Refrains
The house is quiet, night has settled in and I’m back in South Haven chillin’ in Jimmy’s easy chair as he sits at his computer and plays songs I request. In his retirement, Jim has digitized his past – from old albums to black and white family photos and far beyond. We’re listening to Kris Kristofferson’s version of “Loving Her Was Easier(Than Anything I’ll Ever Do)”
Dressed in dark slacks, and a long-sleeved blue knit shirt with matching suspenders, Jim searches his song files as I ask,
“Jim, I suppose you had tomatoes by the fourth of July?â€
“It was a dry summer, but yes, there were tomatoes.â€
“You can’t imagine how many people I brag to about your early tomatoes.â€
Laughter
“I’ll wait for the right moment. Someone will complain about our short season, or they’ll come from a more southern state and announce how they used to eat them by sometime in July. I then drop the bomb. ‘My brother-in-law’s in Minnesota are ripe by the fourth.’ “
More laughter.
“But you know what? No one is as impressed as I am. Maybe it’s because I gardened for so many years, maybe because I love tomatoes so much. I don’t know.â€
“You’ve seen my mulch piles. You know I get started early. When we moved from Columbia Heights, I was worried about how much sun they would get down by the lake.â€
Kris’s voice trails off and I ask for another song,
“How about Willie Nelson’s ‘You’re always On My Mind,’ or ‘Always On My Mind,’ or ‘I Don’t Have a Mind?’ It’s one of those. “ Again, not an iTunes download, but another song from his album collection.
“You know, Jimmy, another thing that keeps rattling around in my brain? Remember when you told me the one person you’d like to talk to, if you could bring anyone back, was your father?â€
“I didn’t know him very well, and now that I’ve been working on my family tree, there are so many questions I’d like to ask him. I know more about the Gansers, on my mother’s side, than the Stochls.â€
This week, I relived our family visit two summers ago to Torroemore, Susan and Jim Stochl’s property in Minnesota. I’ve done it often since our visit. Usually I leave out the conversation and simply settle into Jimmy’s brown leather chair waiting for him to queue another song.
I’ve found myself adding bits to what we used to talk about and finishing some of the sentences. Because these dialogues now exist only in my head, they feel like cold, dry echoes. But they’re really unfinished conversations given birth by death.
My sister-in-law, Susan, called last Saturday morning to tell us, “Jimmy died,†that he awoke at 2 AM feeling sick and was gone minutes later in spite of her cries, “I love you, please don’t die on me,†and the paramedics’ best attempts.
I can’t speak for Susan, I’ve probably said more than I should, but I know how I feel. My daily tasks are littered with short conversations with Jim, or, like the one above, entire vignettes assembled from the past and added to by the longing of the present.
When I convert a taped recording of “This American Life” to a CD burned on my computer, I listen to his instructions. When I move a stone, I see Jimmy’s latest terracing project. When I’m cutting through an electrical line, I hear his cautions. When I look at Matthew, I feel not only my love, but his love and admiration.
When I think of that summer, I want one more song.
Jimmy was shinydome on the blog
I meant to repost these photos yesterday.
Two of my favorites.
Emma and Jimmy
Matt and Jimmy
So sad.
Very nice to get my first look at the relationship you two had.
I remember him, in your kitchen.
More vivdly I remember him deciding not to travel anymore. I thought that was incredibly bold.
Comment by Ginger — September 11, 2005 @ 2:59 pm
Thank you, Mikey. Despite his repeated admonitions, “No viewing, no visitation, no service, no burial, no fuss,” I think that he would be quite pleased to have his death marked by you in this way.
And thank you, too, for replacing my “Damn it, Jimmy, don’t you dare die on me” with sometihing a little gentler. You got the “I love you” part exactly right.
Comment by FierceBaby — September 11, 2005 @ 3:09 pm
Diane told me last night, after she arrived back from Torroemore, what you said. It sure is a stomach knotter.
This may be most inappropriate, but given all the jokes he sent my way maybe not. I was looking back over our emails and I found one Jimmy and I exchanged. One of the few non-blond jokes. Here it is: “When I die, I want to go like my grandmother, who died peacefully in her sleep. Not screaming like all the passengers in her car.” It still makes me laugh, I wish…well, you know what I wish.
