091713 -- THE REST OF THE STORY
Sep. 17th, 2013 11:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
memorialrainbowOn September 21, 2013, family and friends will gather in Zanesville, Ohio, to say goodbye to a loved one. They will lay flowers, say prayers, gather in groups and look to the sky as if a miracle could happen. So few people know the miracle has already happened.
That is why I am here, to tell you...THE REST OF THE STORY.
James Franklin Imes was a man of reliability. It is the one feature I see defined throughout his entire life, a feature those who knew him would agree he carried. He was not the type of man who would bring attention to any particular aspect about himself. He was always quick to praise others, to tell us how proud he was of us, a hard worker and a silent rock to the end.
He was the man who grew up a proud brother, who fought for his country yet who kept tight lipped about it later. He walked across the tried and true campus of Columbus, a Buckeye for life. Perhaps most importantly, he saw an angel on the stairs in a sorority house and asked her if she would like to go for a Coke. That same woman will stand by his casket on Saturday, as she has stood by his side for more than fifty years.
He became a banker, a husband, a father to three wonderful children who grew into wonderful adults who had more wonderful children, who are also in the process of becoming wonderful adults. He worked in the BankOne building in Cambridge, retired to Florida, played countless rounds of golf. But the things he will be remembered for are not the things he did for himself, but the things he did for others.
His close proximity to my branch of the family ensured that we would benefit from his reliability. He was present for every Christmas, most notably this last Christmas in Florida -- a story for another day. He was present when both of my siblings were born. In fact, four hours and a state line couldn't keep us apart at all: I lost count of how many times we drove back and forth between Indianapolis and Zanesville, how I would sit on the barstools and eat dinner off of one of the many different colored plates I now own myself. There were long weeks where it was just me and them, and a week my sister Stephanie had like this before we ourselves moved to the Y-City. There were lunches at Red Lobster, famous hamburgers, baseball games and basketball games and concerts, reunions and surprises and birthdays.
There was his undeniable bond with Luke and every golf match he drove my brother to. The photograph immortalizing him taking my then-toddler age sister to the play area in the mall, her little fingers wrapped around his hand. The way he teased me and I sat on his lap in his big armchair, singing "Side By Side" until we had to leave. He would have done anything for us.
There was the last time I saw him, when I brought the man I will call my husband someday home to Zanesville to meet my world. We didn't overstay our welcome, and before we left, my grandmother made sure that, courtesy of him, we had 'hamburger money.' It was a tradition, first done with my dad and his siblings, now done with us, a gift of petty cash to be used not for rent or bills, but for fun, for 'going out with friends and getting hamburgers.'
Before we left, in the last coherent moment we had, he told me and my boyfriend to take care of each other. I still have that hamburger money. I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to use it.
The legacy one leaves is seen through their generations. I see James through my father, Jack, when he drives to the airport late at night to pick me up, as he will undoubtedly do this Thursday night. I see him in Luke, when he rattles off some sports stats, or plays a round of golf, or eats at Buffalo Wild Wings, or even just falls asleep on the couch. The same hard work and dedication he exhibited are evident in Stephanie; in my aunt Mliz and uncle Pat; through Ryan and Allison and their children; through Jimmy, his namesake. And I know that my father has given me hamburger money, and will give my kids hamburger money, and I will give my kids and grandkids hamburger money in whatever form it comes. One touch leaves a ripple, leaves an echo.
But I'm getting sentimental. I would lose what little journalistic integrity I have left if I don't tell you THE REST OF THE STORY. So here it is.
There was a man whom James considered to be one of the most important men in his life, if not the most important. I never had the chance to meet him, but from what I know, he was also a man of integrity and reliability who never brought attention on himself, traits that James adopted either through nature or nurture.
He was also a man of the written word. On a family dinner night in 2010, my grandfather pulled out a story, much like this one, written by this man. He read it to us with stars in his eyes, voice cracking when he reached the climax. It soon became evident to me that this was where I had gotten my writing ability from. Soon after that, I started my personal blog, and I recommitted myself to writing, inspired by this man's words of what he loved most: his family.
The man I speak of walked these streets, took the ferry from New Jersey to work in Manhattan. I walk where he once tread, not only with my feet but with the words I write now. If it weren't for my grandfather reading those words that night, I wouldn't be here. If it weren't for this man, I wouldn't be here.
