James Hines Blackmon III (Jimbo)
December 8, 1954 - December 20, 2010
Every day before football practice started, we
would sit on the hill and tell stories: Jimbo, Sparky, Keith Winn,
Peyton Gill, Steve Echols, Henry Darby, Carl Sisson, Donnie Berry, etc. (the
white guys). Jimbo was a Senior so he basically held court, told his
stories and since we were all trying to impress each other, the language
was salty (to say the least).
One day Jimbo was almost through a sentence when
he stopped started over and then finished. We realized that the first time
he had almost finished the sentence without cussing so he stopped, started over,
and inserted the appropriate verb!
I don't think I've had a real conversation with
Jimbo since that time in our lives. But he was bigger than life and the
stories make me smile and I'm sure they give comfort to family.
Joe R Randall
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In
all of the sadness of the past two days, it has struck me how much Jimbo would
have enjoyed this gathering of friends and family. He loved a crowd and could
entertain anyone. He never met a stranger even as a small boy. We would go on
vacation and he would be friends with the groundskeepers at the motels so
he could possibly sneak a ride on the riding mowers. He would know everyone
around the pool within a day of arrival. Not everyone realizes how the
Blackmon's and Wallaces grew up. We were a tight knit family and always playing
with each other and raising cain all over North Alexander Avenue. If kids today
did the things we did, they would be put in juvenile detention. Folks just told
on us and let me tell you, juvenile detention would have been a vacation!! Our
parents truly tried to make us be good, upstanding people. We have all turned
out well but sure had fun getting there!! Aunt Norma had a cow bell she rang
when supper was ready so she would not have to call all over the neighborhood to
get Billy and Theron back home. We never locked a door because Grandaddy was
always on his front porch checking on us. To this day, when I come to
Washington, I never knock on a door at Steve and Eleanor's or Aunt Norma's.
I am just as at home at both houses as I was at my parents. What a wonderful
tribute to our older generation. I was Jimbo's cohort in many things but could
also be mean as the dickens to him. He usually deserved my wrath!! For a short
time, I was bigger than him . I will miss that man and life will
forever be different without him here with us. We had wonderful times as adults
and as kids. If you asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up he would
tell you "I want to be a shotgun shooter and a tractor driver." A
young redneck well in the makings. He could espouse on any subject anyone wanted
to talk about and how he did love to espouse!! Let's all feel blessed to have
had him as long as we did and he will never die as long as the "Jimbo"
stories are told. Thank you all for all of the love and support. It has been
quite humbling. Hope I can make the next meeting. I have spread this page far
and wide and love and appreciate Phillip's efforts in keeping it going.
Folks in large cities have no clue the bond we all have. Even years apart. The
joys of growing up in a small and wonderful community called Washington, Ga.
Linda Blackmon King
Dear All,
I'm loving all the great stories of
Jimbo. It sure helps to laugh to ease the sadness of losing
such a colorful and important character in our lives. He was
bigger than life in all the senses and the stories you are all relating match up
to his largeness in the way he lived his life.
It was the summer of '70 and I
was allowed to go on my first date with a fine, upstanding young man of our
community: Jimbo Blackmon. It was a double date with Susan Thornton
and David Callaway and we must have had someone of fine reputation who drove and
supervised us, and who we must have thought was really cool, as we all ended
up at Flat Rock that summer evening where I experienced my first Pabst
Blue Ribbon. I still remember thinking that it was the most horrible drink
I could imagine but the laughs and the adventure in it all were a
memorable first date. So Jimbo became the boy with whom I went
on a quite a few first date adventures my ninth grade year of school. For
some reason my parents thought I was safer out on a date than just hanging out
with a girlfriend at the Tastee Freeze and when Jimbo and I morphed from
the dating thing into the friend thing, he would come present himself at my
front door as my date so I could get out of the house. There wasn't
much trouble back then but with Jimbo around as your friend, you always
felt he "had his eye on you". Maybe it was his large stature and
personality but also that huge heart and a loyalty to friends that if push ever
came to shove, Jimbo would be in there shoving for you. This summer I
sent out an email to a few choice patriotic friends, Jimbo being one of them,
regarding a game that children play and essentially could choose to be Taliban
and shoot American soliders. My note asked that you call the company
and complain. Well, in perfect Jimbo style, he wrote me back immediately
and said, "I am going to put a good ol' fashioned DOG CUSSIN' on these
stupid *%#!@%#s in CA!" That's
what I mean about him, he'd be in there shoving for his friends.
