My Son Jimbo
For those who never knew him …

Babe (continued)

[Written by Jimbo's sister Sherry]

Doll

Jimbo’s four oldest siblings were quite a few years older when Jimbo was born. Rick, his only brother, was 18; Sally was 16; Sherry was 14; and Holly was 12 (the fifth child, Marion, was 6, the “baby” for six years until Jimbo appeared). 

The girls, Sally, Sherry, and Holly, had never been much for playing with dolls — we were a very active group, and much more prone to outdoor activities and sports. When we were inside, we had each other, which led to games, challenges, and (of course) teasing matches.

When Jimbo arrived, we found ourselves with a new, extrememly “fun” toy — he immediately became our “live” doll. We dressed him up in costumes, applied make-up (lipstick, clown nose, a mustache — we were nothing if not creative), carted him around in a wagon, showed him off to our friends. The fairy princess and the cigar-chomping reporter were immediate hits.

And he seemed to enjoy the attention as much as we enjoyed doling it out. He was a happy little fellow.

Babe (continued)

[Written by Jimbo's mother in her book My Son Jimbo]

Mr. Charm

He was a joyful preschooler, my little Renaissance man, his active curiosity only exceeded by his total charm.

I can still see him sitting in a circle of [sister] Sally’s Pi Phi friends on their pledge runaway weekend, regaling them with his cute baby/grown-up conversation. [Sally adds: I just remember that he was having as much fun as all the girls -- mutual admiration and entertainment.]

Milkaholic

One day in desperation I put Jimbo in his playpen and by way of bribery handed him a bottle, in those days made of glass. In a fit of pique he threw it over the side onto the flagstone floor … and for the first time found something about his playpen that really delighted him. From then on he preferred smashing to drinking. So it was that Jimbo was weaned from a bottle to a cup.

Dick appropriated the two remaining unsmashed bottles to store in his liquor cabinet to use in measuring drinks.

One day two years later Jimbo was drinking a glass of milk when he spotted one of the bottles sitting next to the sink. He poured his milk into it, then gleefully announced, “Look at me, Dad, I’m drinking my milk out of a whisky bottle!”

Babe (continued)

[Written by Jimbo's sister Sherry]

Announcements

Even before Jimbo was born, he was making his mark. I remember how Mom let us five kids know that we would be getting another family member. She created a combination cryptogram-treasure hunt. Each clue was in the form of a cryptogram that we had to solve before we could read it. Then, having read it, we had to solve the puzzle of where the next clue was hidden. 

The final message, once translated was a poem that focused, one couplet at a time, on each of our birthdays, which came (respectively) in May, July, February, March, and June. I don’t remember any of the first five couplets, but I remember the punch line of the last one: “But wait’ll you see the crazy April showers next year!” 

Even more unusual was how Mom let friends in the community know. Every Halloween, the country club we belonged to (Manor Country Club) held a big costume party for all members. Mom and Dad, sometimes with a group of friends, routinely won, with her creative ideas and outlandish execution. 

In October 1960, six months before Jimbo’s due date, Mom made a 4×4-foot “brick wall” out of cardboard, painted with bricks, just thick enough for her to stand inside of and hold up by two handles attached to the inside. Dad of course went as the “brick-layer.”

And that’s how she announced her pregnancy to the world.

Babe

[Written by Jimbo's mother in her book "My Son Jimbo"]

Surprise

We always told Lem Showell that it was his fault I got pregnant. They had invited us to a party for Robert Weaver, Secretary of Housing. Weaver got held up and arrived two hours late. In the meantime, we all kept drinking martinis. I can barely remember Weaver, let alone getting home.

When a few weeks later it became apparent that number 6 was on the way in spite of our always taking every precaution … well, it turned out that “always” didn’t include after Lem’s party.

On the delivery table, as I watched the breech proceedings in an overhead mirror, the doctor said as he pointed out an emerging shape, “Hey, know what that is? … It’s his balls!” That’s how I found out I had a second son.

He weighed all of 4 lbs, 8 oz. and wanted to be fed every two hours. He would only sleep if he were wrapped up tight in a blanket. He wasn’t ready to be in the world yet.

Why?

[Poem written by Jimbo's mother in her book "My Son Jimbo"]

What divine hand chose two out of countless
cells to join and create a spark of life?
A single cell bearing the total blueprint
of a unique individual.
And after countless divisions and divisions
a perfect baby, unlike any ever born
before.
And then a child, a boy, a man.
Surely even God must weep to see his
magnificent creation gone at the dawn of his
adulthood.
What can the anguished survivors do
but cry out, “Why?”

