Tonight that unique spark which had inner-lighted Jim Brogdon for almost 67 years flickered and died.
I received the message from Jim's wife and daughter earlier this week that Jim had gone onto home-hospice...finally accepting outside assistance from a visiting nurse. He was in a hospital bed, taking oxygen for comfort, and to elevate his blood-oxygen level, which was perilously low. He was no longer able to talk on the phone...his voice a bare whisper, his hand unable to hold the phone, and crushing fatigue enveloped him at slightest effort. He was pulling back against the forward tug of Eternity, and was losing the tug-of-war.
Michael, his Son and oldest child, called me shortly after 9 p.m., leaving a voice-mail which I retrieved just before 11 p.m., as I drove to collect my granddaughters from their high school dance. That message and the ensuing conversation, have stirred memories and half-memories which I'll try to share here.
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I met Jim the first time in church...at least that's what he told me, and given his remarkable ability to accurately account for our history together, I'll accept his version. However, my own first clear memory of Jim was of him sitting on his scooter, I think a Cushman Eagle, wearing Levi's and a white t-shirt which contrasted starkly with his red-hair, and his tanned and ruddy complexion. It was early autumn of 1958 in Tucson, about this time in October, and the day was sunny and warm as it nearly always is in October. He was in my part of town to meet a mutual friend and his future brother-in-law, Billy Brown, who lived a block or two from the trailer court my parents and I were in.
I don't remember our words at the time. I do know that Jim was always direct, which sometimes made me "squirm" because he would move to the heart of a matter too quickly, before I had processed my position...before I even knew how I felt, or if I felt, or had any inkling about what I felt. I needed to hedge my bets rather than jumping right in. This honest, soft-spoken abruptness endured throughout his life; not that he was always right, or accurate, or rational, but he reasoned, agreed, disagreed right out in the open. Though I never heard him use the word "bullshit" he had a subtle way of calling "bullshit" that let me know my ruse or unprepared answer was discovered.
I had attended the 6th and 7th grades in Burns, Oregon and started the 8th grade in September 1958, believing that I would likely be there until I was on my own; truth be told, at that time there was no place I would have rather been than Burns. The dusty little throw-back of a town had become the center of my universe, which was comprised of friends, spending time outdoors just rambling through sage-brush and rim-rocks, and hunting for specific game in season, and of course, impatiently enduring school and church activities. Like all of the "goods" of life my time in Burns ended.
On a bleak morning, just after daybreak, in early October 1958 we left. I can remember feeling that a life worth living had just ended. As our over-loaded 1948 GMC pickup truck labored out of the valley, leaving Burns and Hines behind, I had no reason to believe anything worthwhile would happen to me in Arizona, and I had no inkling that I would meet anyone who would become a life-long friend and brother. But, here was a boy, a bit younger than me, who was to become closer than a brother though the friendship would never become cloying.
Jim sat back easily on his scooter, shut off the engine, and smiling in that direct, all eye-contact way that he had throughout his life, extended his hand and re-introduced himself. We had met in a Sunday School class for young teens perhaps the prior Sunday. I remember being somewhat surprised that he would recognize me outside the church setting, or bother to hunt me down...any kid who rode a scooter was obviously "rich" and had all the choices. I, by comparison, always felt somewhat invisible, like I was there to observe but could easily slip by unseen. I had a career by then of being the new kid, and started every relationship with every new town and its people "knowing" that it and they, were temporary. My role in the scheme of things, I imagined, was to be the outsider and observer, engaged enough to get along with the natives, but then move along without any strings of remorse when it came time. I had relaxed this view during my two-plus year stay in Burns and had paid the price. With that start...the extended hand and direct manner, Jim and I became friends, compadres, partners, and eventually "brothers"...separated only by our attendance at different schools.
My parents loved Jim! They were usually not enamored of my choice of friends, so I think they almost went "overboard" to assure that they did not get in the way of my friendship with Jim. He was courteous and respectful of adults, he was clean living (no smoking, no alcohol, no drugs, no foul language) and he relieved them of some of my transportation needs later on when he began driving a car. As I remember, passengers were not allowed on his Cushman, either by family or municipal decree, I can't remember which. The Cushman, however, was followed by a succession of cars, which Jim worked to pay for, worked on to make them street-legal, serviced, and improved so that we never lacked adequate wheels. In addition to Jim's car, we "tooled" around frequently with Paul Brown in his 1955 Chevy, or with Jim Beaman in his old Mercedes funeral car -- and, when we wanted to impress the chicks, we sometimes used my dad's '48 GMC pickup truck with the red wooden "sheep-rack" on its oxidized bed.
