Jim Bartness - Best Man

I remember the first time I saw Jim Bartness. He was lying casually on his side in our dormitory common area as myself and 70 other freshmen were told the rules of on-campus college life by our Blakely Hall Residential Assistants. My first impression wasn't a good one. Jim had a comment for everything, most of them at the expense of the earnest RA's who were just trying to get through a long checklist of do's and don'ts. "Who's the smart ass?" I wondered as Jim gained new friends with each playful remark. Little did I know it in the fall of '85, but that smart ass would turn out to be one of my best friends for the better part of the next, and very formative, five years. 

College still stand out as a vivid island of time in my memory. Everything was new—our friends, our experiences, our struggles. And if a person is lucky enough, the right people appear to help him become more like the person he's meant to be. Jim, and a few treasured others, was such a person. 

Always a ringleader, Jim drew people easily to him. He was always looking for fun, and he wanted you to have fun too. In fact, he insisted on it. So, slowly and grudgingly that first year of college, I became more like the person I wanted to be. I laughed more, took myself less seriously, and started to have fun.

And so it went. By our sophomore year, while living in an on-campus apartment one of our roommates dubbed The Pit (it was), I was welcomed into Jim's family. They came along at just the right time too. Being in a bit of familial limbo at the time, the Bartness' (knowingly or not) filled that void for me. A gregarious father and a doting mother, just the right balance of bullshit and benevolence. Some of my fondest memories are time spent in the company of Steve and Sharon. I'd never experienced generosity like that before. I kind of think Jim knew that, and knew I needed family in my life.

The pinnacle of our friendship occurred a few years later when he asked me to be the best man in his wedding. A huge honor and (naturally) one hell of a party. So asking him to do the same for me two years later was an obvious and easy decision. Best men, we turned toward the next phase of adulthood, gradually fading from each other's lives but carrying with us a treasure trove of cherished memories. 

Now, more than 20 years later, Jim is fighting for his life in an intensive care unit in a St. Paul hospital and all of those memories have returned with a vengeance. My mind flooded by the past, I felt compelled to visit his family at the hospital, but was unsure of myself. After all, so much time had past. What a fool, it turned out, I was.

From the moment I stepped into the waiting room Jim's family had commandeered, his mother made me feel as at home as she had long ago. Offering me food and asking questions, I was reminded of her gentle, caring nature. Meanwhile, sprawled on the floor were Jim's three children, all grown up now, each with lives of their own. A total stranger to them, they welcomed my help on a puzzle being assembled on the waiting room floor and gladly answered my questions about their lives even as their father (who they clearly adore) lay in a room down the hall.

It wasn't until Jim's wife Karin appeared, however, that I was fully reminded how remarkable this family was and still is. She greeted me with a hug and we huddled together as she talked about Jim and the long road of recovery ahead, shock still evident in her words and emotions. She asked if I wanted to see him and I hesitantly said yes. I didn't know what I would find when I turned into his room, but there he was, the same old Jim to me. Sure, he had a breathing tube and was hooked up to other intimidating medical technology, but it was unmistakably Jim. We stayed in the room for only a quiet minute or two and I was tempted to whisper, "Come on, buddy. Get up. I've seen you look worse. Hell, so have you," but was too overcome to say anything more than, "Hey, Jim. I'm here." Karin and I returned to the waiting room where more visitors had begun to arrive. It was time for me to leave.

Almost a week has passed now, Jim is still fighting the same fight, and all I can think of is how his family—in the midst of such a struggle—gave me the same gift Jim's friendship offered so long ago: unconditional acceptance, welcoming hospitality and an effortless generosity of spirit. How is that possible given the circumstances? And yet it's true. I'm sure Jim and his family aren't even aware of the effect they have on people, it's just who and what they are, baked into their DNA over successive generations. 

What better compliment can you give a friend and his family than, "I'm happy when I'm in your company. Thank you."

Keep fighting, Jim. We need you.