Cover photo for Jean Lee's Obituary
Jean Lee Profile Photo
In Memory Of
Jean Lee
1943 2020

Jean Lee

October 26, 1943 — October 3, 2020

Jean Lee, 76, of Louisville, Kentucky, completed her life's journey on Saturday, October 3, 2020.

She was born on October 26, 1943 in Pensacola, Florida to the late Anthony and Daisy Sesco. She is preceded in death by her parents and her brother, Joseph Sesco.

Jean is survived by her loving husband of 45 years, Jack Lee of Louisville; daughter, Elizabeth R. Lee; son, Anthony Scott Merritt (Cheryl) of Albany, GA; brother, Jerry Sesco (Chris Pytel) of San Antonio, TX; sister-in-law Johnnie Sesco of Eatonton, GA; grandchildren, Heather Merritt, Brandon Merritt, and Daisy Colato; and stepdaughter, Marcia Hendrix.

Jean had a passion for gardening; she especially enjoyed sharing pictures of her flowers with friends and family and delighted in reading their comments. She also had a love of animals and adored her three cats.

In honoring Jean's wishes, no formal services will be held.

The family requests that contributions in Jean's memory be made to the Kentucky Humane Society's S.N.I.P. Clinic at 4918 Preston Highway, Louisville KY 40213 or by visiting https://www.kyhumane.org/ways-to-give/donate .

Her daughter Elizabeth wanted to share a poem she wrote about her many years ago as she observed her tending to her flowers on a hot May afternoon in Georgia.

A Moment in the Garden

My mother crouches over the stubborn ground
Once red clay, but now acceptable topsoil
Due to much coaxing on her part.
She is weeding her daylily bed.

With sweat beading up on her sunspeckled back,
Her fingers penetrate the soil like a
Child grasping and mixing gooey cookie dough with bare hands.
The cat slides past her, his thirsty tail catching sweat as it brushes
her tanned arms;
He proceeds to file his nails on the inviting mimosa tree.
With a swift clap of the hands and a "Quit it!" she thwarts the
little criminal.
(This mimosa, now towering with pink feathery wisps over our roof,
was Only a stick when my mother planted it last spring.)

She rises, her sundress sticking here and there for a moment.
Her cinnamon skin tells of years of planting, weeding and digging
Under steadfast midday suns.

She leans over the hydrangea bush, her hands a nutty hue
Against the Powder-white glare of the blossoms.
Satisfied with its growth, she goes on to examine the others:
Irises, gladiolas, gardenias, azaleas, and all the necessary elements
Of her Georgia flower bed.

By midsummer this canvas of delicate pastel strokes
will acquiesce to a heavy, waxy green,
Pulling stout branches
and sagging limbs
Closer to the
Silent ground.

Wanting only a cool glass of water,
my mother walks back to the house
to escape the sun's sweaty fists,
While plump and fuzzy bees
hover around her garden
paradise.



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