I think it would be difficult to find two boys, or families more "demographically" different. Our families and backgrounds were entirely at odds. Jim's dad was a Master's Degree-level headmaster of a private school for primarily wealthy kids -- my Dad had an 8th grade education, was a house-painter, and sometime pastor/missionary. Jim's mother was a "home-maker" and logistically supported her husband, two daughters and Jim. My mother cleaned the houses of wealthy families, receiving an hourly wage, and sometimes a jar of borscht for her efforts, and did all the home-maker stuff as well. His family was from East Texas, Beaumont I believe. My parents were from the mid-west, southern Missouri and southern Illinois, "Hill-Billy" country. His family lived in a 3-bedroom house in the suburbs of Tucson, well beyond the racial mix, and police interventions of my neighborhood near downtown, and the Southern Pacific railroad tracks. We lived in a four-room (counting the kitchen and bathroom) duplex, likely less than 500 square feet in all, where I slept on the living-room couch. Jim was an above average, fairly well-behaved student, a disciplined and motivated athlete, a courteous and non-rebellious youth. I was...well...not athletic, not a good or even close to an average student, who rebelled against all guidance, and was prone to scamming well-intentioned adults, often just for the sheer entertainment value.
Still Jim seem to truly enjoy his forays into my world and my house, where he would converse with my parents, and we could listen to Dave Brubeck or Miles Davis LPs on an old console stereo without interrupting any one's TV watching, since we had no TV in my home. If our music and adolescence became annoying, my parents would gracefully vanish to the bedroom at the back of the house, and close one of the only two doors in the house, leaving us the front-room and kitchen.
My neighborhood was the frequent scene of street violence, some of which I perpetrated. There was police activity, and vandalism of all sorts, a behavior I never took up and never understood why anyone would; it was unusual for Jim and I to be out and about and not be stopped by police for a "field interview" which was a euphemism for "harassment without probable cause" which by the way, I fully endorsed then and now. Only a thin strip of undeveloped desert and a huge rail-yard separated my neighborhood from the streets of downtown Tucson. The neighborhood was a mixture of mostly Mexican families, a few hold-out retirees who perhaps believed the neighborhood would "turn" back to its White roots, and some young couples from Davis Monthan AFB, enjoying the cheap, off-base rent, at the expense of their personal and property safety.
On weekend nights, across the rail yards, the visceral core of Tucson beckoned us with its neon lights, smells and sounds, risky street-life, authentic Mexican food, and prostitutes baiting and cooing to us, "C'mon over heah white-boys...you White-boys wanna have a good time?" or sometimes they were fighting tooth and nail over control of a prime corner on which to strut their wares. The Greyhound bus station off West Congress St. was a prime spot for people-watching, in particular if the people you wanted to watch were the denizens of the night...the thin layer of sediment just above the scum of society...or those possessed by "demons" which required half a jar of sugar in a cup of coffee while weathering the gap between heroin hits. This part of Tucson hustled and bustled with noise, risk, and frequently illegal activity and attracted us boys as though we were large desert bugs attracted to a street-light, though we were voyeurs of its delights.
Sundays, however, we were transformed into teenaged worshippers with two stints in church, dressed in our best, and resplendent in our pretenses, working hard to fit right in with the Saints, while still feigning enough boredom and rebellion to not lose credibility with our peers...we dutifully attended the First Assembly of God Church of Tucson. Because my Dad functioned as an informal assistant pastor to the Reverend Gilmore, it seemed we were always early. I would hang out on the corner of Broadway and Martin waiting nervously for that particular gun-metal gray Plymouth station-wagon to appear from the East on Broadway, turn the corner and park on Martin, delivering the Brogdons to church, and delivering me from an otherwise unbearable and boring service. Jim's dad would smile and greet me in his low-key fashion, a smile with eye-brows raised; Jim's mother, who seemed somewhat demur and reserved, a bit fussy, would acknowledge me, usually with a sideways once over, while his two sisters pushed by seeming, wisely seeming to ignore me entirely.
Once in church Jim and I shared a Sunday School class for young teens, after which we were dumped out into the general morning "worship" service where we established our turf at center-rear of the auditorium with the other "young warriors", giving us a panoramic view of the other worshippers, in particular the girls and young married women, but which also placed us far enough back that whispered comments and light-laughter might not be detected from the pulpit; detection from the pulpit could result in sanctions as light as a pause and direct glance, or a general reprimand, "You boys settle down back there!", or a very specific ejection by name, from the service. Personal ejections from service were always followed by additional physical and psychological home-punishment, at least that was so in my case.
