My brother Jim (by adoption, not related to Patrick) passed away a couple of years ago. This is the eulogy I wrote for him, shared with you here with his wife’s permission. He was a big Star Wars fan, so I’ve scheduled publication for May the Fourth.

Let’s Get Started

Here’s the really, really short version:  Jim loved you all very much. Always remember that.

What, you want more?

Introduction – A Doer and a Teacher

This, my friends, is a deep wall 10 mm, six point, 3/8^th drive socket. With this socket you can fix almost anything on a 1956 VW Beetle.  You know how I know that?  Because Jim taught me.

[Point to family.] This is love.  Jim taught me that too, not by telling but by showing, by doing, by loving.

When I first met Jim, he was still my new “Uncle Jimmy” because of our weird family story. He was probably 15 and I was 7 or 8. I was visiting my grandfather’s house and Jim, being Jim, was helping me with an electric toy, probably a car, digging around trying to find two wires to repair it. I declared “You have two wires in your hand,” but he explained no, this piece is actually solder.

That meant nothing to me, but not only did Jim fix my little electric car, he taught me what he was doing and how to do it.

A few years later Jim and I lived in Hawaii with my grandfather John and Willie. They’d recently adopted me so “Uncle Jimmy” became “my brother Jim.”

It was there on Anapa Street that he bought his 1956 VW Beetle, now parked just down the road from here. We worked on that car from time to time. Once, on Olaloa St, he borrowed my skateboard to use as an engine dolly. He turned wrenches and I learned which wrenches to turn.

Now jump forward to just two months ago when I was visiting Jim and Becky. My youngest niece Abby and her friend Nicole tagged along. Jim planned to rebuild that VW engine again and had it completely apart, and our plan was for Jim, Randy, and I to reassemble it. Just like those times over fifty years ago, he was not only eager to do the work, he enjoyed showing the young girls how it all goes together. Abby told me yesterday: “Jim was really nice, and his voice was unique.”

In short, my brother was a doer who used his unique voice to teach. He was one of those rare people that could accomplish both: the doing and the teaching.

Begats and Begots

It’s traditional to offer up the “begats and begots” at a time like this.  This next part is complicated so try to keep up.

Randy and Jimmy’s parents, Dan and Wilma Farber, could not have children of their own. Their friends in Rochester, New York, Carl and Barbara Brautigam, had a lot of kids. Willie told me that when Barbara got pregnant yet again, Carl told her they couldn’t afford to have any more children. Knowing Dan and Willie’s situation, Carl said, “Let’s let the Farbers adopt the baby.” Barbara was very much against it, but finally acquiesced.

Nine months later Randy was born and Dan and Willie became parents.

Fast forward two years. Barbara was pregnant again. This time, they were in better financial shape. Carl said they could keep this baby, but Barbara declared “No! Randy needs a baby brother or sister.” This time Carl relented, and Jimmy joined his older brother in the Farber household.

As a result, Randy and Jim are both adopted, both born in Rochester, and both are true biological brothers.

Okay so far?

Early Years

James Farber was born September 29, 1948. His middle name is Mack. Once, as a toddler, he got separated from Willie and Dan in a department store.  A store employee rescued him and asked his name. Jimmy replied “James McFarber.” 

Ted, you’ll need to help Becky update all the legal documents to McFarber accordingly.

Jim learned to climb before he could walk and at least once ended up on top of the refrigerator, according to Willie. 

Randy could not corroborate but I remembered asking Jim about that once. He said “Yeah, it’s easier to climb than to walk because you don’t need to balance.”

Willie also told me that when Jim was two or three years old, he started taking clocks apart.

A year later he was putting them back together. Now that’s the Jim I remember!

Around age four in Coral Gables, the boys spent a lot of time at the pool after learning to swim. Kind of like the grandkids, huh? Jim became an accomplished board diver, both low and high dives.

At age five in Niagara Falls, Jim learned to play Monopoly. He and Randy spent a lot of time playing together. Hold that thought, I’ll come back to it in a moment.

