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Joyce Kellaway

Posted By Corey Strauch On May 7, 2019 @ 10:54 am In Obituaries | 2 Comments

Joyce Marion Kellaway, of Olyphant, passed away Monday April 29, 2019 at Allied Skilled nursing and Rehab Center, Scranton.

Born and raised in South Scranton, she was the daughter of Russell and Mabel Ratzel Kellaway. She also had been a resident of Dalton for many years.

A graduate of Scranton Central High School and Our Lady of Victory Infant Home, Lackawanna NY She was a CCT in OB and Pediatrics.

Over the years she was employed at Hodin’s Giant Market, IGA, St. Joseph’s Center, Private School for Special Needs Children and JCC Daycare. Her whole life was dedicated to children. She did private daily child care for many families in and out of the area. In Later years she was employed in Quality control at Specialty Records and Wea Manufacturing.

Her many activities included past member Beta Sigma Phi, Past President Dalton Pre School Mothers, member Dalton Little League Co-Founder, Dalton Teener League, Dalton Fire Company Auxiliary, Dalton United Methodist Church where she organized many children’s holiday programs, past member St. Paul’s United Methodist Church and Dalton United Methodist Choirs, Sweet Adeline’s and Lackawanna Trail Minstrel Group, Chairman of Specialty Records/ WEA Link Committee, Work place presence, Affiliated with United Way, Blind Association NEPA volunteer and past Treasurer Lackawanna Council of the Blind, volunteer for Elderly and Disabled.
What gave her great pleasure and satisfaction was helping others by just being there for them.

Her hobby was photography and she loved making collages that she knew would make friends happy to remember many good times and memories.

Surviving are many special friends she considered adopted family.

The funeral will be Monday May 20, 2019 at 6:30pm in the Corey Brian Strauch Services, LLC, funeral home location, 602 Birch Street, Scranton, PA 18505. Interment will be Tuesday, May 21, 2019 at 10:30am in Abington Hills Cemetery.

Friends may call Monday, May 20, 2019 from 4-6:30pm in the funeral home.

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Condolence from Chris Aston on May 11th, 2019 8:47 pm

Joyce Kellaway, was an amazing person. Joyce was my fathers (Robert “Bobby” Aston), only known cousin. Even though my grandparents (Naomi (Kellaway) Aston and Herbert Aston), moved to Washington DC, when my father was only five, they returned to Scranton, every year to visit.
My father, continued returning to Scranton with his young family, always including his parents.
As a kid, I remember, that long drive North, through the mountains, to Scranton. Certainly, not the most exciting trip, for a kid! But, I knew, that the minute we got to Uncle Russell and Aunt Mabes house, the hugs would be waiting, the childhood stories between Grandma and Uncle Russell would start, the food would be great and Joyce would always have something special planned, for us kids.
Joyce always took time out of her busy schedule, to spend time with all of us. After trips to the local cemeteries, to place flowers, Joyce would take us to places, that my grandparents remembered as kids. It was fun, running around in the mountains, near old train stations, while my grandfather was trying to explain, the history and significance, of the area we were visiting.
Joyce was able, to bring back wonderful moments, for my grandparents and father, while never forgetting us kids.
My sister Dawn, took Dad to Scranton, so that Joyce could meet both of his grandchildren. It must have been around 2011 or 2012. Many smiles and stories were exchanged. Turns out, that was the last time, that Dad would see Joyce. I took Dad to Scranton, in 2015, but Joyce was not feeling well. Dad called Joyce often, to try and brighten her day.
For all that knew Joyce and are feeling empty, just know, that she is no longer in pain and is certainly reunited with her Mother and Father.

Chris Aston

Condolence from Tracy Hallstead on May 23rd, 2019 2:03 pm

A Tribute to Joyce Kellaway
5/20/19

Joyce said two important things in her obituary: “What gave her great pleasure and satisfaction was helping others by just being there for them” and
“Her hobby was photography and she loved making collages that she knew would make friends happy to remember many good times and memories.”
I will think of the memories that Joyce gave us as pictures in a collage that told a story about who we really were. That story was Joyce’s gift to my sister Alison and me, because she cared for us all through our childhoods. This work was never a “job” to her, but a calling. The stories Joyce told with her pictures were also gifts to the many, many friends and family members whose lives she touched. The collage I’m describing is in my imagination, of course, but Joyce did take literally thousands of pictures through her lifetime, because she was both creating and recording the many happy times she had with those she loved.
So in my imaginary “Joyce” collage, made of a thousand pictures, I see her in one photo making a goofy face with my Aunt Mary or my father. She’s wearing her “housecoat,” a wardrobe staple in which she also makes her many delicious recipes, including her famous mashed potatoes. (My cousin Winnie, who lived up the hill from us, magically appeared whenever Joyce made those potatoes.) In another photo in my imaginary collage, Joyce is gluing kooky pictures of the family to painted wooden curtain rings, which she decorates with glitter and fashions into ornaments. We laughed all through Christmastime, with our absurd faces staring back at us from our tree.
In another picture, I see Joyce’s “look”—the one she turns our way whenever Alison or I (or Winnie, for that matter) is trying to get away with something. “I can read you like a book!” she says, and there are reasons to believe her.
I also see Joyce visiting with Peg and “Huffy” Huffsmith on a warm spring day in Dalton, where she takes Alison and me to play hide and seek in the big, beautiful Huffsmith yard. I remember wondering how on earth one family could have five boys! But a house full of boys means there are G.I. Joe’s everywhere. Thank you, Jimmy Huffsmith, for those.
In another corner of this collage, I see Joyce soaked with sweat on our way to Cape Cod when the Volkswagon bus breaks down. Out of nowhere her washcloths on ice appear. Joyce knows how to prepare for any trip! In another picture from Cape Cod, which occurs after five straight days of Joyce telling us to put our dirty clothes away, she has draped the family’s unwashed laundry all over the house in protest. We are mortified when our friends see this mess. My father has to agree it is the best method for us to finally put our dirty clothes in the hamper.
At the Cape on North Beach, I see Joyce in another collage photo. She’s getting up on her feet after a huge wave has crashed on her and dragged her across broken shells and rocks. Her belly is bleeding.
Joyce is brave in the photos. In another picture, she is teaching me how to sled the hard way—by starting the sled from the steep incline below Aunt Mary’s house and just pointing it downhill—this is how you learn to steer away from a tree in your path in the split second you have left. But in that picture, she is behind me in the sled all along, holding me, and she wouldn’t have let me crash. Joyce even taught me to drive by sitting me on her lap and letting me steer her car. I was eight.
Not all of the pictures are happy. But they are filled with Joyce’s love. In one picture, I am hospitalized at the age of seven because of a mysterious virus that makes me vomit anything I try to hold down, even water. But Joyce is there at my bedside—in a chair with a footrest the nurses brought so she could stay in the hospital overnight. Other family who should probably be there haven’t come. But she is there constantly, “just being there” for me. It is the year my parents divorce, a very dark year but for Joyce’s presence.
I think of what collages do—how they tell you a story of who you are by emphasizing bits and pieces that no one else might see. When others tell me, “Tracy, stop squeaking!” because of my high-pitched voice as a little girl, Joyce says, “People need to listen to you. You know how to speak your mind.”
The story that my imaginary “Joyce collage” tells about me—and about all of us—is not the story that the broken persons in our lives would tell about us. It is filled with love (and sometimes tough love) that will never fade through time. Joyce said about herself, “She loved making collages that she knew would make friends happy to remember many good times and memories.” Remember the good times and memories. And remember the loving story behind these pictures, where Joyce tells us who we really are.

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