Goodbye My Friend...
I believe some people come into your life exactly when you need them.
That’s what happened with Jimmy.
From the moment we became neighbors on Aquatic Way, we were thick as thieves. Two guys going gangbusters trying to get our homes dialed in—every last detail… including, of course, the flag out back.
Jimmy didn’t waste time. First thing he did was thumb his nose at the rules and put in a patio.
Naturally… I followed suit.
And yeah… we both caught a little heat from the condo association.
Jimmy would just grin and say, “Life’s too short… don’t sweat the small stuff.”
He had this way about him. He’d start a sentence with,
“Not to act like your father or anything…”
…and then drop absolute gold.
Wisdom from a guy who always called himself “just a dumb truck driver.”
He was anything but.
We only had less than eight years together… but damn, we made the most of it.
We connected every day. And I mean every day.
If I didn’t reach out? He’d get straight-up pissed off.
Somewhere along the way, he put this tiny couch in his garage—wedged between the wall and his beloved Mustang—and that became our spot.
We’d squeeze into that thing and solve most of the world’s problems on a regular basis.
I always loved listening to Jimmy tell his stories.
Over time, I could recite them myself… and he’d still start with,
“I probably already told you this one, but…”
And I’d listen. Every time.
When I started going LIVE every day, I talked about Jimmy a lot.
People got to know him… even if they never met him.
He made it to our wedding in August.
There was no way he was missing that.
He adored Wendy… always made sure he got a big hug.
I hugged him too. A lot.
And I told him I loved him every chance I got.
He was proud of me.
Always wanted to know what I was doing, what I was building, what was next.
When we told him and Jackie we were moving to northern Maine… that one hit hard.
I said, “Well… we’ve got some news, and you might not like it…”
Jackie said, “Well… as long as you’re not MOVING!”
We all laughed… but they understood.
Jimmy gave me a hard time about it, of course… but then he started talking about his time up in The County.
Said it was “about the closest you could get to heaven while still here on earth.”
And then—like always—he launched into a story.
Running out of gas just before the Sherman exit on one of his snowmobile trips.
Now that’s our exit.
The Sherman exit.
And every time I see it… I think of Jimmy and his “gas” story.
One of the things I’ll miss the most is the way he would exit a conversation.
We’d be outside, chopping it up, laughing… and you could feel it coming.
He’d start setting it up… leading you down the road…
then drop a one-liner, throw his hand over his head and say,
“I’ll see you later.”
And he’d already be walking away.
Didn’t matter if you responded…
his hearing was terrible, and he wasn’t about to ruin the timing of a perfect exit.
It was actually brilliant.
He always knew exactly when the conversation was over.
One of my favorite stories was when Walmart finally had enough of him returning stuff without receipts and banned him for a year.
His response?
“I’ve been thrown out of better places.”
That was Jimmy.
And when I think about legacy…
a lot of people think it’s what you leave behind.
I don’t believe that.
I think it’s what you leave IN people.
Jimmy left something in all of us.
And in me… he left a few lessons.
But the biggest one?
Always do what you say you’re going to do.
He also left me something else… a Standard.
Jimmy was always squared away.
Some people let themselves go a little bit as they get older.
Not Jimmy.
He was at Planet Fitness every morning.
He ran a tight ship.
He never let getting older become an excuse to lower his standards or compromise his routine.
That was just who he was.
As his health started to decline, our visits became even more meaningful.
And the truth is… while those last couple of years were hard, there was a silver lining.
Jimmy got to say goodbye.
He got to tell the people he loved exactly how he felt about them… and we got to do the same.
Not everyone gets to do that.
When I think about it, that might be one of the greatest gifts a person can receive—
to go out with grace, with nothing left unsaid.
A couple weeks ago, when I saw him for the last time, we sat together for a couple of hours… just talking like we always did.
We even “Facetimed” Dave in Florida.
And he told me something I’ll never forget:
He had no regrets.
A life well lived.
And somehow… knowing he got to say his goodbyes, on his terms, with the people he loved…
makes me incredibly grateful.
What I miss most… is our time on that couch.
We used to talk about “getting back out on the couch”… but we never made it.
So I’m taking that old, beat-up, perfect couch with me.
It’s going to be a permanent fixture in my home.
A place where I can sit… and talk to Jimmy.
Just off the Sherman exit.
In a place about as close to him as I can get…
while still here on earth.
“You didn’t just leave memories, Jimmy… you left standards.
Life’s too short… don’t sweat the small stuff.
I hear you, Jimmy.”
