David Mostardi

On September 29th, about twenty of Jim Kurck’s friends gathered in Pleasanton to remember him. Jim passed away on August 14th at his home in Fresno; he was 59 years old.

We went around in a circle and told Jim stories. The group included Keith Pretzer and Steve Clark, two of his buddies from high school, and many friends from the Bay Area folkdance community. At least half of us had also performed music with him, either in high school marching band, or for folkdancing. It was a heartwarming gathering and many laughs were shared.

Because of the difficulties in finding his nearest relatives, many weeks passed between Jim’s death and his burial. He was laid to rest on November 6th, next to his parents, at Clovis Cemetery in Clovis, California, northeast of Fresno. Keith Pretzer and Jim Garza, another high school friend, attended. They read a fond remembrance and the Lord’s Prayer.

My old friend Jim passed away over the weekend, and I spent much of last night lying awake, thinking about him. Jim was a dancer, musician, computer geek, would-be physicist and a friendly fellow once you got past the initial defenses.

James Maxwell Kurck was born on 1 April 1953 and grew up in Fresno. He attended UC San Diego, then came north to UC Berkeley as a graduate student in physics. (Evidently Jim was named after James Clerk Maxwell, the famous mathematical physicist—no wonder he studied physics himself, though in the end he decided not to finish his Ph.D.) I first met Jim in the early 80s at Friday night international folkdancing. I first heard about Prairie Home Companion via Jim’s “Powdermilk Biscuits” and “Lake Wobegon Whippets” t-shirts. We became friends and eventually started playing music for dancing as well. Jim’s musical specialty was the drum. He played tupan (the large Bulgarian drum in the photo below) and also the dumbek. When he started taking dumbek lessons and was told “everything you’re doing is wrong,” he diligently practiced until he learned to do it right.

Spending time with Jim took work: I always spent the first ten minutes getting past his gruff exterior, after which time he lightened up and usually laughed a lot. By the time we said our farewells, I was always glad I had spent time with him.

Jim contracted Type I diabetes when he was nine years old and took insulin for the rest of his life; he used to tell me that if he had been born twenty years earlier he would already be dead. Indeed, he almost did die: one day in his forties he and his then-partner Joann were walking in Golden Gate Park when Jim collapsed. It was “sudden cardiac death with recovery,” a splendid euphemism meaning that Jim’s heart stopped and he was dead, but then his heart started again and he was alive. Two passing nurses helped get Jim to a hospital two blocks away, where he promptly underwent bypass surgery.

The diabetes also caused Jim eye and joint problems, but was usually able to participate in the dance and music he loved. As he grew older, though, he was ill more often and became unable to work full time. By his fifties, the disease wrecked Jim’s body to the point where he could hardly walk.

During his last years, Jim lived in Fresno, in the house where he grew up, all alone and far from his old friends in the Bay Area. I didn’t call him nearly as often as I should have. It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn before: don’t put off talking to a friend because you can call “any time,” because there may not be a next time. I hope Jim’s passing helps me learn the lesson for good.

Shalom chaver. Goodbye, my friend.