Dr. James Allen McKimmy

Dr. James McKimmy

August 3, 1938 - October 1, 2026

Farmer, School Administrator, Advocate for Justice

Dear Dad,

As children, we believed there was nothing you couldn't do. Wishes materialized from your workshop: teeter totters, playsets, sandboxes, cars, go-karts, rocking horses, chairs, cradles, and innumerable toys

As adults, you fixed our stuff, though repair shops often fixed the fixes and had a few choice words about bastardized parts and bypassed safety systems. Your price was modest: keep you company in the garage, pretend to understand your tutorials, and hold the flashlight. We ran a small gambling operation on the side, taking bets on how many hardware runs a project would require, or how long it would take to finish. The general rule was to double your estimate and add two hours.

Fueled by the faith you lived, you were always ridiculously generous with your (and mom’s) time and money. You would give anyone the shirt off your back or the mattress you were sleeping on, and sometimes you gave away the same mattress twice. You gave loans to anyone who asked, and some who didn’t. You were never a very successful landlord, because you just gave the houses to the tenants when they couldn’t pay. You took in inner-city youth, kids from failed adoptions, and delinquent relatives. It took us forever to get anywhere because you never passed a stranded motorist. Sometimes your penchant for expensive sunglasses would find us racing after the car you just repaired to retrieve your glasses from where you left them under the hood.

You were ceaselessly curious and never afraid to try anything. We still picture you silhouetted in the headlights, stripped down to your skivvies, smoker in hand, dancing wildly because the bees had somehow penetrated the apiary suit again. Other hobbies included: farming, hunting, scuba-diving, aviation, archery, family games, photography, Mustang convertibles, racecar rallies, golf, political activism, woodworking, churning ice cream, pressing cider, taping maple trees and running – although you were less concerned with winning any race than with helping the other guy cross the finish line.

Your biggest hobby was people. You may have had a Ph.D. in education, but you had a B.S. degree in networking. Introducing you to people was just a formality, because you never met anyone you didn’t already know. You could find a connection in fewer than six degrees of separation before that phrase was ever coined.

Failure never frightened you, and in fact, you were quite accomplished at it. You ran for State Representative as a Democrat in a district that had not had a democratic representative in over 100 years. Nonetheless, your campaign was robust, and you gave it 100% of your energy and enthusiasm. When you dressed as a donkey and marched in a parade in 90-degree weather, Jennifer Granholm reportedly said you were the best ass she ever campaigned with.

Additionally, your foray into raising pheasants didn’t end well for you or the pheasants, as the local raccoons thought it was mighty nice of you to provide a fast-food establishment in their own backyard. They enjoyed your hospitality so much, they took up residence in your boat.

You provided myriad experiences and as many kinds of lessons as we could absorb: flute, piano, voice, pottery, dance, swimming, fishing, sailing, skiing, camping. However, bathing in ponds, scrubbing dishes with sand, using leaves for toilet paper, and foraging for breakfast may have proved counterproductive to an affinity for camping in adulthood. Our toes have yet to thaw from downhill skiing, and we did recently learn that some people have boats that allow them to ski on top of the water. Oh yeah, and didn’t every kid have a strawberry field, horses in their backyard, and a lake in front?

You faced challenges with resolve, determination, and courage. You instilled in your offspring a sense of entrepreneurship and a fierce work ethic from an early age, though your life courses were a bit unconventional:

• Stick Shift 101: Here are the keys. By the way, there are three pedals.

• Band Saw 101: Here is the "on" switch. Safety glasses encouraged. Watch your fingers.

• Woodcarving 101: Here is the first aid kit. Never carve toward your hand.

• Literature by Jim 101: The Endless Adventures of Penelope and the Horse that Spit Pits

• Whistling/Humming Standards 101: Roll Me Over in the Clover; Oh My Darlin'; Beans, Beans, the Musical Fruit        *abbreviated lyrics and tuneless repetition required

The only thing you never mastered, and didn’t teach very well, is how to relax, but we can still work on that. And you can finally put your feet up!

Love, Karen, Kathy, and Paul

A private family remembrance will be held. Memorial gifts may be sent to: Immigration Law and Justice - Michigan. Indicate in memo: Jim McKimmy Memorial; Send to: 222 Cass St., Traverse City, Michigan 49684