Just Jim

The ending ceremony, photo by Stephen Mease, officiant June Erikson-Bond

Most of this year has been in isolation due to Covid. Most of this year has been in the darkest corners of grief. Folks who could, pulled me up, but there was and still is so much that my poor traumatized brain is sorting out. Like the biggest questions—how could Jim be gone? Why is Jim gone? Is there something after this? Where did he go too? Will I see him ever again? What do I do now that my entire life has been up ended? Where does love go? How does life continue?

First riders, the 25 milers. Photo by Stephen Mease

Yesterday told a different story. As per Jim's wishes, I hosted a celebration of his life at Snow farm Vineyard and Winery—complete with organized bike rides along 4 routes. Over 100 folks attended. About half biked the routes we loved. We carried  flags on our bikes with memories of Jim and decorated other flags—akin to prayer flags—with our individual Jim stories. 

At one point I was on my own for a leg before my daughter Tegan and her partner Lucas circled back to me. I was asking Jim what he thought and at that moment a monarch butterfly skimmed my head coming off of Lake Champlain. 

I couldn't have done this a year ago, and I couldn't have done this, this year, without the loving support of my daughter Tegan, my BFF (since 14) and sister-in-law Cathy, my other BFF Lisa, and my dear friend Julie—and many others. I will share more later as there are so many joyous photos of the day which are still being collected but for today, here are the brochures of the rides and the service, my toast to Jim, and Ray McCarthy-Bergeron's incredible video "Just Jim". If anything, stop reading here and jump to Ray's video at the end of this post.

Cover of Map routes, design by David Cheplowitz

Tegan and I rode the routes beforehand, mapping them each

Cover of memorial service, design by David, photos by me of my handsome husband.

Service designed by Julie, Cathy, Lisa, and myself.

Jim's obituary, written last year by my sister Mary and myself, updated for now.

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My Toast to My Handsome, Extraordinary Husband

Dear Friends and family,

Hello! Thank you for coming today to celebrate Jim. And upfront, before my widow’s brain kicks in, I want to thank Tegan, Lisa, Cathy, Julie, David, Ray, and Kevin for helping to organize this and the folks at Snow Farm, Dave and Julie, who made this possible despite the uncertainties of planning in a pandemic.

And I want to include Jim’s sons and families, Peter, Pat, Emily, Satori, and Enzo who cannot, once again, due to the difficulties of travel during Covid, join us today. They are here in spirit.

I hope those of you who rode today and those of you who assisted in this gathering, and those of you gathered in this lovely vineyard on this lovely Vermont hillside are embracing the beauty of this lovely landscape. Jim and I (as our granddaughter Satori would say) “loved, loved, loved” to bike these islands, always stopping here: we’d have water, wine, and pepperoni. I’d order a glass of wine, and as Jim didn’t drink, he’d have water alongside the cheese and pepperoni plate—his love of pepperoni harking back to fond memories of his dad Louie, making pepperoni on Italian bread sandwiches for himself, his sisters Mary and Cathy, and their brother Tom when their mom, Connie, was out. Jim and I would sit for a while just talking and taking in this beautiful place. We were always talking deeply and actively doing from our very first date when the only reason we left the restaurant was because they were putting the chairs up on the tables around us. Forever afterward we would tease each other about who kissed who first. “You kissed me first, no, you kissed me first!” It was our running joke. But it was definitely him—which he finally admitted to me last summer as his once boundless energy became bounded. But Honey, I kissed you last.

It was around that time, in the midst of the beginning of Covid, a month or so before he died that Jim asked that I host this celebration and invite you. We loved hosting parties (as many of you and especially my EMC team and my former students will remember), serving folks family style pot luck meals—seeing children rambunctiously run about, with Jim ramping their energy up with his “world famous” homemade ice cream with ALL of the fixings.

And we loved bike riding—Jim being a much stronger rider than myself, he was always in the lead but he’d stop at every turning point to kiss me—just like he did when we were skiing. Always looking out for me, and perhaps kissing me to appease my frustration at how far ahead he could get.

A friend of mine, Tammy Carroll, noted on Facebook about today, “Such a meaningful way to honor him and for him to draw people to you and bringing both his love and their own to comfort you in all of your favorite places surrounding yourself with the gift of his treasured memories and people.” And honestly, I hadn’t seen it in that light until she said it. But of course, it’s true, he was always looking out on my behalf, even to the point, when he knew that the cancer was getting the better of him, he put everything he could think of together for me—accounts and passwords—clearing out items he knew I wouldn’t want, trying to make this journey easier, even making videos of how to care for the house mechanicals. 

I want to let each of you know how grateful I am that you are here and how grateful I am for how you’ve held me and our families, Tegan, Pat, Emily, Peter, his sisters Mary and Cathy and spouse Steve and Jerry up during what definitely has been the worst couple of, yet most profound, years of my life.