When I saw him three years ago at the
reunion, it was like being back in 9th grade - nothing about him seemed to
have changed. He gave you that huge bear hug, filled the room with his not
so introverted fashion, large personality, original vernacular,
and double you over laughing kind of funny stories. He was
in the midst of just that kind of story when I felt a need to capture it. I've
attached one of my favorite memories and it still makes me laugh just looking at
them. Lord only knows what story Jimbo was telling us but there was
Susan Rogers, David Callaway, and Donna Bufford, all laughing so hard, they
couldn't keep their eyes open. That was Jimbo. I will always
remember him with a heart full of laughter and a feeling of being "at
home." He just brought that out in you. He was one of a
kind and a wonderful part of my life. Thank you Phillip for staying
stead-fast in making these reunions happen. I have had such
tremendous joy and the sense of coming full circle in getting to see all the
people who in some way shared the journey and adventures of growing up in
Washington and who, like Jimbo, left indelible memories of one of the best
times in my life.
Sandra Wilder-Schnitzer
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Even in
kindergarten, Jimbo was taller than all the rest of us (we were all about Frank
Wills high). Mrs. Smith had an Easter egg hunt for us that year and told us
that one of the eggs was the very special "golden egg." We scattered
out over her side yard snatching up all the eggs hidden in the grass and the low
places, our noses to the ground. Jimbo sauntered over to the jungle gym and reached
up on top and pulled down the "golden egg!" His height paid off that
day, and we were ALL very envious. As you can see, that loss has stuck with
me for 50 years!
Another kindergarten memory was of going to Jimbo's house to play (don't you
miss those gender-less days when children just played with other children?).
Five year old Jimbo (or maybe he was six) buried fireworks in the dirt with the
fuse sticking up. Then he placed all his little plastic soldiers on top and lit
the fuse. KABLAM! Soldiers went flying everywhere. Well, needless to say...this little
girl didn't even know where the matches were kept at her house...much less
got to "play" with them. Again, my envy of Jimbo was unmatched!
He was the one guy throughout my growing up years in Washington who stayed the
same and always treated me the same. You will be missed, Jimbo.
My condolences to Becky and Linda...I know what it is to lose a little brother
way too early. And my thoughts are with Jimbo's family as they face the
difficult days ahead.
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In our fully mature adult years, it
has been tradition for Steve, Jr. to stop on the way down from Nashville at
the Tennessee line fireworks row, purchasing on a scale that would now set off alerts
at the Homeland Security Agency. This was an important mentoring exercise for
the children. We had not seen Jimbo in probably 7 or 8 years
(critical detail to the story). While we were at the dinner table, he
called to say they were running about 20 minutes late. Just the call
we needed. That gave us enough time, under cover of darkness, to assume
offensive positions in the front yard. My 12 year old Benjamin was both
excited and bewildered about what was setting up. As Jimbo, family in
tow, turned in to the driveway, we let loose with a barrage of 3 ounce medium
range Chinese made rockets, one direct hit, and several just over the cab.
Ben was thinking how shocked and surprised they must have been. WRONG.
No sooner had his truck stopped rolling, and maybe not quite, Jimbo bailed
out behind the bed and immediately returned fire with his own volley of 1 ounce
short fused rapid response ordinance, scattering us like hens in high weed.
As the welcoming smoke cleared and we approached the truck in laughter (Linda
not so much), Ben said, "Dad, how did he know? How did he know? It's
cousin Jimbo, Ben. He's always ready. God bless Linda's patience and
understanding.
Jeffrey Blackmon
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Lay in bed last
night recalling all my old Jimbo stories as I know everyone will do. To this day
I have never met anyone like him and probably never will.
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It was a common practice for us to ride
around on a Saturday night. Mostly we’d shoot the bull, assess the
tri-county (Wilkes, Lincoln and Briarwood Academy—which actually covered more
territory than the Tri-County area) female population and test the limits of
legal activities.
We tended to gravitate toward the
secondary roads. Occasionally those country roads would serve up an
unexpected adventure. We experienced just such happenstance one warm 1972 summer
evening.
Jimbo and I had been riding and talking
for a while when a really big ‘possum waddled onto the road. To my
surprise Jimbo swerved the car…toward the critter. Whump, bump, bump,
bump; the poor thing rolled under the car bouncing twixt road and muffler.
Within seconds, Jimbo hit the brake and skidded the car to the shoulder.
As my head whipped forward, I yelled,
“Jimbo! What are you
doing?”
“I’m going back to get that
SOB.”
“What for?”
“Boy, don’t you know they’s
people who’ll pay you good money for a ‘possum? I can get twent-five
dollars for him”
“No, Jimbo. Just leave it.
Nobody wants that thing.”
“Hell, no. I’m gone get that
thang.”