I don't recall Jim ever being ejected from a church service, though I do remember his quick wit being the cause of several general reprimands, and resulted in my own ejection more than once. Evening "testimony" services so-called, were particularly perilous given the impromptu thanks of meek individuals, unaccustomed to speaking publicly. One elderly woman declared that she had "...been at death's door, but Jesus pulled me through..." to which Jim injected, "Well what's she doing here?" resulting in raucous laughter and my expulsion from the service. No adult would have even thought to blame Jim for the ruckus in the pews, just as they could never consider that I might not be the cause.
Sunday afternoons were almost exclusively dedicated to family, made bearable by the fact that we knew we'd be going to Sunday night service, and unless there was an unusual outpouring of guilt and repentance at the alter, we'd be going out on the town after Sunday evening worship, particularly if it was a warm, summer Sunday night in Tucson. The Sunday night forays to a late meal or soda were "co-ed" though not coupled. Yes there were attractions within the group, particularly at the older end of the age spectrum, but there was not any serious coupling during that Sunday after service time. Every young male in church was 'attracted' to Cheri (pronounced "Cherry") Beck...reason being she was attractive...though not available, flirtatious, or slutty...she was feminine but could still "fit in" with the guys, and was just physically and intellectually attractive...plus her parents were "cool." "Birdie" (Roberta Hamilton) also known as "Puddles" was attractive, though in a somewhat frenetic, "Tom Boy" way, and kind of all over the map emotionally. Rosemary Migliore was the older, simmering Italian-Mediterranean beauty, whose parents owned a tourist motel on the Miracle Mile. Rosemary was out of our reach due to age as well as "class" -- at least so we imagined; but, more than that, she was not admired by Jim because he felt her to be "manipulative" with her looks; while I agreed with him that his assessment was probably true, I truly didn't understand why he would take issue with her using her assets. And, there were others whose names have now leaked from my memory into oblivion. The boys were me, Jim Brogdon, and Paul Brown, who was at the older end of the set, and (I want to say) "Jim" Woolsley. Billy Brown was a bit young to run with us, and even when we tried to include him I think his parents, in particular his mother, may have quashed the invitations, unless the following Monday was not a school day.
The entourage would load up into cars, and arrive en masse at a predetermined destination, usually a drive-in or low-end, family-style restaurant, and noisily invade the quiet Sunday night business, by moving tables and chairs, and requesting separate checks. If there were any active romantic attractions it was discernible only by whose meal or drinks got paid by whom, or which girl got dropped off at home last, by which male driver. Some of the routes taken to pull off this result were so obvious and laughable that the "couple" was often noisily derided whether or not anything might be going on. The point is, the activities were innocent enough, even though the intentions of the heart might be less than platonic.
On one such occasion a new girl in church, who Jim immediately dubbed "The Amazon" due to her height, apparent stealthy "hunger" and other burgeoning "assets", ended up being taken home last by me...a result which was entirely by chance. She simply ended up in my car, with no other good choice available for delivering her home and I didn't feel I should just leave her on a corner. There was no touching, or any sort of innuendo on my part, however she made it clear in every subtle and unsubtle fashion that she would love to have me over for dinner, breakfast, or lunch. I had the distinct feeling that I would be the "main course."
This girl was "light-years" beyond me in her conscious desires and long-term goals, and, her attention felt dangerous and threatening to me because she was "a church girl" and whatever happened would be integrated into my church world, and as with all things, become public, and usually distorted, knowledge of all. To get her out of my vehicle that Sunday night, and make my escape, I promised her that I would come over to her house again, when I could come in and stay longer. That being said, and committed I was able to escape for the moment. As an aside, I must say that I was entirely afraid of her, and didn't even know for sure why! I just knew that she was dangerous to me, and my future...I knew that I never wanted to be left alone with her, and, as long as she went to "our" church I would be unable to escape her attention.
As soon as possible I talked with Jim and told him he had to help me. He of course had way too much fun with the event, pretending to not understand why I was so intimidated. He kept asking specifics, like "Well, what exactly did she say? What exactly did she do?" which I would answer, and he would respond, "Well that doesn't seem threatening to me...I think she just wants to be friends!" All the time, he was grinning and his eyes were twinkling, characteristics he shared with his father, which were the true signs that he was having entirely too much fun at my expense.
