He took responsibility

Brian Jarboe was buried Friday in a simple wooden coffin. Its only decoration was a cross. The priest shook holy water across the top, where the drops stood out clearly on the wood.

Many people attended the funeral at a Catholic church down the street from Brian’s house—people representing his various worlds. His wife Caroline and their children, Alex and Anna Maria. His parents who lived to bury him just short of his fifty-fifth birthday, and other members of his family. Friends and neighbors in Cheverly, Md. People who knew and loved his skill as a musician. Also his colleagues from NPR, where he had been technical director for programs including Morning Edition. Two NPR hosts, Michel Martin and Scott Simon, took part in the service.

Many times over the years, Brian and I shared ridiculously early hours while producing NPR’s leading program from its headquarters in Washington, DC. I’d sit behind a microphone on one side of a window. He’d sit on the other side at a control board, monitoring my voice and every other sound we played from around the world. If the sound was less than perfect he would apply his skill to equalize or improve it. If something went wrong in the live program he would instantly adjust. He had to meet an exacting standard, playing sound so subtle and evocative that it could transport listeners to another place, but that also could be heard clearly inside a noisy car.

Millions of people heard his work on NPR for decades, though they only occasionally would have heard his name, as when he filed this beautiful story. He did his job so seamlessly that I’m sure most listeners were not conscious of his existence.

I don’t mean to give you a full account of Brian’s life; an obituary is here. But during the service, the priest said something striking enough that I pulled out a notebook and wrote down the quote. “Brian was a just man,” the priest said, and gave a definition of people who are just: “They understand they have a responsibility to everyone they encounter.”

This captured him well. Brian took responsibility. He took his job seriously. If anything went wrong on the air he felt terrible, even when it was something so slight that listeners would not notice. A true error almost never happened on his watch. He was on top of things, always attentive. Often he’d save me from some mistake. He was one of those people in life—I have had many, and I hope you have—who think about you and look after you, even when you don’t realize it until later.

We worked in tandem, each on our side of the glass. Sometimes I could press a button to talk with him, and he could talk in my ear; other times we’d communicate with a gesture or a glance. I recall one interview in particular. A political spokesman called in. He wasn’t answering the question and also wouldn’t stop talking. Several times I tried to break in, and he kept going. Finally I signaled to Brian, holdng out my left hand, palm up. Then I turned the palm down. Brian understood: He lowered the guest’s volume and I was able to get the conversation back on track.

In 2023 Brian suffered a spinal injury and other crises that, with shocking abruptness, left him unable to walk and in doubt about his future. One day he was a healthy man and the next day he wasn’t, forever. Then he kept suffering more crises. Things never really stabilized. He kept going in and out of hospitals, in and out of surgery, in and out of rehab and then back to the ER. Month after month, year after year.

His family installed a ramp and made other changes to their house to accommodate a person in a wheelchair. Friends and colleagues provided constant support. They started a GoFundMe to help with expenses, and even staged a benefit concert. For a time he hoped to return to work, but that wasn’t possible; he finally retired from NPR, though his colleagues, especially his fellow engineers, kept in close touch. At the funeral I learned that even newly hired engineers who had never worked with him would go to pay their respects.

Several times I visited Brian, or tried. More than once I would schedule a time to come to the house, only to learn he had gone back into the hospital. It’s hard to grasp how he and his family could have endured so many setbacks. Once I went to the hospital to find him asleep, so I sat silently with him for an hour.

Another time we had a long talk. He was thinking about whether they should amuptate his useless legs. That was how little hope he had of ever getting better. Though his hands worked, he struggled to focus enough to play his guitar or other instruments that once had brought him such pleasure. But he wanted to go on. He told me he had things to do. His children needed a father and he wanted to be a good one. He felt a responsibility to every person he encountered.

After the funeral, Brian was buried at Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington. The funeral procession brought his body across town from the church, but the priest took a wrong turn on the way and was delayed. We stood around the wooden coffin at the gravesite, silently waiting. In radio, this is what’s known as dead air, and broadcasters consider dead air intolerable.

And then Brian’s son Alex stepped in. He’s in his early twenties, and without any preparation he explained the delay and filled some of the time with simple and gracious remarks about his father and the people who had come to remember him. He took responsibility. He did it perfectly. Soon after that the priest arrived, and we said our last goodbyes.