It was during an August afternoon in 1982 when I first met James Martin. I had moved into the Towers dormitory in anticipation of starting my freshman year in college at UW-Eau Claire. Having arrived early in the morning, I was the only student that had moved onto the second-floor. Being a freshman with no friends, I felt abandoned and alone, sitting in a dorm room all by myself.

After a walk around campus, I decided to go back to my room. While walking down the hallway, I noticed one of the other doors was ajar. I knocked and heard a muffled “hello” from inside the room. Opening the door, I found a guy sitting on a bed with all of his bags piled on the floor. A blue eye looked at me through some blonde hair that hung down in front of his face. After recovering from his surprise, he smiled and said, “Hello, I’m James.” He stood up and we shook hands.

“Hi, there,” I said awkwardly, “I’m John. We must be the first to move in.”
“I just moved in today…about ten minutes ago,” said James with a laugh.
“I got here this morning,” I said. “It’s great to be here, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he said emphatically. “I’m so glad to be out of my hometown and on my own!” I agreed with his comment, and our conversation took off from there. After about an hour of talk, we realized it was getting close to dinner time.

“Hey. Let’s go grab a few beers and get something to eat,” he said.

“That sounds good to me. Let’s head down to Water Street,” I said, and off we went. We decided to have a beer in every bar, walking up one side of the street and down the other. By the end of the night, we had hit them all.

The next morning, I woke up in my dorm room having no idea how I got there. My mouth felt like it was lined with cotton, and my head felt like an anvil being struck by a hammer to the beat of my pulse. A few hours later, James stuck his head through the open door. We both started laughing and re-living our night on the town. James and I got along like we had known each other forever, and I was sure that we would become good friends.

Over the course of the next few days, the mass exodus of college students began. Since James and I had already moved in, we helped students move into their rooms. James was a lot more outgoing than I was, and he seemed to get along with everybody. He had a gift with people and incredible charisma, which always made him the social focal point.

For awhile, James and I spent time together every day. After classes began, we both started hanging around with other people. It seemed as though every time I saw him, he was talking to somebody. It wasn’t long before he became one of the most well-known freshmen on campus.
As Thanksgiving approached, the students made plans to head home for the holiday. While walking to class, I ran into James. After telling him that I wouldn’t be going home because I was broke, he pulled out his wallet and lent me $100. I couldn’t believe my luck, so I thanked James, took the money, and caught the bus to Milwaukee the following day.

When I returned from break, I had the money to repay James, so I went to his room to see him. He answered his door with a smile on his face, and I paid him back.
“Did you have a good break?” he asked.

“It was great!” I said. “And it was all because of you, James. I owe you one.”

“Forget it,” he said.

“How was your break?” I asked.

“Oh, not too bad. Nice and quiet,” he replied.

“What did you do…head home?” I questioned.

“Nah, I just hung around here all weekend,” said James.

I couldn’t believe he had stayed here while I went home on his dime! I guess I’d been so concerned about my own plans for the holiday that I had failed to ask him about his. I’m sure my face turned red with embarrassment as I apologized, but James simply shrugged it off like it was no big deal. After a brief conversation, I left his room with a lesson learned and a new perspective of what being selfless really means.

As Christmas approached, I joined a study group to prepare for an economics exam. During our first meeting, I heard one of the girls mention James, so I asked her about him. She told me that James had a tough life, mostly growing up in foster homes. His father left when he was a baby, and his mother died when he was five. Despite his difficulties, she said that James had always helped those in need and was admired by the people in his community for his kindness to others.

During the week prior to Christmas Break, I sent James a card to wish him a good holiday. I was sincere when I wrote the following:

I’ve enjoyed getting to know you over the past year. The world doesn’t hand out awards to generous people with values, morals, and integrity, but in my eyes, you are worthy of the top prize. Despite all of the bumps and pot-holes you’ve hit while on life’s great journey, you’ve maintained an incredibly positive attitude. You’re one guy who I am proud to consider a friend…a person with an outstanding character who I truly admire.

I saw James in January after Break ended, and he thanked me. He shook my hand and said he felt the same.

Over the course of the next five years, James and I would occasionally find time to do things together, but our busy schedules made these instances few and far between. Our college years flew by like a whirlwind, and it wasn’t long before James and I had graduated. Despite our close friendship and our promises to one another, we didn’t keep in touch.

For the next 15 years, I resided in Milwaukee. Due to downsizing, I lost my job, and as luck would have it, I found a job in Eau Claire. During my move, I wondered if anybody I knew from college was still in town.