A year later the family lived in Snyder, New York, for a short time. Randy had chickenpox and couldn’t leave their apartment, so when Jim heard the ice cream truck go by, he went down to get something for his sick brother and himself. On the way back he was chased by the local bully.

When Jim reached the building he put one hand on the knob and one on the glass to get in.

Unfortunately, the glass gave way first and he received a large cut on his forehead, severing the muscles that controlled his eyeballs.

A famous eye surgeon, in town for another patient, saw Jim come into the hospital and took him straight into surgery.  The specialist was able to save Jim’s eyesight and left him with a barely visible horizontal “S” shaped scar.

As you can tell by now, the Farbers moved around a lot. Dan worked for an insurance company, setting up new offices all around the country. This made it difficult for Jim to make friends because he knew that in a few months or a year he would never see them again.

When Randy mentioned this to Becky eight weeks ago, this resolved the one big mystery about Jim she’d wondered about for decades.

Returning to the Begats and Begots

Dan Farber suffered the first of several heart attacks in 1959 in San Diego, so they stayed with Willie’s parents in Indiana while Dan recovered. The boys slept on a foldout couch in the living room.

Dan suffered several more heart attacks and died in 1961 in Melbourne.

You might say Jim “acted out” around that time. One time Willie told Randy to go clean the utility room.

Jim had taken everything apart in there – but this time he didn’t put it all back together.

Their mom Willie subsequently met my grandfather John Dillon through her brother-in-law Keith.  John and Willie married in 1962, then moved from Melbourne to Gainesville. Randy stayed behind with Uncle Keith and Aunt Madalyn to finish out his senior year of high school.

The Most Important Part of His Life – Meeting Becky

And now for the most important part of Jim’s life.

It began at Gainesville High School. Jim was new to the neighborhood, a freshman, and barely a teenager when he met Becky. She was a year younger and in the eighth grade, but Jim had befriended Becky’s boyfriend. They rode their bikes to the Junior High to visit Becky and other girls, where Jim was welcomed into their little circle.  

When Becky first saw him walking down the hall, she said (and I quote): “I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen.”  Initially they were all just hanging out together, but eventually Jim and Becky became a couple.

Can you believe that was sixty years ago now?

At the time, my mom also lived in Gainesville, attending UF after my dad Patrick had split. She told me recently that before Jim could drive, she used to chaperone Jim around town, to after school speed reading classes and even to hootenannies.

I’m struggling to visualize him playing the role of a young Bohemian, but my mom assured me they were there, and both sat quietly and enjoyed the music.

Even after Jim’s family moved to Tampa in November 1964, he continued to visit Becky at every opportunity, driving an old MG into the ground, forgetting to check the oil. (He didn’t learn much about auto mechanics until after he moved to Hawaii, where a neighbor taught him about tools and repairs.)

Randy reported for active duty in the Navy around February 1966, the same time that Jim, John, and Willie moved to Hawaii.

Jim promised to write Becky, but the little stinker never did. Every day she’d go to the mailbox, and every day her hopes were dashed, leaving her heartbroken. 

Thanks to Randy’s insight two months ago, she finally understands why.

Meanwhile, it took another year and a half before Jim reappeared, knocking on her door and surprising everyone. Like a moth to a flame or some other romantic analogy, Becky drew Jim back to the mainland, back to Florida, and it was only a matter of time until he proposed – and she accepted.

Marriage

I still remember the look on Jim’s face the day he and Becky married fifty-two years ago. As she walked down the aisle, Jim had the biggest, happiest grin I’d ever seen.

It was like he’d just won the lottery, a lifetime pass to every Disney park, and backstage access for all the Star Wars sets, all at the same time.

The wedding itself was delayed a bit. Randy’s job as Best Man was to deliver Jim’s tuxedo and that ’56 Beetle to the church for the post-wedding getaway – I was riding shotgun, I think – but unfortunately he couldn’t keep the engine running. Finally, we took Becky’s dad’s car to the church and decorated it with the ribbons and cans of the day.

