I found myself thinking of my late Uncle Jim today. Strangely, I could not find any previous entry where I wrote about him or his death. This strikes me as very strange. Jim was a fairly big figure in my life in many ways.
My mother had one older brother Mike, and two younger brothers, Brown, and Jim, named after his father, Dr. James Cooper. When I was about 5 years old, my mother and I moved back into the family house with my grandmother Betty (Mimi), and Jim. Jim was about 7 years older than me, so we always had more of an older/younger brother kind of relationship. We were very different in a lot of ways, but also alike. It was a strange dichotomy. We were never super close best friends or anything, but we loved each other. He definitely ended up being a huge influence on me. Whenever he was really into something, I got really into it. I remember he loved science fiction and had a trunk full of old comic books. He loved The Beatles (as did my mom and our whole family) and Billy Joel. I discovered many artists and albums through him and his many friends who would often hang out at our house. I remember a phase when he got really into Irish and Gaelic culture, and so I did too for a hot second. He introduced me to Dungeons & Dragons, first edition! One strangely vivid memory is that he somehow made his own set of Hawkman wings and Helmet for Halloween using two belts, a mannequin head, strips of paper and tape. Another Halloween he made himself up as a zombie. He was an innately talented multi-instrumentalist and singer and taught me my very first guitar chords. I’m sure he must have showed me some things on our piano as well. Jim could play anything he picked up and put his mind to. For years before I had a guitar of my own, I would play his, or an acoustic he had borrowed from Joe Williams. He had this Yamaha 12-string acoustic that almost always only had 6 strings on it like a regular acoustic. Scott Eddy, who became one of my favorite humans, lent us his brand new Roland JX-3P synthesizer with external programming module as well for us to play with for a few days! It was like magic.
I remember he could be infuriating. Stubborn. Irresponsible. Careless. He was also a true artist at heart. Creative, intelligent, and kind. He loved animals. He was a knowledge sponge. I remember when he became intrigued with the occult and thought he had summoned something bad in the added front room of the house with a pentagram he had drawn on the floor. Many of his friends became somewhat my friends by proxy. Our house was often the “hangout.” Sometimes far too late when I was trying to sleep on a school night and there would be jam sessions after the bar had closed. We’d get irritated at each other and argue. He hated when I’d be on the phone with my friend Andy for HOURS before there was call waiting. We would always make up and tell each other we loved each other though. Sometimes Mimi, Jim, and I would all sleep in Mimi’s bed. If she was out of town, he would be next in line to stay in her master bedroom, but if they were BOTH gone (or during the periods when he didn’t live with us), it was MY domain and I loved it. I was pissed when he broke my Shoge, a martial arts weapon my dad had bought me when I went to visit him in New Jersey. Jim claimed he had been throwing it in the yard and the blade had hit a rock or something like that. We loved to set off fireworks in the driveway for the 4th of July. He would torment me by taking those empty cicada shells off of trees after cicadas had molted and chasing me to attach them to my clothing. I hated it. And then there was the time I was sitting in an armchair with my back to the kitchen doorway, he was on the couch and suddenly jumped up and said “Hey, let’s go back to Mimi’s room” and raced back there. Where we then called the police because he swore that behind me he saw “A hairy arm closing the door out to the garage” like maybe someone had come in, saw us there and crept back out.
Jim was somewhat of a magical being. One that with hindsight and age I now see as someone who just wasn’t equipped for this world and the way it worked. He couldn’t seem to keep a job. He took advantage of his mother and spent a lot of her meager money from whatever source it came from (she was pretty much bed-ridden with arthritis for the entirety of my memory of her). “Mooched” off her some would say. I think that he likely always drank too much. He was an artist and a gentle soul in a world that isn’t kind to such people in many ways. I can relate. When I have worked “day jobs,” even the best ones felt like luxurious padded prisons and I felt like a beast straining at my very comfortable chains because my soul was not being fulfilled. It was not what I was meant for.
Jim lived with us on and off over the 13 (I think) years we lived there. We moved when my grandmother sold the house which was deteriorating over the years. My mom and I moved into a duplex and Jim would then live with Mimi in Oregon for a while. Once Mimi moved back into my mom’s place in her last years after I had moved out, he would end up there a lot as well. He would eventually end up in the hospital with pretty much total system failure due to alcoholism, which is where his story ends in 2001. I can’t remember really having any meaningful contact with him in the years after we all moved out of the house. He left eternal and deep impressions on all those that knew him. We had a strange relationship but there’s no denying the lifelong character-shaping effects he had on who I am, far more numerous than can possibly be detailed in an impossibly inadequate account. He taught me my first guitar chords.
