July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
A look at the 'three Jims' (4/13/05)
Dear Reader
By By Jack Ronald-
One of the things they don’t tell you when you get into community journalism is that eventually — if you stay in it long enough — you end up writing the obituaries of family members and old friends.
The hardest part of that job — aside from the emotional wear and tear — is figuring out the “who” phrase, which is essential to the lead.
As in, “John Doe, who taught the world to sing, died Tuesday night. He was 75.”
It’s not easy, and often the obit writer fails to do the person justice. You can’t sum up a meaningful life in a handful of words.
And with someone like Jim Luginbill, you barely scratch the surface.
In Jim’s case, it was his public life which took precedence in his obit. When you run for public office, a part of your life forever belongs to your constituents. That’s particularly true when you serve those constituents as well and as wisely as Jim Luginbill did during three terms as mayor of Portland and two terms on the city council.
But like any public figure, Jim had a private life as well, as a father, a husband, and as a friend. In Jim’s case, it’s safe to say that while the public accomplishments were great, the private accomplishments were every bit their equal.
For me, however, Jim Luginbill doesn’t break down into the public man and the private man.
Instead, I’ve been reflecting on the privilege I’ve had of knowing Jim three completely different ways over the years.
The first was simply as “Uncle Jim.”
At the Luginbill home, first at Meridian Heights and later — and most memorably — on East Arch Street, I had the opportunity to enjoy Uncle Jim the way all uncles ought to be enjoyed — as an adult figure who always seemed to be more fun than my own parents.
It was at the Luginbill household, for example, that Sunday supper was often popcorn and vanilla ice cream, gathered around the TV on one of those Dunbar sofas that Aunt Jean seemed to be able to buy for $3 at local auctions.
The second Jim Luginbill I had the pleasure of knowing was the public Jim, “Mayor Jim,” as Mayor Bruce Hosier dubbed him.
This was the Jim Luginbill who could talk — endlessly, it seemed — about stormwater drainage and separated sewers. The Jim Luginbill who followed city garbage trucks for miles to see if manpower was being used efficiently.
It was also the Jim Luginbill who was, as Vicki Tague pointed out last week, the right guy at the right time for the city of Portland and Jay County
It’s not an overstatement to say that this community faced a crisis in the early 1980s. Sheller-Globe had closed its plant, efforts to attract new industry were uncoordinated and ineffective. By most estimates, a thousand jobs had been lost in the county over a few short years.
When most retirees would have been checking out condos in Florida, Jim set to work. He brought together a core group of individuals which started gathering for breakfast weekly at Richard’s Restaurant. They talked. They argued. They plotted. They picked up ideas and tossed them aside.
But mostly — thanks to Jim’s leadership — they stayed focused on the problem at hand and kept working on ways to fix it. Did everything they tried work? Of course not.
But the track record — which was included in last week’s obituary — is pretty remarkable: Two industrial parks, hundreds of new jobs, major improvements to the city’s infrastructure.
One thing that stands out from that era was Jim’s insistence upon thinking of Jay County as a single community. He simply rejected out of hand the notion that Portland and Dunkirk and Redkey and the rest should be facing the future on their own. We’re a community of 22,000 people, he used to say. That’s the way we need to think, and that’s the way we need to act.
The third Jim Luginbill I had the pleasure of knowing is the Monday Jim, the guy I got to know in a completely different way after he moved to Swiss Village.
Believe it or not, Jim was the one reading “Tuesdays with Morrie” when I started making my weekly trips up to Berne. I didn’t get around to reading it until a few years later.
There was a familiar ritual in those days. Bob Weinland, whom I also had the pleasure of knowing when I was a kid and as an adult, would join us in Jim’s apartment. There would be a bottle of wine — usually a good California red — maybe some pistachios or some sharp aged Swiss cheese and a few crackers.
And there would be gossip. I served as the pipeline for political information and stuff that hadn’t yet made its way into print. They provided endless tales of past scandals and intrigues.
Mostly, I just listened. It was a rare treat, as I wrote in a column after Bob’s death, to watch and listen to two guys who had formed such a deep and profound friendship so late in life.
Like Jim’s public record — his long list of achievements after age 65 — it served as a concrete reminder that it’s never too late to grow, to build new relationships, or to face new challenges.
Parkinson’s, of course, played the role of Jim’s final challenge. He faced it in typical fashion, plunging headlong into research about the disease and going public with his condition so he could educate others. The disease, he knew, was one tough, long road.
But even when he hit the tough spots, Jim did whatever he could to assert control over his life.
In some ways, in spite of all his other accomplishments, I think one of his proudest moments came when he decided to move into Edelweiss, the health care unit at Swiss Village.
He had been having blackout experiences and had fallen several times. Finally he fell while shopping at the locker in Berne. Though he had hit his head and was bleeding, he managed to get back in his car and drove back to Swiss Village.
Lost amid the various Swiss Village roads, confused, and probably with a concussion, he finally made his way back to his garage and his apartment. There, he made a firm decision. He would give up the car, though he loved to drive, and give up the apartment, though he loved the independence.
