This month would’ve been my friend Jimmy’s birthday. Jimmy spent his life helping people. He was a hub of energy and generosity and his friends spun around him like satellites, reflecting and repaying his support by thriving under his guidance, while he basked in their glow.
By choice, he died alone and his funeral was a beautiful service with very thoughtful readings, and as testament to his generosity the crematorium was packed to overflowing. People from all walks of life filled the seats and aisles, spilled into the foyer, and outside to the car park.
Back in 1971 I was sitting on the grass in Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens, considering my options. My feet were bare and I can still remember how warm the grass felt between my toes. I’d spent the afternoon getting stoned with my hippy friends, listening to Neil Young’s new album ‘After the Goldrush’, on an ancient mono record player in someone’s bedsit, where the air was heavy with the smell of patchouli oil and joss sticks. Cody, who was American and doing a Foundation Year at the local Art College strummed along on guitar. He looked a lot like James Taylor and I fancied the pants off him, but he saved his crooning for Michelle and I couldn’t compete with her Joni Mitchell blondness.
It was my Ethereal Phase and I was wearing a long black silk skirt with silver stars, and a peach satin blouse with Guinevere sleeves that dipped down to my knees. Jimmy sat down on the grass beside me and we smiled. He admired my skirt, and in that blissed-out way you can’t stop babbling when you’re stoned, I told him how I’d printed it myself with a potato cut into star shape, and dipped in shoe dye to get the silver colour. We carried on talking, he rolled more joints and we carried on talking more. He told me he’d been in the London cast of the musical Hair, but the musical director said he couldn’t work alongside people with the star-sign Leo, so he let Jimmy go. He was heartbroken. We talked about everything and nothing until it got dark.
Apart from two major tiffs (one his fault, one mine) we didn’t stop talking for the next forty-four years. We shared pivotal times as we changed styles and persona. We morphed from hippies to punk, dressing in outfits from Malcolm Mclaren’s famous boutique in London’s Kings Road. We became disco divas and went clubbing; invariably fancying the same men. We saw iconic rock bands play live, and Ella Fitzgerald accompanied on the piano by Count Basie. We shared the heartache of our love lives, worked together selling antiques, and were beside eachother when plans and marriages collapsed, and when parents died. We shared more than half a lifetime.
Somehow without any of us noticing, Jimmy’s resources drained. He was unable to replenish, revitalise and reconnect his amazing energy, and without giving, he felt he couldn’t continue living. With careful planning he took his own life; on a cold February morning he walked a long way across the heathland to a lone tree where he hung himself. I know he wouldn’t have thought of me, of us, any more than he could’ve thought of any of the people who mourned at his funeral because that would have been too painful, and he had something to do that morning which required single-minded determination. And courage.
So, take time today. Take however much time you need to be kind, gentle and nurturing to yourself. Take time to be selfish and remember that by always putting others first, you are teaching them to put you last. Do all the things that make you feel good, feel alive and replenished. Remember you are loved by others and remember to love yourself because you are all you have.
And remember to Let the Sun Shine In, especially when the clouds feel feel like they will never lift.
a horse, a husband, and cancer 
Leo’s are the best people
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hahaha! you have to say that, although we all know its Capricorns who rule!
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I remember us talking about Jimmy when I was stalling next to you in Wimborne. Seems a lifetime ago. So much water under the bridge even since then. Sending bunches x
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Sue, that was a lifetime away when we were different people. And here we are having re-invented ourselves yet again, and still able to find a connection from our past. Thankyou for commenting, its a lovely thought to know you’re out there reading xx
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Beautiful and so painfully real, what a tragedy for those left behind but your conclusion is so powerful.
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thankyou Susan. It was a tragedy, but I feel so honoured to have been part of his life and that’s what I always try to concentrate on
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This is such a beautiful tribute to your friend and very moving to read. x
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thankyou Jane, a lovely comment from one who is well versed in these tributes.
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What a beautiful tribute to your friend….he sounds magic.
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Melanie, he was one of lifes good people and the world is a poorer place for his early departure. But he did what he felt he had to do and respecting that courageous act is my way of honouring him.
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I Loved reading about Jimmy today.. thank you….
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thankyou for reading foresthorse, and for commenting. I love knowing that you’re there. Oh, and your profile photo is absolutely stunning…with the sun shining through…
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When friends mean as much or more than family… Here’s to Jimmy, and other friends who take themselves away. We are poorer but also so much better for knowing them. That apparent kindness of putting others first is indeed a trap. Thank you my friend.
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thank YOU Anna for giving me the confidence, and the mighty push to take my words into the world. Friends who mean more than family indeedy.
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So moving, and what a wonderful tribute to your friend Jimmy.
In that photo you are so alike, souls that were obviously meant to find each other and bump along through life whether together or apart. I had a similar friendship, but she was taken from me by cancer much too soon, back in 2004, the year I met Alan. We had been good friends since our mid teens, sharing everything that life and boys bring to teenage girls. We reconnected on a regular basis all through our lives, even though we were both with husbands that hated that we were so ‘together’ and needed each other more than we needed them.
Jimmy sounds absolutely wonderful and you were lucky to have known him, and he was lucky to have felt your friendship and love throughout all those years. Your final but one paragraph so resonated with me.
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“We reconnected on a regular basis all through our lives, even though we were both with husbands that hated that we were so ‘together’ and needed each other more than we needed them.” Sue, the more I get to know you through our words, the more our lives have echoed each others along their paths.
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Once again you capture a moment and a person with grace and compassion. I feel your loss woven with understanding. I agree that to be strong and caring for others, we need to visit our well of replenishment, whatever form that takes. Oh, I envy your hippy outfit. I am just barely too young to have chosen my own clothes in 1972.
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thankyou Amy for your kind words. And yes, that outfit . . .I felt so good in it, I think I wore the peach satin blouse until it fell apart. The pintucks, the pleats, and the SLEEVES!
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OMG Elaine, What a piece, Beautiful Jimmy, your words meant a lot to me today. thank you.
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Ah, Debbie you have heartbreak of your own, and one loss recalls all losses. You’ll find solace in writing about your own memories, it does help.
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“Some how with out any of us noticing , Jimmy’s resources drained.” This line has haunted me and provided such insight into how private your friend was. Telling his storie gracefully as you do.
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To this day I don’t know how I didn’t notice Kimberley, or may be I did but he wouldn’t allow me to do anything, so I didn’t.
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I love this. Deeply touched by the connectivity over the years and by his solitary choice to end things. Thank you for honoring his gifts. I think too often the thought of suicide is a conversation stopper. It’s a moment not a lifetime.
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Lasell, you’ve SO hit the point! One can recount everything wonderful about someone, but as soon as suicide is mentioned, its time for instant judgement. How someone dies should not define their entire life, nor should it be the benchmark to measure what their worth was. As you so succinctly say, ‘It’s a moment not a lifetime’
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