In any case, like the good friend he was, when I next went to her house he went with me. The house was entirely void of other family, and she was dressed in a fashion that for the time would have been unsuitable for church or school. She was not happy to see Jim, and the evening did not last long before her frustration, and the awkwardness of the triad brought the event to a close. I admit I was somewhat disappointed that she gave up so easily...it seemed like she would have fought harder for such a prize as me! She may have appeared at our church a time or two after that, but apparently left for a better hunting-ground.
As recently as last year at Jim's 65th birthday party, he bragged to others that he had once upon a time saved his best friend Bill from being kidnapped by The Amazon, and suffering a fate of who knows what, but undoubtedly a fate worse than death!
In all, I went to portions of 4 school-years in Tucson, starting with the 8th Grade in 1958 and 1959; I attended all of my Freshman high school year in Santa Barbara, but again returned to Tucson High School for most of my Sophomore, Junior and Senior years. Tucson had become the jumping off point for my Dad's treks into Mexico to save the Indians, which is a whole different though related story. I left Tucson the day after my high school graduation day, and a night spent with my friend Jim and other church friends at a "progressive dinner."
At about 7 a.m. on June 3rd in 1962 my parents and I drove the 1948 3/4 ton GMC pickup and a 1951 Plymouth sedan North out of Tucson, on our way to Tacoma, Washington. The high school church-sponsored graduation party had ended the night before at about midnight at Rosemary Migliore's house, with swimming in her Dad's tourist motel pool (most, if not all of the tourists were well-gone from Tucson by June). I went home knowing I could stay in Tucson if I chose. I was 18 years old; I had enough cash to last awhile, and employment was very easy at the time...but I didn't have the 'nads' to make the break at that time.
My lack of forethought had resulted in a graduation day with no plans for the day after and beyond. Going with my parents was emotionally the easiest choice, though this choice resulted in leaving Tucson behind. I must say, when I was younger, I always intended to "loop back" and rejoin the ride where I had left it. This was true of Burns, Santa Barbara, and of Tucson; but, I never did loop back and rejoin the ride in any of those places, though I revisited all of the places and people several times after leaving. Someone said something like, "You can never go home again" and this was true of all my beloved towns and friendships.
Jim and I would meet again in Tucson in November 1963 after I hitched in from the USS Ashtabula in Long Beach. As chance would have it I arrived on Sunday of the week that Kennedy would be killed in Dallas. We would meet thereafter, halfway across the globe, in the Philippines where Jim was stationed at the U.S. Navy Air station Cubi Point, overlooking Subic Bay where my ships frequently visited. We would have dinner in Olongapo Village, a cesspool of a city of the kind that can only exist at the gates of a major military-base…imagine Tijuana on steroids. The cities "commerce" was designed to serve the mostly illicit needs of the U.S. military. The village was burgeoning with bars, restaurants, night clubs, brothels and street denizens...Bennie-Boys trying to pass themselves off as "girls" to the drunken Marines and Sailors, as well as, well-qualified, professional substitutes, true females who for a while and a sum, would pretend to listen and care. I sometimes felt bad for the plight of the citizens of Olongapo, but in truth I felt more disappointment and sorrow for those in uniform who believed they needed their comfort. When Jim and I went ashore together we sampled only the foods of Olongapo City, though he knew that I had a different relationship to the town when he wasn't present. The final time that I came into Subic Bay, in August 1966, it was to catch my "ride" home from Hickam AFB and be separated out of the Navy. Jim had long before ended his Active duty and headed home.
In the Summer of 1967, a year after I had left the Navy, Jim came up from Tucson to Tacoma to work; he was seeking physical work, but preferred to perform that work in the cool summer of the Northwest. He and I shared an apartment for that Summer, in the complex across the street from the apartment complex where Jennifer and I would, in less than a year, begin our life together as a married-pair. By the time Jim left to go back to the desert in late August, I was "smitten" beyond repair or reversal with Jennifer Carmichael. I had told Jim with great certainty when we first saw Jennifer in Sunday morning church, that "...this was the woman I would marry..." Jim believed I was certain, but had less confidence in my abilities to make it so. That is another story, but it all worked out as planned, in a very general way which is the way most plans work out if they work at all.
