Jim was my oldest brother and the oldest of six Flanagan boys. Our parents were Mae and James (Bud) Flanagan and we were born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa. Jim, although christened James Francis, was not a Junior as my Dad's middle name was Michael.

Friends and relatives got a kick out of rattling off our names -- Jim, Jack,Tom, Bill, Dick and Jerry. I came in third, and like most kids looked up to my older brothers. Jim was 5 years older, and all through his life gave me cause to both love and hate him. These are some of those memories.

One of my earliest memories was with my 2 older brothers flying down 37th Street hill in a wicker baby carriage that my folks had at one time used to transport us. We would pile in or on -- me the smallest on top -- and only body english could control direction since there was no mechanical means for steering. How we kept from getting injured or killed was probably the work of our Guardian Angels, and in this day and age our folks would be charged with either child neglect or endangerment. As I got a little older, Jim helped in the construction of a vehicle usually referred to as a "soap box derby" car. This would either have ropes to control a movable front axle, or, as mechanical knowledge increased, a steering wheel with shaft, ropes and pulleys allowing the driver steering control similar to an automobile.

On one occasion, I was operating this "car" down the hill and intended to turn into our driveway near the bottom. As I turned the steering wheel to the left, the car went in the opposite direction and hit the telephone pole across from our drive. Jim had forgotten to cross the ropes where they were wound around the shaft, which I learned later would always result in surprising the driver. He denied doing this on purpose, but I always suspected that he did it to get a laugh.

About the same time as the above incident, I was getting interested in Boy Scout activities. Jim was the assistant Scoutmaster when I first joined, and later had full authority as Scoutmaster, and never treated me any differently from the other kids in the troop. I appreciated that, because favoritism could have had a negative impact on my relationship with the other Scouts.

One Scout outing that I remember fondly, but sometimes wonder why, was a double overnight in winter. We slept in tents even though it was quite cold with lots of snow on the ground. I remember working hard to make a mudpack around a potato so we could put it right in the campfire for baking. We scouts, under my brother's direction and supervision, prepared a hot meal for ourselves and were quite proud.

Our campsite was along the river bank, and sometime during the 2 day outing, those of us who dared, accompanied Jim on a very short trip down the river, using poles to guide us while riding one of the many large ice blocks that were floating in the river at that time. A big thrill for a kid not yet a teenager.

Almost every summer during this period, our family would journey on a summer vacation to visit my Mother's family in Douglas, Wyoming. Her brother Vincent and his wife owned a 2,000 acre ranch with lots of horses. Jim, together with the help of our cousins, taught me how to ride and shoot; and I think we rode the full area of that property while hunting jack rabbits and avoiding rattlesnakes. I learned how to skin an edible rabbit and prepare it for cooking.

I'll never forget one day at the ranch, Jim thought it would be fun to call Mom out to show her how to shoot a rifle. We had set up cans and bottles as targets, and Jim was very precise in his instructions on sighting, squeezing the trigger when ready to fire, etc. Mom listened carefully without saying a word, and when handed the rifle, squeezed off 5 or 6 rounds in rapid succession hitting every target square on. "You mean like that," she asked. We boys stood there with "egg on our face." It wasn't until later I learned that she had ridden in rodeos as a teenager, had broken horses and had been an expert markswoman in her youth. We should have known better, with Mom having been raised in the Wild West at the turn of the century.

When I was about eleven or twelve, curiosity led me to check out a filling station under construction in our neighborhood. The concrete block walls were up, but no roof structure was in place. Somehow I climbed to the top to look around, and after looking around, tried to figure out how to get down. A window frame -- sans glass -- was in the open position projecting at 90 degrees, and I tested it by applying my weight. It held temporarily, but as I started to climb down, it suddenly closed. As I reached out to grab for safety as it closed, three of my fingers were smashed as it locked shut. It hurt llike the devil, and I called out for help. Two men across the street heard me, and came running. They had to use a 2x4 to pound the window frame open to extract my fingers. I'm sure that the men intended to give further help, but I took off for home crying my head off.

Jim heard me bawling before I got to the house, and immediately took charge. He cleaned the debris from my cut and bleeding fingers, and prepared a solution to soak them. While I was soaking, he was arranging for someone to come and take us to the doctor's office. He stayed with me through the whole ordeal, and I was really comforted because of his help. Jim always seemed to know exactly what to do in these situations, and with our family, it seemed there was always something.

Jim had always been very slight of build, and his health was such that tuberculosis became a concern. My folks arranged to have him spend a summer out west when he was a teenager, in an attempt to restore his health. I'm sure it helped, but in looking back it seems that this was the beginning of negatives in his life.

When Jim was a senior in High School, he and Mart Corcoran, a neighbor across the street, used to get into arguments quite often. One of these led to a wrestling match, and I came upon the scene. Mart was a year younger than Jim, but much bigger, and it was clear to me that Mart had the upper hand. I never liked Mart, and loved my brother, so I took over. Big for my age, and my adrenalin roaring, I got the better of Mart quickly, and he took off, never again to give any of the Flanagan boys trouble.

