J I M M Y
I have a photograph of Jim on my desk at work. It is a picture that I had taken circa 1971 and it shows Jim standing in the doorway of a boxcar, smoking a small cigar, his eyes focused distantly at the horizon where the fields of North Dakota meet the sky. Sometimes, when I look at it, it reminds me of another time and place.
“Tommy and Jimmy, it’s time to come in for supper.” “Jimmy and Tommy, it’s time to go to bed.” Tommy and Jimmy, Jimmy and Tommy. Our names were always merged into one. Our younger sister Rose said that she thought that we were one unit. And we were! We shared everything. We bunked together, we bathed together, we played together, we even received the same Christmas gifts. I was the third born, Jim was the fourth born; just a year and a half separated us. We weren’t twins, though some of the younger ones thought we were.
Our family of ten kids grew up in the little village of Lauderdale, Minnesota. It was actually a suburb adjoining both St Paul and Minneapolis. Our oldest brother, Dave, would lead us on safari’s through the fields and bushes behind our house. Dave knew so much about nature. He would show us birds nests, rabbit droppings, and pheasants that startled us when they suddenly flew up. He showed us small fish that grew on plants. (They were actually milkweed pods.)
Bill was the next older brother. He was big and strong and a rock for us who always gave us comfort when we needed it. He taught us how to make bows and arrows, slingshots, and dig deep holes in the ground for forts.
Jim’s and my summers were wonderful and lasted forever. We spent most of our time exploring nearby fields, the railroad tracks, the dumps, the huge gravel pit where we made landslides and found wildlife to be plentiful. Later on, we spent lots of our time in and around golf courses. It seems like we were always getting chased, whether it was by security guards, railroad workers, golf course workers and occasionally by town bullies.
One June morning when I was eleven and Jim was ten, we decided to start some charcoal on fire with gasoline on the driveway at our house. Well, one leg of my pants caught on fire. I hopped around, beating wildly at the flames. Jim somehow got me to roll on the ground which put out the fire pretty fast. I believe that his quick thinking saved me from a much more severe burn or possible death. He and brother Bill were heroes that day.
Jim loved to tease our sisters. They seemed to take it so good naturedly, I think because there was never any meanness involved. Anne, Rose, Barb, Mary and Patti all have their Jimmy stories that are just as significant as mine.
But we had wonderful childhoods, thanks to our great parents who allowed us that freedom.
When I got out of the service, I used to visit Jim at his off-campus digs near the University of Minnesota where he was a student. This is where he absolutely came into his own. He threw off many conventions to live a little more unconventionally and that suited his personality better. I noticed that he had gained a quiet gregariousness and an inquisitiveness and a resolute determination. These tools would prove to be important in his later scientific career. He seemed to have an eclectic group of friends. This is where he started playing guitar. He had a determination to learn it and learn it well.
He and I used to have long discussions on many varied subjects. We talked about Nietsche, Hegel and Rosseau. We discussed Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Goethe. We talked about Woody Guthrie, Cisco Houston and Dylan. We discussed fishing, canoeing, backpacking, and climbing. We talked about freight trains and hitchhiking.
The decade of the seventies, found us taking many trips out west. Our mode of travel was mostly the freight trains. We spent time in the Tetons, Yellowstone and Glacier. We followed the long Missouri, the quick Clark’s Fork and the mighty Columbia. We were on the wrong side of the tracks in such towns as Havre, Shelby, Dillon and Cut Bank. We traveled through the long, smoky tunnels in the Rockies and the Cascades. Jim really liked the freights.
I was his best man at his and Karen’s wedding. He was my best man at my wedding with my wife Carmita.
The eighties brought lots of Canadian canoe trips. Karen, Jim and I spent a lot of time paddling and portaging the watery wilderness maze of lakes and rivers in Ontario. Later trips included our brother Joe, a strong, strong paddler, my son Mario, a great navigator, and my wonderful wife, who brought a great cheerfulness to any trip.
I remember one two-week canoe trip with Jim and myself only. We covered lots of miles and pioneered new portages. When we would break for lunch, Jim would work on his equations. They were Greek to me. After supper, we would have a little whiskey with a splash of lake water. Jim called these martini’s. We would discuss the day’s travel and plan for the next day. Jim’s inquisitiveness would often bring up questions, for example, “Why are the waves behaving in such and such a way?” We usually figured something out.
In the eighties, we also took snowshoe and cross country ski trips into the boundary waters. His other passions included biking and whitewater canoeing competitions and instruction.
Jim was a deceptively strong performer in everything he did. He was a soft-spoken man with a delightful sense of humor. He was the humblest person that I ever knew.
Jim was a great family man who cherished his wife Karen. His two children, Duff and Aquene, meant the world to him.
Jim’s last act was entirely in his makeup. He saved his beloved Karen.
Here’s to you, Jim. We’ll meet on another trail someday.
My brother, my best friend. Our hero.