He is Harold Imes -- my great-grandfather, and father of James Imes.
He's the reason I write.
And now you know...THE REST OF THE STORY.
That is why I am here, to tell you...THE REST OF THE STORY.
James Franklin Imes was a man of reliability. It is the one feature I see defined throughout his entire life, a feature those who knew him would agree he carried. He was not the type of man who would bring attention to any particular aspect about himself. He was always quick to praise others, to tell us how proud he was of us, a hard worker and a silent rock to the end.
He was the man who grew up a proud brother, who fought for his country yet who kept tight lipped about it later. He walked across the tried and true campus of Columbus, a Buckeye for life. Perhaps most importantly, he saw an angel on the stairs in a sorority house and asked her if she would like to go for a Coke. That same woman will stand by his casket on Saturday, as she has stood by his side for more than fifty years.
He became a banker, a husband, a father to three wonderful children who grew into wonderful adults who had more wonderful children, who are also in the process of becoming wonderful adults. He worked in the BankOne building in Cambridge, retired to Florida, played countless rounds of golf. But the things he will be remembered for are not the things he did for himself, but the things he did for others.
His close proximity to my branch of the family ensured that we would benefit from his reliability. He was present for every Christmas, most notably this last Christmas in Florida -- a story for another day. He was present when both of my siblings were born. In fact, four hours and a state line couldn't keep us apart at all: I lost count of how many times we drove back and forth between Indianapolis and Zanesville, how I would sit on the barstools and eat dinner off of one of the many different colored plates I now own myself. There were long weeks where it was just me and them, and a week my sister Stephanie had like this before we ourselves moved to the Y-City. There were lunches at Red Lobster, famous hamburgers, baseball games and basketball games and concerts, reunions and surprises and birthdays.
There was his undeniable bond with Luke and every golf match he drove my brother to. The photograph immortalizing him taking my then-toddler age sister to the play area in the mall, her little fingers wrapped around his hand. The way he teased me and I sat on his lap in his big armchair, singing "Side By Side" until we had to leave. He would have done anything for us.
There was the last time I saw him, when I brought the man I will call my husband someday home to Zanesville to meet my world. We didn't overstay our welcome, and before we left, my grandmother made sure that, courtesy of him, we had 'hamburger money.' It was a tradition, first done with my dad and his siblings, now done with us, a gift of petty cash to be used not for rent or bills, but for fun, for 'going out with friends and getting hamburgers.'
Before we left, in the last coherent moment we had, he told me and my boyfriend to take care of each other. I still have that hamburger money. I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to use it.
The legacy one leaves is seen through their generations. I see James through my father, Jack, when he drives to the airport late at night to pick me up, as he will undoubtedly do this Thursday night. I see him in Luke, when he rattles off some sports stats, or plays a round of golf, or eats at Buffalo Wild Wings, or even just falls asleep on the couch. The same hard work and dedication he exhibited are evident in Stephanie; in my aunt Mliz and uncle Pat; through Ryan and Allison and their children; through Jimmy, his namesake. And I know that my father has given me hamburger money, and will give my kids hamburger money, and I will give my kids and grandkids hamburger money in whatever form it comes. One touch leaves a ripple, leaves an echo.
But I'm getting sentimental. I would lose what little journalistic integrity I have left if I don't tell you THE REST OF THE STORY. So here it is.
There was a man whom James considered to be one of the most important men in his life, if not the most important. I never had the chance to meet him, but from what I know, he was also a man of integrity and reliability who never brought attention on himself, traits that James adopted either through nature or nurture.
He was also a man of the written word. On a family dinner night in 2010, my grandfather pulled out a story, much like this one, written by this man. He read it to us with stars in his eyes, voice cracking when he reached the climax. It soon became evident to me that this was where I had gotten my writing ability from. Soon after that, I started my personal blog, and I recommitted myself to writing, inspired by this man's words of what he loved most: his family.
The man I speak of walked these streets, took the ferry from New Jersey to work in Manhattan. I walk where he once tread, not only with my feet but with the words I write now. If it weren't for my grandfather reading those words that night, I wouldn't be here. If it weren't for this man, I wouldn't be here.
He is Harold Imes -- my great-grandfather, and father of James Imes.
He's the reason I write.
And now you know...THE REST OF THE STORY.
