By Mike Pound
mpound@joplinglobe.com
Jim Brock was buried Wednesday afternoon at Stone Cemetery, which is not too far from where he was born more than 106 years ago.
It’s amazing how life tends to move in large, seemingly random paths and still manages to wind its way back to where it all began.
Jim was born on his family’s farm between the Fidelity and Scotland communities. His father, a doctor who served as a surgeon in the Civil War, was 76 when Jim was born. He died when he was 89, and Jim told me several years ago that his father would have lived longer had he not been thrown from a horse.
When I met Jim, he was 101. I mentioned at the time, when I wrote a column about Jim, that I didn’t have much experience writing about 101-year-old men. I have even less experience writing about men who make it to 106.
Linda Heman, Jim’s niece, told me about her uncle’s passing. I spoke to her Wednesday afternoon shortly after Jim’s grave site service. She told me that until about a month ago, Jim was doing fine and living in his home in La Russell.
“He was in the hospital two years ago for gall bladder surgery, and that was the first time he had ever been in the hospital,” she said. “Up until about six weeks ago he was still driving to the (La Russell) post office.”
Linda said Jim had been in McCune Brooks Hospital and was moved to a nursing home last Monday. He died last Wednesday.
I mentioned to Linda that one of the things I remember most about Jim was how often he laughed. And when Jim laughed, he really laughed. He would tilt his head back a bit, let out a giggle, slap a knee and then let out a big laugh.
“He was a big practical joker and he loved to laugh,” she said.
I don’t think you live to be 106 without a sense of humor. I also don’t think you live to be 106 unless you still love living. And Jim loved living. It was his love of life, his love of laughter that, I think, always made him appear much younger than he was.
When I interviewed Jim five years ago, for example, he didn’t look or act like he was 101. Linda told me that her uncle always appeared to be at least 20 years younger than he was. Not an easy thing to do, it seems to me, when you get to an age where everyone you know is younger than you are.
At his service Wednesday afternoon were several of Jim’s recent hunting buddies. They were all in their 50s.
“What does that say about someone, when your hunting buddies are half your age?” Linda asked.
It says a lot, is what it says.
Jim’s mother passed away when he was very young, and after his father died Jim moved to his uncle’s farm. Eventually, Jim moved to St. Louis, where he ran a power plant during the Depression. Later he moved his family to Alaska, where he lived and worked for many years.
He moved back to Southwest Missouri in the 1960s, bought a farm on the Spring River and lived there for 30 years. His wife died in 1984. A son passed away five or six years ago, as did a son-in-law.
I remember mentioning to Jim that it seemed to me the downside to living as long as he had was seeing so many people die, and he nodded his head.
“Oh goodness,” he said. “I’ve lost thousands of people all over the country.”
When Jim said that, he didn’t say it in a “woe is me” way. He just said it and then started talking about something else. Later that day, Jim told me that he was happy with the way his life had turned out.
“I’ve had a good life,” he said. “I’ve got to roam the hills and I’ve got to fish.”
Sounds pretty good to me.
Linda said she figured I would want to know about Jim’s passing. She said she thought other folks should know, too.
Linda is right. It’s hard to know what to say when someone passes away at the age of 106. I mean it’s hard to say that person got cheated out of life. But in Jim’s case I don’t know.
“It’s sad. He was a link to our past,” Linda said. “He was a walking history book really, and just a sweet man.”
