By Roy H. Park, Jr.
Jim Frazier was my best friend, and I think he would agree that I was a good friend to him.
We knew each other for almost half a century, over forty-five years, and always kept in touch. We were both beginning our sophomore year in college when we met. He was working his way through The University of North Carolina waiting tables at the Carolina Inn, and I was housed there my first year in a tiny room with a dormer window under a stairwell. My father wanted to make sure I was isolated from any distractions that would take my mind away from my studies. Living by myself, in a small room at the Carolina Inn was sure one way to do it.
As my wife and I flew back from seeing Jim at the nursing home here in Rocky Mount just a month ago, for what was to be the last time, I was flooded by memories of all the happy times Jim and I spent together, starting in those early days at Chapel Hill.
Our friendship grew as we studied together, crammed for exams together, enjoyed sports and campus events, double-dated, and traveled together to various North Carolina campuses.
In those early years, although I called him “Jim” from the start, in his strong and somewhat abrupt manner, he usually referred to me as “Park.”
We did just about everything together, and I never saw Jim out of control. He was always even-tempered and steady. Although I had raised a lot of Cain at Cornell before I transferred to Carolina, I knew when I first met him, I had met a mature person, and by that time I had matured enough to welcome a stable friend like him.
Although through our three years at UNC, we always moved together from one rooming house to another, Jim was smart enough not to be my roommate. He would have had to put up with possums in the bathtub, a Russian wolfhound sleeping in his bed, fish tanks, and all-night games of poker, chess, double solitaire, and Risk.
Although he was at the very least, somewhat opinionated, Jim never expressed his feelings through emotional outbursts. The most he might say was “damn” in a quiet way, or “shoot.” There were a lot of worse words I used frequently, and it’s a good thing Jim never picked up on them.
I can assure you that Jim did not suffer fools gladly. Despite that in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words, “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them,” one thing I can say about Jim is that during the entire time I knew him, I never saw him do anything stupid. He had a low tolerance for anyone who was a phony or acted foolishly, but once you proved yourself to Jim, he would always be there for you.
We attended each other’s weddings, and through the years Tetlow and I would look forward to our vacations in Atlantic Beach where we could spend time with friends, family and Rosalie and Jim. Jim and I shared a love for fishing, and fishing came second only to his devotion to his wife, Rosalie, the great pride he had for his sons, Randy and Lyle, and the delight he felt at the birth of his first grandchild, Thomas.
Every year we would charter a boat and head for the Gulf Stream, and we always made sure we had the essentials. These included tasteless sandwiches sealed in plastic from the Scotsman, plenty of ice, and at least a fifth of bourbon. I’ll never forget one time when the fishing got pretty slow.
About half a day had gone by and we had hooked only two fish, and we decided it was time to break out the bourbon. About that time something big hit my line, and turned out to be the most significant catch I ever made during all the years Jim and I fished together. Of course we turned the sailfish loose after the captain measured it for a mounted replica, but we were both proud of the little flag our boat flew of a sailfish upside-down when we pulled back up to the dock. The flag signified we had caught and released a treasured billfish, but the picture of us holding only two fish and a tiny flag did look a little foolish.
Over the years, Jim and Rosalie, Tetlow and I also enjoyed our Sunday drives when we vacationed together, and after enjoying a late brunch would head for the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum on Harker’s Island. When he wasn’t working, one thing Jim loved to do was to get in his car and explore.
As I said, Jim never let his emotions get the best of him, and he was always “steady as (s)he goes.” But I remember his last words to me just a month ago when I left his room. As I was parting, I said “Love you, Jim.” He replied, “I love you, too, Roy Park.”
Neither Jim nor I are particularly fond of the French, but I have to agree with the French essayist Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, who wrote, “If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than it was because he was he, and I was I.”
God rest your soul, Jim Frazier, and good fishing with the Big Guy, forever.
Roy H. Park, Jr.
August 17, 2004