After both Jim and I married and had children we would meet again when Jim, Sandy and Michael moved to Renton, Washington for a brief while. I can't remember if Michelle was an infant by then, or not yet born. In any case, Bill and Bev Brown (Jim's sister) had transferred up to Seattle with his company, and Jim and Sandy soon followed, with Jim working as a heavy-equipment mechanic (I believe) at the same semi-trailer sales company as Bill Brown. The gray, wet, unrelenting rain and short, cool summer drove Jim and Sandy out of Washington and back to the desert soon after they moved up...and we were not to see each other again until 2002 when I went to Tucson for my 40th High School reunion. By the time I headed down to Tucson, I was aware that Jim had been "sick" for some time. I had spoken to Cheri Beck and Jim Beaman, telling them I'd be down, and hoping we could all get together. They mentioned Jim's "condition" but I was unprepared for what I found when I arrived.
I checked into the hotel where the reunion was to be centered, on South Alvernon way, coincidentally less than two miles from Jim and Sandy's residence, which they shared with their children Michael and Michelle. I had purposely missed the trip to reunion trip to Tucson High School and other "memory lane" activities, content with showing up on the second night, for cocktails and dinner only, and meeting my old school-mates in an escapable setting. More on that perhaps sometime in the future, but for now suffice it to say that I found that the mutual interest and curiosity shared by me and the group was every bit as underwhelming as when I attended school; the same old "clicks" convened and cloyed, to the exclusion of all others, and the same old onlookers hung out in singlets looking on at the clicks, and wishing they were members of the exclusive clubs so they could exclude people like themselves. The food was predictable hotel fare, rubber-chicken, roast beef, and Talapia, and since I don't drink alcohol, I was out of there in plenty of time after the alcohol raised the decibel levels, to go back to Jim's house nearby.
When I first saw Jim in 2002 I have to admit that I was stunned! It's always shocking enough to have to fast-forward one's images and expectations due to aging alone...it had been almost 3 decades since I had seen Jim and Sandy...but, aging alone couldn't account for the physical changes. Jim's progressive disease (body inclusion myocitis or in simplified form, Muscular Dystrophy) had shrunk him, his muscles "jellified" and taken him off his feet; he lived his life sitting in a chair or lying down. He could in 2002 still stand for a brief while, but barely, and could not navigate the transition from bathtub to floor, or walk even one step on the flat floor.
In 2002 he could still hold a fork or spoon and feed himself, and I believe he could get a small light-weight container to his mouth to drink fluids. The strong, fast, limber athletic man was gone. But, the strong, quick, nimble mind and humor were even more present...if anything, the "unphysical" identity that was Jim had been magnified by time and disability. And, at least in my presence, there was no self-pity, and his family did not carefully avoid the "500 pound gorilla" of disability in the room.
While I was there, part of the old "60's gang" -- Jim Beaman and his wife Jan, and Cheri Beck and her then current husband, came over. Of course the spouses had to endure stories, events and times that they weren't part of and couldn't share in, but they seemed to know to stay out of it, and not try to add anything.
I left Tucson, knowing that I would be back to visit Jim again, though I had no distinct plans. As chance would have it, I saw Jim two more times before he died, the last time being at his 65th birthday party where family and "the ol' 60's gang" again put in an appearance. It was April 4, 2009 and this time Jim was entirely disabled. He could sit, once stabilized and "tied" into his wheel chair, and he could lay in bed, but all other activities had to be assisted...including scratching an itch on his face, or moving a fork to his mouth. The bites he was fed were necessarily small, and he chew long and well lest he choke on the small amount of food, or even liquid. The disease was moving from his extremities to the small muscles of his throat and chest.
When I said good-bye to Jim that weekend, I believed I was saying good-bye to his face forever, and as it occurred that was so. Seeing him as he was, I was surprised that he had survived that long, and I was overjoyed that his mind, humor, memory, and speaking ability were still intact. I decided that I wanted that to be my last up-close-and-personal contact with Jim...while his identity was at its peak. I bent over his chair, and hugged him a longer while than the brief "man hug" that usually occurs, walked out of his house, and drove back to the hotel for the last time before flying home. I cried silently the entire 30 minute drive to my hotel. That was the night I "lost" Jim, or so I thought at the time.
We spoke frequently by telephone over the next months, and year, but it was never the same again for me. Each conversation was a reminder of the impending...and in each conversation Jim was straining more and more to be present, and laboring for his voice to be heard...though his thoughts were clear. The second to the last time he and I spoke, his voice gave away his downward slide...it was weak, higher in tone, hollow and halting. There were no flowing sentences or burgeoning thoughts...and I knew then that these short phone conversations were costing him dearly in effort and fatigue...it was almost time to let him go.
We spoke briefly one more time, and ended that short call by telling each other of our love for the other, and then finished with the "patented" parting that we had heard from Goldie...my mother, so many times, and so many years before: "Good bye Bud...I'll see ya, when I see ya!"
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