Comment by michael — September 11, 2005 @ 3:27 pm
For a wonderful Jim story on this blog…May 2004 ‘Tiger Hunt’. I love the joke you shared…very funny.
Comment by chris — September 11, 2005 @ 7:39 pm
I’m sure there’s a good reason Fierce Baby has that moniker, but I also associate the adjective with Jim (whom I knew better as shinydome, and whom I don’t believe I’ve ever met): fierce in intellect, fiercely principled, and if it’s not an oxymoron, fiercely compassionate. I’d forgotten the Tiger Hunt story (thanks, Chris), but it exemplifies all three qualites.
I’m sure Jim would accept this sendoff, this serial toasting by the blog readership, and he could ask no better chronicler than Michael (who’s done laudable double duty this week). To paraphrase the thrust of Hugh Robert Orr’s poem from Dan’s eulogy for his mother, Jim still burns fiercely in the hearts of those who knew him well.
Comment by adam — September 11, 2005 @ 8:28 pm
I never knew him except as shinydome, but your wonderful eulogy brings him to life again.
Comment by rakkity — September 11, 2005 @ 9:37 pm
Thanks, Michael. I really felt like I was in the room with the two of you. I hope you’ll keep those memories alive in your heart.
Comment by tricia — September 12, 2005 @ 8:54 am
Michael,
Thanks for the wonderful blog about my dad. I wish I could write like you do, there is a lot of feeling put into your words. I miss my dad already, it is sad knowing I will never speak to him again. It was always so nice to be able to bounce ideas to him about projects, he was so happy to help me make plans for my big garage project. Dad and I took a trip to Owatonna last year while he was working on his family tree. It was fun going back to the place he grew up, a place I spent much time during summers growing up, visiting my Great Aunt Dora. He told me the same thing about not knowing his Father well, or even his grandfather, and was sad about it. He told me during that visit that if there was anything I wanted to ask him, now would be a good time. Of course, I couldn’t think of anything to ask him, but now I am sure there will be questions that come up that I wish I had asked.
I was fortunate to visit dad in July, we had a nice time just hanging out together. The last few visits I had with dad were while Susan was back east with Patti, so it was just us. I always enjoy Susan’s company, how could you not? Susan had asked me to coordinate my visits at times she would be gone, that way dad had someone to talk to other than the dogs for two or three weeks. I was happy to help keep my dad company, and it was great to spend time with him.
Thanks again for sharing your thoughts about dad.
Dave
Comment by Dave — September 13, 2005 @ 9:25 am
David,
Your projects, which he was so proud of, were often shared with us. So many garage photos. And, do I remember a recent picture of you practicing some kind of aerial assault on fires? The photo could have been titled, “Able to Leap Tall Buildings,” because who else besides our fathers see us a more than mere mortals? How does one articulate that kind of loss?
I was thinking the other day about a parenting issue I related to your dad. I’d waffled a bit and given my good son too much control of a certain situation. The answer was obvious to him and once verbalized, to me. Over the phone line, I could see that smile of his and feel the gentle wrap of his knuckles on my noggin’, as if to say, “Anyone home?”
Michael
Comment by michael — September 14, 2005 @ 10:09 am
Moments like these remind us how precious life is. We walk though every day thinking that nothing extremely bad can happen and when it does we always say that’s not supposed to happen to this family. But what we can take from things like this and New Orleans is that life is a gift and sometimes that gift can be stolen from the best people. I stayed with jim when i was in 5th grade with matt. He was a very welcoming man to his home, and taught me a little bit of welcome can make a person feel much more comfortable in a strange place. and for that i am grateful
R.I.P.
Comment by Goose — September 14, 2005 @ 5:21 pm
Thanks for your kind words, Goose. Initially, Jim welcomed you to Torroemore because you were Matt’s friend. It took only a few moments for him to know that he was glad you were a guest in his home because you were a good guy, Matt’s friend or not.
Comment by FierceBaby — September 14, 2005 @ 6:55 pm
Went searching the blog to broaden my perspective on Shinydome beyond the dusty memories of the shy, balding, intelligent guy that came with Susan for Christmases at Mike and Di’s in years past.
Besides his recent Victory Gargen, and great photos of Uncle Jimmy with niece Kate and nephew Matt, found three I’d missed:
Awesome 360 view of his world in Family
His gentle side depicted in Tigerhunt
And does this Wizard of Id echo Jimmy’s belief?
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