When Jim and Becky completed the ceremony, their first stop was the house to switch vehicles.

Jim quickly figured out that a pin in the fuel pump had worked loose. Still in his tuxedo, he made a quick repair and they were off.

They had quite a drive ahead of them, to Sanibel Island. Famished, they stopped along the way in St. Pete for a late dinner, but the only restaurant open was McDonald’s. As a result, every year on their anniversary, they returned to the clown joint for a burger.

My former wife Donna loved Jim and Becky. Recently she told me, “I have always admired that they found each other when they were young, and had a long, happy marriage. That is not easy.” 

She also liked the sentiment of recreating their McDonald’s honeymoon every anniversary.

Life with Becky

Jim, having graduated from Chaminade College with a degree in French, knew the military was eager to get their hands on him for Viet Nam. To avoid the draft he enlisted in the Navy as a nuclear tech on a submarine.

As Randy can attest, Navy life is tough if you have a family, and it’s especially tough for submariners.

He’d spend many months beneath the surface, leaving Becky to deal with the day-to-day challenges like infrequent visits from their kid brother – that was me – and trying to make ends meet. Because of his low wages, the Navy told Becky her family was eligible for food stamps and welfare, but they somehow managed to proudly scrape by without assistance.

When I visited in 1972, Jim was home for tech school in upstate New York and Becky was pregnant with Marie. I brought my slot cars and Jim and I would race them in the evenings.  Years earlier he built a workshop underneath our house on Ka’amilo St, including a racing layout.

He helped me build some of the cars I brought to New York that summer.

Cade, ever wonder where you got your passion for roller coasters? While I was there they took me to an amusement park in Lake George, but Becky couldn’t ride the rides.  Jim and I loved them. I see a hint of your Granddaddy in your roller coaster eyes.

Jim’s devotion to Becky was unending, and when Marie was born, he had so much love in his heart that she also received unending devotion.

Marie, every time I was with your dad, he boasted of your accomplishments, your loves, the things you enjoyed doing.  When you and Ted married, Jim didn’t feel sad for losing his only child.  He was ecstatic that his little girl was happy and starting a family of her own.  And what a family you two have built! His highest joy was being with you all.

I know this is particularly hard for you. Having lost three of my four parents, I can tell you that the pain seems never-ending. Take solace knowing that no parent wants to outlive their children, so Jim’s passing, although too soon, is still the natural order of things.

The feeling of loss never goes away – I won’t fool you into thinking otherwise – but I will tell you that each day the agony is reduced bit by bit. When the grief becomes too much, consciously try to replace those horrible feelings of loss with the wonderful memories you shared.  You and your dad were very, very close. While that closeness amplifies the pain, it enriches the memory banks as well.

My friend Van shared this popular quote: “Grief is the price we pay for having loved.” He pointed out “the bill is exceptionally large this time, but maybe that’s how it should be.”

Marie, because you were so close, you have a treasure trove of great memories, enough to fill ten or a hundred or a thousand Mad Dragon Studios.

Grand Kids

As much as Jim loved Becky and Marie, he loved Olivia and Caden too. The grandkids filled him with great pride.

Jim and his grandkids were on the same wavelength about a lot of things.

Olivia shared his love of VWs and would read his Bug magazines and go to the car shows with him.

Jim and Cade talked the same language that no one else in the family understood. According to Becky, from a very young age Cade could talk on Jim’s level about science, space, and of course, Star Wars. About four years ago Jim realized that Cade had surpassed him on all these topics. 

Jim was proud of them both for their academics, musicianship, performance skills, and singing.

In short, if they were on stage, he was bursting with joy. He was proud of Olivia’s determination, hard work, and courage to chase her dreams, and to have the strength to move to L.A. in that pursuit.

And he was proud of Cade for choosing a college that fits his dreams too.

Olivia, Caden, you are fortunate to have enjoyed such a dedicated, loving audience as your Granddaddy. Perhaps it will help to imagine that he will always be a part of your audience now.

