James A. Marvin

 

I met Jim Marvin about 30 years ago at a poker game. I was invited to sub with a group that he belonged to. I liked him right away. Eventually, I became a member of the group and while playing several hundred hands of cards we became good friends. The group took turns hosting the game and I met Jim’s wife, Diane, when we played at their house. I liked her too. Ruth met Jim when it was my turn to host a game. She eventually met Diane and over time the four of us shared a special bond.

We traveled, shared our families with each other, and have grown through our “maturing years” together.

I have considered Jim my best friend for the past two dozen years. He and I shared stories of our lives, sought each other’s counsel, dreamed and planned together, and lived a good life.

He was a good man who thought of others before himself. He willingly shared his time, advice, and wealth. He gave the gift of himself and was a friend to anyone who needed one. He volunteered. He made a difference. Most importantly, he did it without thought of personal gain or accolades.

Jim was a private man. After all the years of sharing time, I have few pictures of him. While others post each moment of their life on social media, Jim was never tempted. He kept most of his thoughts to himself but would share his opinion when asked. He never insisted that you subscribe to his train of thought but made it clear where he stood.

We discussed our children and grandchildren. He was proud of Tracy and Michael, their accomplishments, and the lives that they have created for themselves. The only time that I heard Jim lament was when Michael decided to move out of State. I told him that I had felt the same when my daughter, Elizabeth, and son, Michael, moved away. And then I reminded him, “We can’t raise our children to be independent and then feel sorry for ourselves when they are.” He reluctantly agreed.

When Jim served on the Hudson Education Foundation Board he met a girl that he thought deserved more help than the foundation could offer. Without her knowledge, he privately sponsored her education and was proud of the woman that she has become.

When we were building a new sports complex in Britton, we drove to see the project one Sunday afternoon. Jim was particularly fond of baseball and inquired how much the new dugouts were projected to cost. Within the week, the Britton Education Foundation received a check from Jim and Diane to pay for the dugouts.

When my kids came to visit us in The Villages, he drove 30 miles one-way to buy donuts from a special shop that he valued so that he could share his treasure with my children and grandchildren.

He provided the scholarship, paid for the dugouts and drove to buy donuts because it was important to share what he had with others.

Jim, Diane, Ruth and I have visited our share of casinos and engaged in several games of chance. Jim may be the only man I know that won more than he lost. When we discussed the winning and the losing, we both agreed that we preferred to win rather than lose, however, neither of us had plans for any money that we might win. We really didn’t care how it might be spent. Having more than you had when started was the only goal. Money was merely the way we kept score.

Of all the things we discussed, including lost loved ones, we never discussed our own mortality. We never shared our beliefs about what might happen after we were gone. While we both planned for the financial repercussions, and shared those plans, we never discussed being gone.

Now he’s gone and he took a piece of me with him. But more importantly, he left a piece of himself with me. I’ll never forget our friendship and how, over time, we became more like brothers than friends and that’s how I’ll remember Jim.

Last November I started writing a blog. My goal is to write true stories for my grandchildren. A legacy of sorts for them. Jim read my stories and commented on them from time to time. Always in person. Never on-line.

Jim, Diane, Ruth and I traveled to Biloxi, Mississippi last winter and one morning during breakfast, a woman came up to our table and asked if I remembered her. I did.

The following week I posted a story called, “Do You Remember Me?” A few days later, Jim spoke to me about the story and commented the he particularly liked a couple of lines. They read as follows:

For most of us being remembered means that we have had purpose. That while we are here, we’ve made a difference. We want someone to remember and share our story.

While the private side of Jim may not wish the notoriety, I plan to write more about him for as long as I am able. His story is too special to go unshared.