He would, in short, take control of the situation. Parkinson’s was attacking his body, but he was still in charge of his own life.
That was Jim’s way.
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The hardest part of that job — aside from the emotional wear and tear — is figuring out the “who” phrase, which is essential to the lead.
As in, “John Doe, who taught the world to sing, died Tuesday night. He was 75.”
It’s not easy, and often the obit writer fails to do the person justice. You can’t sum up a meaningful life in a handful of words.
And with someone like Jim Luginbill, you barely scratch the surface.
In Jim’s case, it was his public life which took precedence in his obit. When you run for public office, a part of your life forever belongs to your constituents. That’s particularly true when you serve those constituents as well and as wisely as Jim Luginbill did during three terms as mayor of Portland and two terms on the city council.
But like any public figure, Jim had a private life as well, as a father, a husband, and as a friend. In Jim’s case, it’s safe to say that while the public accomplishments were great, the private accomplishments were every bit their equal.
For me, however, Jim Luginbill doesn’t break down into the public man and the private man.
Instead, I’ve been reflecting on the privilege I’ve had of knowing Jim three completely different ways over the years.
The first was simply as “Uncle Jim.”
At the Luginbill home, first at Meridian Heights and later — and most memorably — on East Arch Street, I had the opportunity to enjoy Uncle Jim the way all uncles ought to be enjoyed — as an adult figure who always seemed to be more fun than my own parents.
It was at the Luginbill household, for example, that Sunday supper was often popcorn and vanilla ice cream, gathered around the TV on one of those Dunbar sofas that Aunt Jean seemed to be able to buy for $3 at local auctions.
The second Jim Luginbill I had the pleasure of knowing was the public Jim, “Mayor Jim,” as Mayor Bruce Hosier dubbed him.
This was the Jim Luginbill who could talk — endlessly, it seemed — about stormwater drainage and separated sewers. The Jim Luginbill who followed city garbage trucks for miles to see if manpower was being used efficiently.
It was also the Jim Luginbill who was, as Vicki Tague pointed out last week, the right guy at the right time for the city of Portland and Jay County
It’s not an overstatement to say that this community faced a crisis in the early 1980s. Sheller-Globe had closed its plant, efforts to attract new industry were uncoordinated and ineffective. By most estimates, a thousand jobs had been lost in the county over a few short years.
When most retirees would have been checking out condos in Florida, Jim set to work. He brought together a core group of individuals which started gathering for breakfast weekly at Richard’s Restaurant. They talked. They argued. They plotted. They picked up ideas and tossed them aside.
But mostly — thanks to Jim’s leadership — they stayed focused on the problem at hand and kept working on ways to fix it. Did everything they tried work? Of course not.
But the track record — which was included in last week’s obituary — is pretty remarkable: Two industrial parks, hundreds of new jobs, major improvements to the city’s infrastructure.
One thing that stands out from that era was Jim’s insistence upon thinking of Jay County as a single community. He simply rejected out of hand the notion that Portland and Dunkirk and Redkey and the rest should be facing the future on their own. We’re a community of 22,000 people, he used to say. That’s the way we need to think, and that’s the way we need to act.
The third Jim Luginbill I had the pleasure of knowing is the Monday Jim, the guy I got to know in a completely different way after he moved to Swiss Village.
Believe it or not, Jim was the one reading “Tuesdays with Morrie” when I started making my weekly trips up to Berne. I didn’t get around to reading it until a few years later.
There was a familiar ritual in those days. Bob Weinland, whom I also had the pleasure of knowing when I was a kid and as an adult, would join us in Jim’s apartment. There would be a bottle of wine — usually a good California red — maybe some pistachios or some sharp aged Swiss cheese and a few crackers.
And there would be gossip. I served as the pipeline for political information and stuff that hadn’t yet made its way into print. They provided endless tales of past scandals and intrigues.
Mostly, I just listened. It was a rare treat, as I wrote in a column after Bob’s death, to watch and listen to two guys who had formed such a deep and profound friendship so late in life.
Like Jim’s public record — his long list of achievements after age 65 — it served as a concrete reminder that it’s never too late to grow, to build new relationships, or to face new challenges.
Parkinson’s, of course, played the role of Jim’s final challenge. He faced it in typical fashion, plunging headlong into research about the disease and going public with his condition so he could educate others. The disease, he knew, was one tough, long road.
But even when he hit the tough spots, Jim did whatever he could to assert control over his life.
In some ways, in spite of all his other accomplishments, I think one of his proudest moments came when he decided to move into Edelweiss, the health care unit at Swiss Village.
He had been having blackout experiences and had fallen several times. Finally he fell while shopping at the locker in Berne. Though he had hit his head and was bleeding, he managed to get back in his car and drove back to Swiss Village.
Lost amid the various Swiss Village roads, confused, and probably with a concussion, he finally made his way back to his garage and his apartment. There, he made a firm decision. He would give up the car, though he loved to drive, and give up the apartment, though he loved the independence.
He would, in short, take control of the situation. Parkinson’s was attacking his body, but he was still in charge of his own life.
That was Jim’s way.
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