Some years later, when I was 16, and our father was in the automobile business, Jim and I took a bus trip to Ogalolla, Nebraska to pick up two used cars. Apparently these had been purchased earlier at auction, and our job was to drive the cars back to Des Moines. We stayed overnight, and before supper Jim decided that he'd like a glass of beer, so we found a nearby tavern. Sitting at the bar, the bartender placed a glass of beer before each of us, looked at me, then looked at Jim, and asked him to produce some identification. I had never seen him angrier, and I don't think he ever forgot it. The fact that he was 21 and I was 16 had much to do with his frustration, I'm sure.

My troubles with Jim began with his occasional use of my car. During my years in High School when I owned first a Model T Ford, then a 1926 Chevy, and later a Model A roadster, he didn't bother me with his transportation needs, and I frankly don't remember his situation during those years. But after I graduated from high school, I owned a near new 1939 Ford, and it seemed the problems with Jim would never end. I was working 67 hours a week in a grocery store -- for $17.82 a week to give you an idea of the times -- and needed my rest. To keep him from taking the car while I was asleep, I would hide the keys to the car in my shoes, and hide my shoes. That only worked for awhile, as later I would often find the car had been moved from where I had left it. Once I found it locked up in the middle of the street in front of our house with traffic passing it on both sides. So, yes, he had a drinking problem, which made everything so much worse.

One reason Jim didn't have a car of his own was his uncanny bad luck; to the best count back then, he had wrecked almost 20 cars by the time he was 21. How he kept a driver's license I haven't a clue. Maybe he didn't. But the worst accident of all was when he was a passenger in a friend's car, and the story was they were forced off the road at a point where telephone poles lined the curb. That part is true, because I know the area well. In sideswiping the pole, Jim's arm was out the window, and was driven through the center post of a 4 door sedan. It was reported that it took 40 minutes to cut his arm free of the car. My folks got the best "bone man" in the city to put his elbow back together using platinum wire to piece together as many sizable fragments of bone as could be salvaged. He recovered the use of his arm, limited to about 40%, which was a major success since the first diagnosis was to amputate.

This injury plus all the other problems Jim had shouldered along the way was probably the reason Mom took his side whenever he and I got into it over the use, or more accurately the misuse of my car. On one occasion, not only did he take the car without my permission but failed to return it. I finally dragged out of him that he had gotten stuck in the mud, tried over and over to get the car out but only got it stuck deeper in the muck. He abandoned the car and got a ride home. Getting from him the approximate location, my friends took me there, and with the use of a log chain, getting filthy, and with much effort pulled the car out. It took hours to clean all the mud from the car, as it was packed solid in the under-carriage. When I got back home I was in a fit of rage, and wanted to break his neck. Except for arguing with my mother about having to wear knickers in grade school, this was the only real argument I remember having with Mom. I accused her of enabling Jim, and to this day I believe it, and surely one reason he never accepted responsibility. She succeeded in calming me down, and I returned to the business of cleaning up the car.

With World War 2 underway, I left the grocery job and began to work in a defense plant in Ankeny, Iowa, about 45 minutes from home. This was resulting in lots of miles on my beautiful '39 Ford, so I decided to get a cheap car to use going to and from work. I found a 1930 Model A Ford coupe that was in perfect shape, and bought it. This solution worked out well until another situation happened with my brother. One evening when I didn't need the Model A, he asked if he could borrow it. Had it been the newer car, I would have said "no," but this time I said OK. I NEVER saw the car again. What I paid for it I can't remember, but, fortunately for me, it wasn't a great deal. Jim had reported to the police that it had been stolen, but it was never recovered, and of course no one insures an inexpensive car against theft. Chalk up another one for big brother.

A girl named Midge Payne had dated Jim during my high school years. She later moved to the Los Angeles area, and on a trip I made there the summer I graduated, I looked her up. This was the era of the Big Bands, and I wanted to go to the Hollywood Palladium to hear "Les Brown and his Band of Renown," but didn't want to go alone. Although she was 3 years older than I, she agreed to go with me, and it was great fun.

She asked about Jim, but it was obvious that their relationship was over. Thinking about Midge reminds me of an incident which was typical of Jim's life. He did nothing with his talents. One evening Jim and Midge were seated at our dining room table, and he decided to do a pencil sketch of his girl friend. When I saw what was going on, I stuck around to watch him work and was amazed, as the sketch turned out the equivalent of a photograph. This God given talent was never pursued -- what a waste.

All of the 6 brothers except Jim served in the military, and of course that severe handicap from the injury exempted him. Nevertheless, Jim did his part through his employment in the shipbuilding industry on the west coast. During my 3 years of service there was little contact with my brother, and later, going to college and starting a family kept us apart. The lack of contact with family is something I always look back on with sorrow.

Jim had married, had 3 children, and all the while experienced marital problems, finally ending in divorce. He had numerous jobs in a generally unhappy life, probably due in large part to alcoholism. All these weighty problems, many self- created, were apparently too much and he took his own life at age 52. In reminiscing about the life I shared with my brother, I can truly say that the love outweighs the anger.

I love you, Jim