Monday, June 1, 2020
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What a beautifully written obituary by Jill Newcomb and Gerald Gribble. Uncle Jimmy was one of a kind. Below is a eulogy I wrote for him, which Bobbi Thomas read with gusto at his small service. Thanks to Skip and everyone at DiMarco-Luisi for always looking after our family in our hour of need.
My Uncle Jimmy
In the 70’s, Jim’s Cycle Center was the centre of our universe. The shop was an Aladdin’s Cave of sparkling machines and a glass cabinet filled with seductive parts - the male equivalent of a jewellery box. Heroic men appeared and paid homage to Uncle Jimmy, before roaring off into the sunset on their shiny Bultacos.
We kids worshipped at the alter of the soda machine, glowing in the yard like it just landed from outer space. Uncle Jimmy would slide us quarters - it didn’t matter if we were good or not - actually we were probably rewarded for being devilish - and a magical Mountain Dew or Pepsi appeared, our own icy treasure. Eventually he’d send us packing on mini-bikes and go-carts, to far off places filled with pine trees and sunshine and danger, where we were the architects of our own adult free adventures.
My early childhood was often chaotic, but he was always there - a magnetic mixture of reliability and risk taking and humour. He made me feel special, and was like a father to me. And I thought of him as a rock star. He courted danger on motorcycles in the glamorous sounding New Egypt, while all of us - Aunt Ann, my mom, Shortie, Judie, Jim, Jill, and my brother, Dean, held our breath and cheered from the scorching sidelines.
Sometimes Uncle Jimmy took the kids on tow runs. We co-piloted the truck while he hauled gnarled vehicles from horrific accidents. It was a mark of our mettle to witness the tragedy, and an honour of sorts.
He liked to do things for you - he gave my English husband Marc his leather cycle jacket from the 60’s. Marc looks like he walked off the cover of a Rolling Stones album in it.
Last year when my father Frank died, he left behind three dilapidated vehicles at his home in Port Richmond, Philadelphia, near where Uncle Jimmy was born. They had to be moved, pronto, and Uncle Jimmy appeared with a flat bed and a friend. Undeterred by the rain and some questionable characters, he whisked them away on his magic carpet. He was 81.
I’ve lived in London for 26 years, and sometimes I dream of the Maurice River and how it looks like a root beer float on the surface and the beautiful blue holes that made South Jersey feel like the Caribbean and Uncle Jimmy saying you don’t see the blood red sunsets so much any more. Last year I was in Iceland and as we walked over the edge of a volcano, I was confronted by a giant crater, filled with golden dirt. I cried - suddenly it was the 70’s, it was a gravel pit and we were wearing boon docks and riding dirt bikes. I couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Jimmy. He laughed because he totally got it. And he was there, too. Uncle Jimmy always made the magic happen, and that’s how I’ll remember him.
