Unlikely friends, a lasting impact

Kaity Holtman and Jim Fall

For the last couple years, Jim Fall has walked in late Monday morning and asked if my column is done, or sometimes just held his hands up instead of asking.

Sometimes I’d say I was just getting started, and he’d shake his head in a teasing disappointment. Sometimes I’d say the column was done and in the folder, and he’d act surprised or say, “it’s about time.”

But last Monday, I had the hardest time even getting started on my column.

I knew Jim wasn’t going to walk in and ask me if my column was done that day, and what we figured was not ever again. It was as if I couldn’t start without him.

And then on Tuesday when we got the news that our friend had died, all I wanted to do was start writing about him. I wasn’t in limbo about what to write this time. I now had a column writing itself in my mind – even to the lengths Jim was able to reach week after week.

My goodness could that man tell a good story.

We called him Forrest Gump around the office because he had an experience from his life that related to every situation.

And it didn’t matter if he’d told me the same story twice already, I listened and enjoyed it all over again, because he was just a man I – we all – enjoyed listening to.

Over the past few days, we’ve remembered stories about Jim, and we’ve heard stories about him from others.

We’ve even known what Jim would say if he were here for a number of different situations. For example, I’m sure he would go into a true-newspaper-man rant about hating Facebook if he knew his obituary and photo were plastered all over the internet, and especially if he knew he were driving a lot of traffic to our website. I actually laugh every time I think about it.

I was proud to be a part of Jim’s IT helpdesk, helping him daily with his iPad, iPhone, or computer programs he used to build the opinion page.

He was incredibly talented at coming up with new problems I had never seen before, challenging me to learn more about the technology he needed my help with.

I can hear him saying “Kaity,” drawing out the “a” in a way that meant I just knew he needed help with something. “Yes, Jim?” I would say as I turned my chair around.

I was also the keeper of Jim’s passwords, because he had so many accounts that required log-in information.

Jim worked really hard to stay up with technology, while many his age would have accepted that they didn’t understand it and just move on. He wanted to adopt the technology, understand it, and use it to its full potential.

I was always so proud of him for that. He even read his Daily Forum every morning on his iPad. And he let us know early in the morning if something about the e-edition wasn’t right.

For being an “old newspaper man,” he tried to be as progressive as possible.

See, Jim and I have 52 years between us. And normally that would be enough to make having a true connection very difficult. But for some reason, I feel like Jim took a special interest in me. But, as far as I can tell, I think Jim had the ability to make so many people feel the same way.

Our original connection began as we discussed our experiences in the University of Missouri School of Journalism and our shared alumni status.

We also connected through our love of agriculture. We discussed farming and agricultural news regularly. I think it’s so appropriate that he worked up until the day he died, exactly how every farmer wants to leave this world.

Beyond those connections, I always appreciated that our conversations were productive. Coming from different stages in our lives, we obviously did not always agree, but we usually managed to understand one another’s perspective by the end of the discussion.

I don’t know what he saw in me that made him become my friend, but I’m so incredibly glad that he did.

And, honestly, I’m not sure I gave it much thought until he was gone. But now I feel like it is very important that I try to figure out what potential or what talent he saw in me that gave him an interest in becoming a vital part of my support system.

His influence on me makes me want to be a better person, and a better part of this community journalism team, for myself, and for him.

Jim was one of the most genuine people I’ve ever known. He asked me how I was doing every day, especially when I experienced medical issues, became pregnant, and became a new mom (and he always asked about Sam, too). And he never asked in a casual way; he asked in a way every single time that let me know he truly cared about my well-being.

He was so good at being a real friend, and a mentor.

I’ll miss him coming in to the office on “retired man’s” time, about 10 or 11 a.m., with a story of something that has already happened in his day.

I’ll miss his defense of his snacks made up of diet coke and peanut butter crackers.

I’ll miss his infectious belly laugh, though I can still hear it very clearly.

I’ll miss him walking in after lunch, holding his camera up in the air, and declaring he had the “front-page picture right here.”

I’ll miss our productive discussions about community journalism and this community itself.

While I only got to share the last three years of his very full life, I undoubtedly benefitted from his accumulated years of experience, knowledge, and advice. I am grateful for everyone who impacted his life, and whose lives he impacted, because each person is built into Jim’s character and incredible ability to mentor.

And, as I told him just last week while he played soft jazz music at his desk, I feel just a little classier for just having known him. Our Tuesday opinion page will never be the same.

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” – Maya Angelou

Luckily, for those who had the privilege of knowing him, we’ll never forget what he did for this community, but especially how he made us feel.