied with his hearty, loud laugh. Sick as he was, and with death starring him in the face, Joe did not let even last Mardi Gras day pass without his visits to his friends and disguised as an Indian. Among those whom he visited were Mr. Otto Thoman. Of course, the latter knew him the moment he came in, even before the hollow cough to which the poor fellow gave vent was heard, 'That's a bad cough you have, Joe,' said M. Thoman. Joe did not answer, but he laughed, satisfied that he had paid one more visit. His full name was Joe Bloom, and he was a native of Covington, La. He was about 42 years of age and had been a frequenter of Magazine market for more than half of his lifetime. They will miss him around there, and to-day, when the good people of the congregations of St. Alphonsus, St. Mary and the French Catholic church, on Jackson avenue, attend mass they will wonder at the absence of that familiar, yet uncouth figure and miss his boisterous, infectious laugh, and his loud voice.
There are some people who cannot be replaced, and Joe was one of them. It would be difficult to find his equal here, or anywhere else for that matter."
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