Joseph Donald DeMariano

He was born on November 14, 1945, in Rochester NY.

He is survived by his wife of 47 years, Millie, his son Scott (Meghan) of Columbus, one sister, Patricia Bowers of Farmington, NY and grandchildren Jack and Gabby DeMariano. Also, numerous wonderful nieces and nephews.

Joe was preceded in death by his parents, Joseph P. and Patricia DeMariano.

He is a graduate of East High School, Rochester, NY and received his B.S. in Electrical Engineering from the General Motors Institute, Flint, MI.

Joe was an active member of the Architectural Review Board in Centerville, OH and a member of the Incarnation Church.

Joe was truly rich in friends and family who loved him beyond words. He will be so missed.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Hospice of Dayton.

There will be a Gathering of Friends on April 27, 2023 from 1:00 to 2:30 pm followed by the funeral service at 2:30 pm, at TOBIAS FUNERAL HOME-FAR HILLS CHAPEL, 5471 Far Hills Ave. at Rahn Rd. Dayton, OH 45429.

Internment will be a private service. Online condolences may be sent to www.tobiasfuneralhome.com.

Dad, I can’t start anything I write about you without first always saying how much I will miss you. I will miss you terribly. I can’t properly describe how much in words, but I will try.

You were my rock and foundation. From the moment you and mom brought me home, having chosen me to adopt into the family and never treating me as anything other than your son, you both gave me all the love you could give. You supported me through everything big, small, and all that was in between.

You helped give me the best childhood I could have ever hoped for, playing board games with me, teaching me how to do things around the house and yard, how to fix things, work through problems step by step, taking me back and forth to my sports practices and events, playing putt putt with me and watching me make five dollars last for hours at the video arcade. You worked so much and so hard to make everything possible, and with your last shred of energy at the end of most days, you sat and watched every single sitcom there was with me, pretty much seven days a week. I came to cherish those nightly viewings. I never wanted for anything.

You made sure I kept my grades up by working on my confidence, especially as I struggled with math, which you were amazing at. It helped me learn that being overwhelmed and beginning to panic could be overcome and progress made little by little. I still try to apply those lessons to this day.

You supported me proudly as I began to work the neighborhood for extra money, cutting so many lawns even on my single day off from school and multiple sports, secretly proud of my hustle and the lessons I was learning.

When I tripped and fell you helped get me back on my feet and get right back to it, like when you let me drive your car the same day I had gotten into my first accident in my own.

You rarely raised your voice and made sure any punishments for my behavior or choices were fair and served to teach valuable lessons.

For all that and so much more, I truly treasure my childhood and all of those memories, and it did not stop there.

As I moved into my teenage years, through high school and into college, you were there to listen when I needed to talk about something difficult. You smiled at my joys or even just as I acted like my usual silly self. And those years are when we really started to enjoy having meals together, which became the number one thing we enjoyed together for years to come.

You smiled on the other end of the line as I expressed sorrow that I was changing college majors from dentistry to criminal justice, knowing I would be just fine and that it was actually a wise choice for me. You trusted me to be okay while always worrying about me and my safety. You never stopped asking me to call when I got there even if I nearly always forgot to call when I got there, so you’d call me instead to check. I realize it was all out of love, and I treasure those memories, too.

You were there for every move, every new apartment, every new city, every new state, every new house, checking out the furnaces, water heaters, structural issues, etc., making sure you had a handle on the whole place because you knew things would go wrong and that I would be calling you about it every single time something happened, usually upset or in a panic. You would soothe that panic and walk me through what to do, or who to call if necessary. You’d follow up to see how it was coming along, and I truly appreciated you for that.

Sadly, that was the last longer conversation we were able to have. The water in the basement. I saw it, panicked a little, and you answered right away to help guide me through it. I can’t begin to describe the relief I felt when I would make those calls, and you’d calmly figure it out with me and advise on steps to take. I’m not ashamed to say how much I will miss that, and what it will feel like the first time something happens and I can’t call you. I told myself that I should just become what you were to me in that regard, and begin to learn as much as I can beyond what I have already learned, so my kids can call me the same way for years to come.

So I will be paying forward what you did for me. You handed me the baton and I will run with it.

That was something I treasured, but it was so much more than that. Just coming to see you and mom for a simple meal was one of my favorite things, whether I brought the whole family, or some of them, or just me on occasion. Nothing will ever compare to the safe and secure feeling of sharing a meal and conversation with you. I am struggling with knowing that I won’t have that again with you. I won’t have any phone calls where we talk work, finances, history, or politics. I won’t be able to chat with you from the couch while you lean back in your recliner, with The Golden Girls or a history documentary on in the background. I will miss all of that, and you, so much.

Who will hover over everyone with a yard sized trash bag on Christmas Eve as presents get opened and paper flies everywhere? Who will always have a pocket knife ready to pull out of their pocket to open something? Who will shake their head in front of my friends and others as I act like, well, myself, and say “I’m sorry, we tried. We really tried?” Who will mess with my thermostat and make it almost unbearably hot and stuffy when I’m not looking? Who will devour desserts with me and wash it down with some White Zin or some Moscato or Chardonnay? Who will excitedly call me about new automatic lighting and alarms, exterior cameras, bathroom remodels, and other plans for the home he designed and made into a lifelong project up until the very end?

All of these things and so much more, I will miss. Many of these things I will become, if I wasn’t already beginning to adopt some of your habits and rituals, like staying up late and washing dishes as late as midnight, or playing with my phone and posting things I found interesting or funny as late as 1am, tv blaring in the background.

I’m having trouble even considering taking anything mom says I should take. Those are your things. Those are your tools and knick knacks. Those are your valuables and your treasures. And yet mom ensures me your impressive collection of tools was being collected and organized to go to me because as mom said, you “wanted Scott to have good tools”. So, I will try to start bringing things home, and consider it a final act of love from you to me. It’s what you always did clear back to when you brought me home just shy of my second birthday, and along with mom, gave me my family Christmas.

You have passed on, but your love remains. The lessons you taught remain. The memories we made together remain. The example you set remains. All of our lives were touched by the time we had with you, and that will live on, and will be passed down to your grandchildren and beyond.

We are all a part of this grand unfathomable Universe, and in our tiny corner of it, you meant so much to so many, and along with my mother, you meant everything to me.

I will miss you, Dad.

I love you.

—Scott