For Jimmie (a eulogy)
Jimmie on his deck.
by Beth Mende Conny © 2000-2026
Jimmie wasn’t just a friend. He was my one and only Oakie friend.
I grew up in New York City, you see, and Jimmie was the first person I ever met from Oklahoma. I knew little about the state other than it was in the middle of the country somewhere and that there wasn’t a whole lot there — actually, there was nothing there — that I’d want to see or experience. Until I met Jimmie.
Jimmie was the consummate storyteller. He could make anything, including Oklahoma, interesting, even glamorous in its own run-down sort of way. I knew he grew up poor and from a broken family, but he was rich in words. And I loved listening to them. Plus, he knew how to tell a story.
He talked real slow, as if his words were rolling up their sleeves, getting ready to draw you in. The words were colorful and precise, delivered with a twinkle in his eye, even when the story wasn’t particularly happy. Many of his stories had some funny or ridiculous twist, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Many a morning, I would join him on his deck, where he had laid our breakfast for us: bottled water and oranges. And as we peeled their rinds, he’d peel back the years of memories.
Jimmie told me about the Oklahoma mines and how, as an itinerant child of divorce, he was shuttled from one family member to another, to far-off places like Idaho and Colorado, and towns and cities in-between.
He told me about playing basketball in high school and wanting, at age 17, to drop out of school and join the Air Force. The Korean War was on, and Jimmie didn’t want to miss a minuteof it. But the Air Force recruiter he had befriended and who had become a father figure convinced him to finish high school. And so he did — and then beelined to enlist.
Jimmie told me about his time in the service and what it was like to fix and fly planes, and to train as a gunner. His memories were so vivid I could almost feel the bomber’s wings and see the switches of its control panel. I even got to like his friends as much as he did.
Jimmie was proud of his military service, but it paled next to his life-changing experience the day he met Ethel. It was pure Hollywood. He goes to a party, sees her across the room. Pow! Lightning strikes, the feeling is mutual, they fall in love, they marry. And they stayed married and giddy in love for 68 years. Sixty-eight years! Some people don’t even live that long!
Ethel died about five years ago and it was evident that a part of Jimmie died with her. One morning on his deck, he was especially sad and said, “What’s the point of living without my girl?” (Ethel was always “my girl.”)
He and I had an honest relationship, and so I could ask him directly, “Are you thinking of checking out?”
He looked at me, surprised. “I’d never commit suicide. I wouldn’t be allowed in Heaven. That’s where my girl is, and we’ll be together again.” Sixty-eight years married and she was still his girl. Now that’s love.
Jimmie did more than tell riveting stories. He also wrote them down. In fact, by the time I met him, he had written three novels and had a few more in the pipeline. He was retired at that point, and it was as if his lifelong dream to publish them had retired too. He didn’t know where or how to get them into print. But it just so happened that I did.
I’m a writer by trade and passion. I understand the publishing process, and so I was able to walk Jimmie through the paces and to cheer him from the sidelines. Within three years, he published three novels, which he sold on Amazon:
· Nothing to Lose
· As Time Goes By
· Death from Above
Not one to sit on his laurels, Jimmie renewed work on his remaining novels. He was a bonafide writer by then, which meant he knew how to procrastinate. I remember visiting him in the hospital once and asking, “Are you really sick or trying to avoid writing?” He smiled guiltily and said, “Probably both.”
Months later, we were sitting in his garage — it was too hot or cold out for his backyard deck — and he recounted the day he opened his first published book for the first time, to hold his “baby” in his hands. And books are babies. You wait and wait for them to gestate, go through all sorts of labor pains to get them out, and then, voila! They appear as if by miracle.
“There’s nothing like it in the whole world,” Jimmie said with a twinkle. And it made me so happy to have been a part of his journey, and to open my autographed copy and coo along with him.
The last time I saw Jimmie was a couple of weeks before he died. He was sitting in his living room in his usual chair. I gave him a kiss and hug and asked, “How’s my favorite Oakie?” He smiled his Jimmie smile, the smile I always loved.
My husband, Joe, was with me, as was Jimmie’s daughter, Laura. Jimmie was pretty weak by then and, understandably, didn’t participate much in the conversation. But then the conversation turned to his books. One of us asked which was his favorite. It took a moment for him to speak. As Time Goes By, he said. And I thought, “But of course.”
“As Time Goes By” was also the title of his and Ethel’s favorite song during their younger years. If you are of a certain age, you’ll remember this iconic love song from the movie “Casablanca,” starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Berman. In part, it goes like this:
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by
And when two lovers woo
They still say, "I love you"
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by
Can’t you just see the two of them — Jimmie and his girl — dancing cheek to cheek in Heaven? I know I can, which makes his loss less painful. My Oakie is having a lovely time.
Perhaps he’ll take an occasional break from twirling Ethel around to finally finish his other novels. I’m looking forward to reading them.
Jimmie and his girl, Ethel, in Paris.
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