Excerpt From Jim’s Feature Reading At Larry’s 3.16.98 Columbus

Alright, we're going out of here. It's been an interesting life, one thing after another.
My real mother died when I was 17. It took about 10 or 15 years to push her back a little bit, so she wasn't always in my mind and about 10 days ago, my stepmother died, my second mother, my father's second companion was gone, and now my father is sitting alone in a house in Florida with my brother who lives in Vermont, but is being forced to move down there to be with his father. I came back, I was still pretty emotional about, wеll actually, let me backpedal hеre. When I heard she died, before I went down, I wrote this piece. This is from my stepmother, I may condense a little bit.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and you sprang from the well of well-being. The beauty you offered us all will outlive you in a mad rush, a haze, a blaze of memories, poured through the ether like maybe you were cheated this time. I awoke and made the call, you were already gone. Nobody told me you were even ready to go. I couldn't hear you laugh, I wouldn't be able to sit at the kitchen table with you again or help you to your room, so you could lay down. You made my father so happy, brought him so much joy. I'd like to thank you, love me, and accepted me for who I was and who I still am. I remember when you came to live with us. He took me out for a sandwich and cried as you thanked me for accepting you as my new mother. You don't know, can't comprehend how deeply and in pure heart I accepted you as my new mother. Never a crutch. I've had to be strong in this life, have lost a lot, gained a bit. You never had to question my honor, my respect, and my love for you. I didn't take you in, my dear father Vincent did. You told me the story about how before the war you were 14, my dad was 17. You'd let all the air out of your bicycle tires, then you'd wheeled a bike down Williston Road in South Burlington, Vermont. You'd wheel that bike down Williston Road, or was it 1940? Yeah, you'd wheeled that bike into the service station that my dad worked out with his mechanic hands. And you'd tell him, "Vinny, look, all the air went out of my tires again. Do you believe it, Vinny?" And I'm sure my dad would chuckle, and he'd grab the hose that had the tire valve on the end of it. And he'd fill them damn tires up like a saint. Saint Vincent at the service station, South Burlington, Vermont. I can hear the hiss of the air hose. I can picture you, Karin, as you smiled down at my father as he filled your bike tires. Then he was called to duty. Hitler needed exterminated, needed a red, white and blue boot straight up his ass. You went. God, I admire you for that, father. You fought on your belly, and you did what needed to be done. And I'm not, and I'm sure you didn't complain, not once. You became a major eventually. Those were different times, this I understand. I wouldn't go. Never. And, Vincent, you married my mother, Ruth, during the war. Raised me and three siblings well. I thank you, you gave me a strong foundation. My boyhood was truly wonderful. Walking the woods and meadows in South Burlington, Vermont. I would pick fresh raspberries in the woods when I was eight. Mom, you baked them in a pie and when the pie was done, you'd serve it up with chocolate milk. God, I was tiny then. Life was perfect, priceless, calm, serene. We lived at Tulane and Wood Drive. Our family so happy just to have a black and white set. One summer, me and Kathy melted crayons on the brick porch in the summer heat. I have a photo of that. Childhood so powerful and blinding in the rearview. And mother, you'd live for 53 years. Your health was never good. Your heart enlarged, fluid in your lungs. You died in a Florida hospital. Doctor said, "well, she's dead." Just like I was at a cookout when somebody said the meat was ready.
That's as far as I got on that piece. Thanks for being patient. You're welcome.