Family Was Everything for Jim

As you can see, for Jim, everything in life was trivial compared to the love he had for his family. Not even Disney or Star Wars brought him as much joy as being with his loved ones.

Here’s an example: After six years of service, the Navy offered Jim a substantial bonus to reenlist after his initial term was up. My brother couldn’t stand the time away from his wife and daughter.

Given this setting, I won’t repeat his exact response to the recruiting officer, but I’ll tell you this: It’s the only time I remember hearing him curse strongly.

Return to Gainesville

As quick as he could, he mustered out and moved his family back to Gainesville, the closest place to home that he knew.

By the way, Jim never wanted to talk about his Navy experience, not even with Randy who is a retired Navy Chief and would understand that life.

It was here in Gainesville that he and Becky raised Marie, helped their relatives, became active in the church, and welcomed his brothers when we visited infrequently.

Once, in 1977, Dean and I drove my old ’63 VW Van cross country, but it was out of tune. Jim got behind the wheel, found a street with an adjacent concrete wall, and drove until he made the engine knock. Then he adjusted the distributor and did it again, leaving us a more reliable vehicle for our trip back to Arizona.

Also in 1977, Randy was stationed in Norfolk, VA.

Each year he visited family in Florida, and always stopped in Gainesville overnight to visit Jim and Becky. One year they said there was a new movie in town that Randy might be interested in, so he tagged along.

They all enjoyed it, a fun little western set in space called Star Wars. A couple of years later they took Randy to the second Star Wars movie. After that it became a tradition to see the latest Star Wars movie each time Randy visited.

Of course, as Sidney pointed out, “Jim was ‘The Force’ long before there was a ‘Star Wars.’”

Sense of Humor

Jim’s sense of humor was subtle, low-key. It flew below the radar. Here are two quick examples. We lived on Ka’amilo St for a time. One day I asked him, “What flavor of Kool-Aid do you want, cherry or strawberry?” He replied, “grape.”

Another time, much earlier, several of us crowded around a Monopoly board in Gainesville. At one point Jim challenged Randy to smoke his cigarette down to where it said Winston.

Randy puffed and puffed all the way to the filter, burning away the logo, and almost burning his lips, then demanded his brother pay up. Jim replied, “I didn’t hear it say anything, did you?”

Jim didn’t need to be the center of attention, so when he cut loose a zinger, it caught you off guard.

Dancing

After several years of classes, in 1983 their friend Nina Cameron opened the DanceCenter. For the next forty years Jim and Becky helped in all manner of ways, from building the stage to wiring up the audio and electrics, from building sets and props to helping in the box office, and even dancing on stage in some of the shows.

In short, Jim showed the same love for his DanceCenter family that he shared with Becky and Marie.

Work

I used to tease Jim about retirement, encouraging him to pull the trigger and step back. After all, I retired at age 59.  The truth is that he enjoyed what he did and felt it was important work at Heat Pipe Technology, so why retire? He gave them 30 good years and they gave him the satisfaction of a job well done.

Closing

This is a 10 mm socket. It fixes a lot of things, but it can’t fix the holes in our hearts.

Jim taught me not only the tools of mechanics and woodworking, but the tools of life, of the importance of family and the nature of relationships.

While I may be a slow learner, his lessons go beyond the time when they were taught; they deserve merit well into the future.

For Jim, it was always about a job well done: returning to his true love, raising a family, helping friends, doing and teaching – all of it.

Jim didn’t care for his time in the Navy, but it comforts me to think of him as a submariner now because, in the Navy, a submarine is never lost at sea.

Instead, it’s listed as on “eternal patrol.”

Perhaps it will help us ease our pain to imagine Jim on eternal patrol, seeking out new Star Wars movies, quietly guiding new family adventures, and triggering happy memories when we’re particularly sad.

Through the legacy of who he was, the skills and values he demonstrated, he has passed on to Marie and Ted, Olivia and Cade, and all the rest of us, those qualities we hold dear.

We will feel Jim will exert his gentle, positive influence for years to come.

Thank you, brother.

Goodbye.