I stayed in the car while he
got out and disappeared into the Wilkes County darkness. I moment later
the trunk opened, there was a thud and the lid immediately slammed shut.
“I got him. He’sdead, but
he’s a big son of a bitch.”
What are going to do with him?
“I told you; I’m gone sell him.
Let’s go show him to Brooks and Becky.”
We drove over to his sister,
Becky’s, house on Robert Tombs Avenue. As we climbed out of the
car, Brooks Paulk opened the back door to investigate the disturbance.
Jimbo proudly recounted the story of the ‘possum and flung open the trunk.
No ‘possum…
After some investigation we
found him hiding behind the spare tire. Recently resurrected, the
‘possum was now smiling, but he was not happy. The question we faced now
was “who caught whom?” As the evening progressed the situation
deteriorated. Speaker wires were destroyed. Broom handles were
poked at the cornered animal. Exposure to rabies was risked.
I went home.
Like many of my favorite Jimbo
experiences, this one ended with an unsubstantiated rendition of the outcome.
As late as a few months ago, Jimbo still claimed he captured the animal and
indeed sold him for twenty-five dollars. I guess it must be true.
I’m still not sure how I
became friends with Jimbo. After all he was a grade ahead of me. But
there was something I admired about him. Maybe it was that fine ride he
owned. Who wouldn’t want to be spotted in it, riding low, leaning in
with an arm out the window?
His yellow Ford Fairlane was a
head-turner for sure. Maybe it was the Cherry Bomb muffler that grunted so
loudly when Jimbo wound out low gear as he converted that automatic transmission
to a speed-shifting manual. Or was it the under-dash-mounted, aftermarket,
self-installed 8-track player blaring out a low fidelity version of Credence
Clearwater Revival. Or maybe it was the notion that he almost always got a
“yes” when he boldly invited some of the most attractive girls in a three
county area to ride with him, and they went.
This week, I found out it was none of
those things and all of them that made Jimbo a friend. Not so much the
things but what they represented about him. He never stopped enjoying the
company of others, and they enjoyed him.
Life was good when you were
cruising with Jimbo. I will miss him.
Keith Winn
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Please let Jimbo's family know that
I knew him to be a force of nature with a sense of humor that stood out amongst
a clan that can tell or take a joke as good as any bunch I've ever met. The man
who could carry off outrageous fashion with aplomb. They are in our prayers and
please share any info about services.
8th grade typing class: Jimbo walks
in still in camo from dove hunting that morning. He proceeds to explain how,
after firing a box and a half of shotgun shells without any success, he finally
hits a bird just as it was passing a BIGGO tree. Well, he had hit that bird so
square that it was driven up over that tree. Then, before he had a chance to go
look for it, the same bird was hit by the shot of another hunter as it fell on
the other side of the tree and ended up flying back over toward Jimbo where it
landed at his feet. There wasn't anything left of that bird two feathers and gut
full of bird shot. Believe me, when Jimbo told the story it was way, way
funnier. Saint will be laughing till he pees.
George Rodrigues
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The
Cannon Story
We
had way too much freedom as young kids. Compared
to how we hover over ours now, back then, we were almost on our own.
When we became bored with just shooting guns we began to take apart ammo
and see what we could do with what we found inside.
We put it in fires to see what would happen.
Put a shotgun shell in a bank and shoot the cap with BB guns.
I had a “c” shaped scar on my leg for years caused by one of those
caps hitting me in the leg. It is truly nothing short of a miracle we survived
with our eyesight and all limbs. Think
I’m exaggerating? Read on.
I
was about 13, which made Jimbo 12 and Jeffrey 11. We had one of those souvenir
civil war cannons you get at Stone Mountain that was anatomically correct.
You know. Hollow barrel with
the little hole on top in the back where they’d light them.
They don’t make them that way anymore, for very good reason.
This was one of those cannons that they would have used at a fort,
sitting low on a base with four wheels on it.
It was not the two wheel type they would use on the battlefield. We got
the bright idea of cutting open shotgun shells and stuffing the cannon with it.
We’d properly place paper wadding in, insert a 22 caliber pellet, and
then light it. Ssssssssspppppppppffffffffffffffth.
That’s the sound it made and it would shoot the pellet about 50 feet or
so, hitting the garage. Man, that
was really cool,…….. for a while. We
then became bored with it. We’re
standing around wondering what to do with this thing next and Jimbo says,
“I’ve got a cherry bomb at the house!”
Now, this was no modern cherry bomb you would get today.
It was a real one that would blow a mailbox apart, obliterate a pile of
cow manure, take fingers off, or completely disintegrate a model car or
airplane. Anyway, we cut the cherry
bomb open and followed the same loading and firing procedure.