16 years ago today, at just about this time, Jim and I gathered together with family and friends to begin our new marriage. On our first remeeting, I had asked him if he had been too old to ride across country solo on his bike, his laughing response was to gift me with a bike for our wedding. His best man Ed, who also was not too old to take on that journey, became his dear friend on that cross-country trip, naming Jim “Popeye Arm” (you’ll can ask Ed for the details today)! Jim and I had a huge wedding—wanting everyone we loved to celebrate with us. Gap Mangione, the musician whose band we’d hired, later told us that it was the most joyful wedding he’d ever played at. I know our parents were overjoyed—some of you know that I had called Jim’s parents “Mom and Dad” since I was 14 and my Dad would often call Jim “son”. We’d say that his mom, from heaven, had determined it was time we got together. And now, I know for sure that she was indeed watching out for her Jim. Most meaningful at our wedding, was when everyone lifted their hands blessing us. We understood then that most marriages are successful, not just dependent on the individual couple, but because of those who supported them. 

Jim drew folks to him, and it was so clear when he entered his cancer journey: strangers became friends and continue to do so (thank you Kathy and Kathy). Jim became an instructor and part of the Vermont Adaptive community, some of whom are here today. Since Jim’s passing folks have donated approximately $3500 in his name and I encourage you to donate today if you can. During this cancer journey, we had an outpouring of love from the folks in UVM oncology and hospice—some who have become lifelong friends and are here today, others gathered around us too—from our siblings and their children, my Aunt Mary Jo, and of course our beautiful friends …so many folks, and my wonderful Champlain College family…despite Covid, showing up—just being with us, taking our last portraits, sending cards, balloons, pies, and then later, pulling me out of the house, giving me meaningful challenges (someone thought it a good idea to bring me back to Champlain College), getting me on the mountain, in a kayak, and a paddleboard, sharing smiles and hugs, stones…strength. Yes, the blessing of friends and family. I feel it’s glow today.

16 years ago, right after Ed and my dad raised their glasses to us, Jim followed suit. His words became our marriage mantra which we’d silently write on each other’s arms. Today, as a toast, I’d like to offer Jim’s words to you in gracious gratitude and friendship. His toast to me then, so well expresses Jim’s life view, and is for sharing. For love creates love. Period. 

So, if you would raise your glass, please, today I wish for each of you, these promises of life fully lived:

The promise of everlasting love (that’s eternity plus 70 years)

The promise of happiness.

The promise of adventure.

The promise of passion.

The promise of caring.

The promise of compassion.

The promise of friendship.

The promise of being gentle and kind,

The promise of many, many mountains to conquer, sharing the challenges of the climbs, the successes of the summits, and the joy of effortless breathtaking descents.”

Here’s to and from my Jim. I love you Honey for infinity plus 70 and around again. Cheers everyone, here’s to Jim, here’s to Life fully lived!

And now as Jim would say, “we gotta eat”.

Please enjoy.

Amazingly touching when everyone rose for the toast. Photo by Stephen Mease

Just Jim, a video reflection

As you all know, this has been a period in time like no other. In Spring of 2020, Covid shut us all in. It was a critical time in Jim’s life as he was just beginning at home hospice. Even most of the hospice visits became Zoom calls. During one of them, Ezra, the hospice social worker shared that normally volunteers would conduct video or audio interviews—StoryCorp style—for folks like Jim. But due to Covid could not anymore. Instead he shared with Ann the general outline for the process and suggested questions. Their wonderful friend Lisa Daudon worked with Ann to comb through the questions and pick one’s more appropriate to Jim. Then Ann invited approximately 20 folks that Jim wished to chat with. Lisa coordinated everything. From May until 3 weeks before his death, Jim was able to speak with folks he loved dearly and share his life story. These were all captured through Zoom and a bit on Ann’s cell phone. Though extremely weak Jim looked forward to each conversation which ran anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour and a half.

 

Jim and Ann asked their dear friend Ray McCarthy-Bergeron to stitch these stories together into a shorter form that could be shared here today and into posterity for his children, grandchildren, and those who loved Jim. For what you are about to see, Ray watched approximately 20 hours of video, combed through photos, listened to Jim’s piano recordings that Ann discovered on their piano, found a story through-line, created graphics and animations specific to Jim’s many talents, and even applied AI (computer smarts) to smooth out the Zoom video quality.  This video by Ray highlights stories told by Jim himself, piano pieces he played, and singing by Vermont’s Kat Wright—a  family friend who, as a teen spent many hours in the Reda family home. She sang this for his burial last year.

Video Story by Ray McCarthy-Bergeron, interviews organized by Lisa Daudon, video content and photos @Ann DeMarle, piano playing Jim, closing song performed by Kat Wright for Jim's burial.