I have a photograph of Jim on my desk at work. It is a picture that I had taken circa 1971 and it shows Jim standing in the doorway of a boxcar, smoking a small cigar, his eyes focused distantly at the horizon where the fields of North Dakota meet the sky. Sometimes, when I look at it, it reminds me of another time and place.
“Tommy and Jimmy, it’s time to come in for supper.” “Jimmy and Tommy, it’s time to go to bed.” Tommy and Jimmy, Jimmy and Tommy. Our names were always merged into one. Our younger sister Rose said that she thought that we were one unit. And we were! We shared everything. We bunked together, we bathed together, we played together, we even received the same Christmas gifts. I was the third born, Jim was the fourth born; just a year and a half separated us. We weren’t twins, though some of the younger ones thought we were.
Our family of ten kids grew up in the little village of Lauderdale, Minnesota. It was actually a suburb adjoining both St Paul and Minneapolis. Our oldest brother, Dave, would lead us on safari’s through the fields and bushes behind our house. Dave knew so much about nature. He would show us birds nests, rabbit droppings, and pheasants that startled us when they suddenly flew up. He showed us small fish that grew on plants. (They were actually milkweed pods.)
Bill was the next older brother. He was big and strong and a rock for us who always gave us comfort when we needed it. He taught us how to make bows and arrows, slingshots, and dig deep holes in the ground for forts.
Jim’s and my summers were wonderful and lasted forever. We spent most of our time exploring nearby fields, the railroad tracks, the dumps, the huge gravel pit where we made landslides and found wildlife to be plentiful. Later on, we spent lots of our time in and around golf courses. It seems like we were always getting chased, whether it was by security guards, railroad workers, golf course workers and occasionally by town bullies.
One June morning when I was eleven and Jim was ten, we decided to start some charcoal on fire with gasoline on the driveway at our house. Well, one leg of my pants caught on fire. I hopped around, beating wildly at the flames. Jim somehow got me to roll on the ground which put out the fire pretty fast. I believe that his quick thinking saved me from a much more severe burn or possible death. He and brother Bill were heroes that day.
Jim loved to tease our sisters. They seemed to take it so good naturedly, I think because there was never any meanness involved. Anne, Rose, Barb, Mary and Patti all have their Jimmy stories that are just as significant as mine.
But we had wonderful childhoods, thanks to our great parents who allowed us that freedom.
When I got out of the service, I used to visit Jim at his off-campus digs near the University of Minnesota where he was a student. This is where he absolutely came into his own. He threw off many conventions to live a little more unconventionally and that suited his personality better. I noticed that he had gained a quiet gregariousness and an inquisitiveness and a resolute determination. These tools would prove to be important in his later scientific career. He seemed to have an eclectic group of friends. This is where he started playing guitar. He had a determination to learn it and learn it well.
He and I used to have long discussions on many varied subjects. We talked about Nietsche, Hegel and Rosseau. We discussed Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Goethe. We talked about Woody Guthrie, Cisco Houston and Dylan. We discussed fishing, canoeing, backpacking, and climbing. We talked about freight trains and hitchhiking.
The decade of the seventies, found us taking many trips out west. Our mode of travel was mostly the freight trains. We spent time in the Tetons, Yellowstone and Glacier. We followed the long Missouri, the quick Clark’s Fork and the mighty Columbia. We were on the wrong side of the tracks in such towns as Havre, Shelby, Dillon and Cut Bank. We traveled through the long, smoky tunnels in the Rockies and the Cascades. Jim really liked the freights.
I was his best man at his and Karen’s wedding. He was my best man at my wedding with my wife Carmita.
The eighties brought lots of Canadian canoe trips. Karen, Jim and I spent a lot of time paddling and portaging the watery wilderness maze of lakes and rivers in Ontario. Later trips included our brother Joe, a strong, strong paddler, my son Mario, a great navigator, and my wonderful wife, who brought a great cheerfulness to any trip.
I remember one two-week canoe trip with Jim and myself only. We covered lots of miles and pioneered new portages. When we would break for lunch, Jim would work on his equations. They were Greek to me. After supper, we would have a little whiskey with a splash of lake water. Jim called these martini’s. We would discuss the day’s travel and plan for the next day. Jim’s inquisitiveness would often bring up questions, for example, “Why are the waves behaving in such and such a way?” We usually figured something out.
In the eighties, we also took snowshoe and cross country ski trips into the boundary waters. His other passions included biking and whitewater canoeing competitions and instruction.
Jim was a deceptively strong performer in everything he did. He was a soft-spoken man with a delightful sense of humor. He was the humblest person that I ever knew.
Jim was a great family man who cherished his wife Karen. His two children, Duff and Aquene, meant the world to him.
Jim’s last act was entirely in his makeup. He saved his beloved Karen.
Here’s to you, Jim. We’ll meet on another trail someday.
My brother, my best friend. Our hero.
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