If you’ve been to our house, there is a stairwell on the side that
leads to the basement door where us boys stayed.
We’re standing in the stairwell with the cannon on the edge of the wall
pointed towards the garage. So, the
cannon is about shoulder high on us. Jimbo
carefully places the match on the lighting hole
and……………………….BAM! This
was no kaaaaaboooooom or kaaaablaaaammmmm.
It was just a short deafening POW, followed by silence and ringing ears.
We were only expecting a ssssssssssssspppppppppffffffth, or maybe
something a little more powerful. We’re
standing there trying to recover from the shock and collect our thoughts.
The cannon is gone. Not
lying around in pieces. It is gone
and there is an indention in the brick where it had been.
Jeffrey, who was standing at the top of the steps about six feet away,
was the first to speak. “My face
feels numb,” he says. Huh?
He said it again, “My face feels numb.”
And, then blood begins pouring out of his face.
I mean more blood than we’d ever seen coming out of a human.
We’d seen cows bleed like this when you rip their horns off or when you
castrate a young bull. But, not this kind of bleeding from a human. Panic
ensues. We take Jeffrey upstairs,
lie him on the bed, and begin applying compresses.
But, we soon realized this was major and, being alone at home, would have
to be reported to the appropriate authorities (parents).
No hiding this one. So, after the turmoil and emergency room visit that
followed was over, Jeffrey was left with about six or so pieces of that cannon
in his face. They got a few out but
left the rest. Some of them worked
their way out over the years. But,
one or two remain to this day. Jeffrey
has had to explain them to various dentists when they show up on xrays and
sometimes has some fun with it, telling the dentist it was shrapnel without
providing the background. And those
half dozen pieces in Jeffrey’s face were the only pieces of that cannon that
were ever found. A small piece of
shrapnel hit Jimbo in the chest making a red spot like a mosquito bite. But, we
never found it. I made it through
unscathed, physically, that is.
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Jeffrey’s
Recollection of the Cannon Story
When football training was out, my older brothers and Jimbo had a little too much time on their hands. They (not we, because I was too young and inexperienced) were stuffing a Stone Mountain souvenir cannon with shotgun powder and shooting 22 caliber pellets at the garage. Since shotgun powder is slow burning, a nice soft thump would lob the pellet into the garage siding. Jimbo was not satisfied. Off he sprinted to his house only to return with three cherry bombs. As you may know, cherry bombs are a cork shell filled with maybe 15% loose, light gray, extremely fast burning powder. The word on the street is that they are equivalent to a 1/5th stick of dynamite. 3X and we are on a dangerous path. He and Phillip conspired to pack, oh yes, pack the powder into this poor pig iron cannon, which had been foolishly manufactured with a fuse hole conveniently drilled into the back. In haste and excitement, the moment of truth had arrived, but we had run out of fuse. No problemo. Phillip just heaped a little cone of gunpowder over the hole. From a 'safe' crouched position in the brick stairwell, the makeshift shotgun powder fuse would burn at a rate to 'safely' allow for a clean duck below the blast line. Jimbo and I deferred to Phillip's leadership experience and backed off up the steps, Jimbo 7 feet, I took about 12-13. Perfecto, success. But the canon couldn't hang on, and instead of shooting the pellet, disintegrated into huge fireball. The intensity of the explosion scared the hell out of us, and we scampered through the basement door. Well, they did, and I crawled in, screaming "my face, my face." Although the farthest away, seven pieces of shrapnel entered my head and face. Elsewhere, only one charred rubber wheel from the cannon was found. Jimbo caught one in the leg, and Phillip and Steve, other than likely permanent hearing damage, were unscathed. Becky heard it and raced to the rescue, taking me to the hospital. Dr. Pollock decided it wasn't worth the collateral damage to surgically remove them, so there they sit. Every dentist I've seen in the last 30 years sees the x-rays and asks if I were in Nam. Then the Jimbo in me kicks in.
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I told my sisters so many times over the years
that Jimbo was the very best friend I had during my years in high school.
He was always right there to lend a helping hand, tell me a funny story, share
his big smile, and make sure my boyfriend (now husband Jack) was treating me
right. I would see him every day and walk up and down WWHS halls with him to
classes with a "see ya later" knowing that he'd be there - my best
buddy. Even when we were younger, I gravitated to his contagious
laughter and easy going personality. He was so much more than a friend to me -
much like a brother that I could treasure in my heart. I know that years
have passed since I've seen Jimbo but he will always be a very big part of
my youthful memories - all very good ones!
Love and peace be with you Jimbo. Looking
forward to catching up with you when we meet again!
Patty Singleton Leard