August 10, 1979

[Written by Jimbo's mother in her book "My Son Jimbo"]

On August 10 Jimbo got up, had breakfast, ran, joked, played tennis, talked on the telephone, promised to sell his car and clean his room, and waved as I drove off to [volunteer work at] the National Revenue Tennis Classic tournament. At 2 p.m., he sat in a crotch of a sycamore tree 75 feet above the ground, talking with his friend Rick Hergesell of the future, but also expressing the bittersweet nostalgia for the boyhood that was ending. And then in a moment it was over and he was no more. A life of youthful vitality and health, seemingly invulnerable, in one instant obliterated.

From the Columbus Citizen-Journal:

Youth Killed After Shock, 75-Foot Fall

An 18-year-old Upper Arlington youth was killed Friday afternoon when he stepped on a power line as he was climbing in a tree and fell 75 feet to a blacktop surface, Upper Arlington police said.

James Sherman, son of Virginia and Richard U. Sherman, was pronounced dead at Riverside Hospital about 3:30 p.m. A June graduate of Upper Arlington High School, he was to attend Miami University in the fall. He was on his high school varsity [hockey] and tennis teams, a neighbor said.

Sherman’s next-door neighbor, Rick Hergesell, who was also in the tree when the accident occurred, was jarred loose by the shock, said his father. … The youths were climbing down when Sherman stepped on the power line.

Hergesell said his son and Sherman sometimes camped overnight by a pond near the tree and frequently climbed it. “They’re just adventurous kids who wanted to do something,” Hergesell said.

Hergesell said his son told him that Sherman fell limp after he touched the wire and made no attempt to break his fall as he fell through the branches to the pavement. Sherman landed on his back.

Sherman had been working at the National Revenue Tennis Classic [the week of his death]. He was the youngest of six children. 

Who Was Jimbo?

[Written by Jimbo's mother, Jinny, about seven years after his death, as the introduction in her book "My Son Jimbo"]

Ond day I realized that most of Jimbo’s nieces and nephews hadn’t yet been born in 1979. They are an unfortunate group to never have known this fun-loving young uncle who loved to play with kids of all ages. Perhaps when they are older they will read this and find out why their parents all loved him so. His brother and four sisters all helped to raise him, but it was more than that. He was our Renaissance man, bright, creative and inventive, with a wacky sense of humor shared by all his siblings.

He pushed to his limits and then some, which was great if it was a tennis or hockey match, but not so great if it was to test the boundaries I had put down. Then the bargaining would begin, and with his charm and tact he always got a little bit more. He’d look at me with his impish smile and his beautiful blue eyes and melt my heart. But he had to know where his boundaries lay–they were really a sanctuary to protect him from himself; he had to be a “good boy.”

He was mischievous and thoughtful, funny and serious, shy and outgoing, sometimes lazy, more often hard-working. He was wild and adventurous, but tender in his genuine love and concern for both animals and people. He was full of laughter and full of dreams. Life for him was a daring, glorious adventure. He was truly a golden boy and I will always miss him.

A note from Jimbo’s sister about this blog…

In 1979 my “baby” brother Jimbo was killed. He was just 18 years old, soon to go off to college and then to join his five siblings in the “adult” world. He wasn’t sure, did he want to be an architect or a star hockey player? What would college be like? How badly would he miss the dogs he was saying goodbye to? 

No one knows truly what thoughts he was thinking on August 10, 1979. He didn’t get the chance to share them. There is so much he didn’t get the chance to do and we didn’t get the chance to notice.

We were all devastated, my parents undoubtedly most of all. For myself, “just” a sister, I remember so much about my reaction. I went back to Denver and back to work, as a young associate in a law firm. At first, I was completely disoriented. I remember struggling to finish thoughts, as I would lose track of the beginning of a sentence before I reached the end. Not good for a lawyer!

But I also was angry, so angry, at everyone and everything. I remember thinking that what I was working on or what other lawyers were concerned about was just so trivial, it did not bear a moment’s attention. When a female partner for whom I was doing work said to me 3 weeks after his death, “But you’re all over that now, aren’t you?” I could only look at her in disbelief. 

It’s hard to really “get” it if you haven’t been there. You can read about grief, but what does it mean to lose someone you know so well, someone whom you expect to be part of your life forever? How can you tell people what someone was really like after he’s gone?

It’s said, “No parent should lose a child,” and any parent who has knows what that means. My parents know. And several years after his death my mother produced a spiral-bound book, titled “My Son Jimbo,” for those who never had a chance to know him. She thought to write it for all of Jimbo’s nieces and nephews who were very young or yet unborn when he died. But I have given her book to countless friends, and every one is touched by it.

So I’ve decided to let more of the world know, through this blog. I plan simply to go through the book, copying excerpts here. Perhaps I’ll add a story or two of my own, or add what my brothers and sisters might want to say. It’s just a tribute and an offering. I hope you get to know him as we have.

Jimbo’s sister, Sherry