Jim was my cousin. He loved life. He flew planes, he sailed boats, he fixed things.

The fire was lit, darkness had come upon us and the party was a good one— not too many people, but just enough to make it feel festive. To my left a few women sat on a stretched out lounge chair chatting on about north woods fashion, a conversation I had been a part of until Jim caught my eye. He was sitting across from me in an Adirondack chair, legs crossed figure 4 style. In his right fore & third fingers a cigar was perched, half smoked, his other hand was resting on the armrest cradling a jigger of bourbon in a heavy glass, the fire dancing off its rich golden color. His face struck me at that moment, donning reflective, contemplative eyes and a relaxed, subtle smile. I took note thinking, “He looks really content.” We continued to sit amongst the chatter, movement & laughter around us, both of us quiet. 

I wasn’t around Jim all that much in past years but living in the north woods, as we both chose to do later in life, you connect with close-by family & kindred spirits as sparse as they are with more intent, fostering connections to bring warmth to a very long, cold season. You make more of an effort. For that effort I

got to know Jim, a man that had adored my mom, and she him. I understand now that she offered him guidance his own mother could not— guidance he desperately needed, but it was his touted academic accomplishments & their subsequent professional success that had become the bulk of my Jim Flanagan recall— until Three Lakes. 

A couple of weeks after that party Jim texted me,  
“Do you have a sewing machine?” 
Did I hear him right? I had never had a man call me up and ask about my sewing machine— maybe not even a woman, but I thought, it’s Jim.  
“Yes I do” I responded.
“Do you think I could borrow it? I’m creating a new sling seat for my sail boat.” After initial confusion about how one would sew a sailboat seat I was impressed, thinking “Of course you are!”  
He continued, “ I looked it up and it says you can use a home sewing machine if it’s powerful enough.” 
“Absolutely you can borrow it.”  
We spoke of his plans, me surmising it was basically sewing a gigantic pole socket in the seat material which he described as “trampoline-like”. I had done this exact project on much flimsier material many times to change the look of my rooms with random drapery panels I had created. We discussed machine mechanics and the durable thread & needle he would need. Not surprisingly he had already located a site to purchase the required thread and he let me know it might take a while to arrive what with he supply chain issues, and that as soon as it did we would connect for the project.  

Finally I asked him, “Would this be something you want to do on your own? Have you ever used a sewing machine? Do you want my assistance, or would you want me to do it?”  
He replied, “Maybe we could do it together."  In both our minds it was scheduled on an unknown date.

A few weeks passed and it popped into my head. I wondered, did the thread come? The sailboat seat project, planned but never begun, dangles in my mind. 
 
As I lay here today staring at the sky, I want to know what happens when we pass. This has haunted me since I could think. What happens to the essence of who we are? I understand the physical breakdown. I witnessed in real time life leaving my dad and with my mom, I saw her body minutes after her transition. I saw life leave my dog Marley in the briefest of moments this past May as we chose to release her from her physical body which had become too great and heavy a burden. In each instance I stared seeking— hopeful. Please give me a clue, but while the bodies were in tact no one was home.    

I go back to that party night often, the music, the laughter and Jim so content and peaceful in the moment. I thought of the love he had found with Haidee, this place he loved to be— the North Woods, the professional work that he thrived on, the love and devotion to Robert & Bridget, the stately Boxer Hana who had captured his heart in the way only a dog can do, the love he felt for his cousins and friends. I thought of his quirky ways that truly fascinated me. And I thought of all the people that loved him. 

On the night of the party I was going on and on about a spider we had living by the water’s edge who had created an amazing pod in which I could only assume her future baby spiders were incubating. The pod was the size of a fist and sat at the very top of several gathered 2 foot tall weeds. The mother clung to the outside of it, cradling it, nurturing it and even as the tender weeds blew in the breeze she was unfazed. And she was big— so big she at once freaked me out and completely intrigued me. I had tried to get people to be interested, to inspire the beauty of the spider but to no avail. Then from the cloud of indifference I heard Jim say, “I’ll go”.  

 We walked down to the waters edge, flashlight in hand, and I directed the powerful beam at the pod. There she was all 8 legs encompassing her legacy with intentional protection. Jim observed with his analytical eyes and his scientist mind and I exclaimed tritely, “Isn’t that cool?!” He gave me a micro-nod then went back to his examination with moves very Jim-like. Then we headed back to the fire.  

 That night is vivid in my mind— seeing Jim completely content, volunteering to look at the spider with me and earlier in time him requesting my assistance with his sailboat. Those memories hang in my mind and because of the circumstances of Jim’s passing there will be no more seeing his physical body. I take solace in the fact that he may visit occasionally, maybe giving me an ethereal ray of hope, reminding me of what’s important, perhaps in a vision. Or maybe I’ll see that spider next summer or one of her gigantic offspring and I’ll think of that united witnessing and how amazed Jim & I were at that stunning sight that the other partygoers shunned.  

Jim Flanagan has flown. He has hit the true skies, broken the sound barrier— flown into the sweet mystery that is the unknown. Not another human alive can tell us what that means. Jim now knows. I am confident he lives on in all of us. I am hoping that my vision of him as I looked up that night is how he might feel now— content, cigar in the right hand, bourbon in the left hand, crossed legs, looking peaceful and truly understanding that he was an integral part of all of the beauty. 

 
Tricia Schwaba November 2021   
 