While trying to reacquaint myself with Eau Claire, I noticed a Blugold football schedule posted in a shop window. The Homecoming game was on Saturday, so I decided to go. The week ended and it was game time at Carson Park. I entered the grandstand, searching through the sea of college students and fans dressed in blue and gold, hoping to recognize a face in the crowd. I found a seat, feeling old, like an outsider looking through a window into the past.
When the game ended, I attended the Fifth Quarter Celebration in the parking lot. As I entered the beer tent, I looked around for old friends. Lo and behold, there stood an older, respectable looking James Martin! He was dressed in a golf shirt and khakis, and at first glance, I could hardly believe it was him. James was in good shape, but he’d put on some weight and his hair had wisps of gray. He stood alone and seemed to be joyfully watching the activity with a half-empty beer in one hand. Of course, his eyes were as bright as ever, and he had that omnipresent smile on his face.

“Hello, James,” I said. “Remember me? It’s John from back in the day.”

“Man, I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “After all these years! Wow! What have you been up to?”

After a handshake and a pat on the back, we each took turns summarizing our lives since graduation. It turned out that James had never left Eau Claire. By a twist of fate, he had started a sales career within weeks of graduation. He had married, started a family, and seemed to be very successful and happy. His life, despite all of the hardships he had faced, had turned out well.

From that day forward, James and I played golf, kayaked, and met for breakfast at least once a month for several years. He and I were able to share our lives together, and we developed a strong friendship.

Unfortunately, James’ life started to go downhill shortly after we reached our fortieth birthdays. His wife of 13 years left him. To make matters worse, he lost his job and struggled to make ends meet. In only two short years, he had lost everything he had worked for and cherished in this world. Even his two children had moved in with his ex-wife, leaving him alone most of the time.

But through it all, James always took the high road. By this, I mean that he always did what was best for his two children. A devoted father, he spent every available moment with his children, making sure they made happy memories and had the strong emotional bonds that last a lifetime. He volunteered after he lost his job, teaching Junior Achievement and helping to rehabilitate a brain-injured man. Despite the fact that he was broke, he gave to charity and helped friends in need.

Eventually, his loneliness and poverty drove James into a depression. He took to the bottle, and James became somewhat of a drunk. I’d see him around town, but our activities came to a halt. During one Christmas season, I sent a card with some money to James’ last known address. I knew he was living in a flophouse somewhere in the Eau Claire area, but I never heard back from him. I thought of him often, and I hoped that he was alright.
About three years later, I was walking across the Grand Avenue footbridge when I noticed a man sitting on a bench who looked hauntingly familiar. He glanced up at me with a look of shock on his face.

“John, is that you?” he drunkenly stammered. At first, I didn’t recognize him. His hair and beard were long and unkempt. The green army jacket he was wearing covered his worn-out clothes, and an aura of stale beer and cheap cigarettes surrounded him.

“James? James Martin?” I inquired. I couldn’t believe it was him, but I had made the connection. He told me he had been living in a small, second-floor apartment. Most of his time was spent reading books he had collected from the trash or had found at yard sales. As we talked, he commented about the beautiful day, the clouds in the sky, and the shining waters of the Chippewa River, showing me that he still maintained his great attitude and his positive outlook on life. What was his secret to this endless joy? I had to ask…

“James”, I said in a matter-of-fact way, “I have known you for over 25 years. You had a rough life as a child and an even rougher life as an adult. How do you stay so positive and have such a love of life after all you’ve been through?”

“It’s not hard to stay happy when you start out each day with some kind words from a true friend,” he slurred.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I thought that maybe he had read something in one of the books he had told me about earlier.

“It’s not important. What’s important is how you approach and react to the things that life throws at you. That’s the key!” he exclaimed loudly. “Don’t ever forget it.”
After a lengthy conversation, we parted. I gave him a business card and handed him $50. He pocketed the card but flatly refused the money. We looked at each other, chuckled, shook hands, and I turned and walked away. I felt fortunate that our paths had crossed once again, and I’m sure James felt the same.

Several years had gone by since our meeting on the bridge. I often wondered about James, and hoped he was doing okay. Where was he living? What was he doing for work? My questions were answered one night when my phone rang with an unusual number on the caller ID.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Is this John Michaels? This is Sheriff Jim Donaldson. I think you may have known a Mr. James Martin.”

“Yes,” I said, a bit surprised. “I’ve known James for years. Is everything okay?”

“James died two days ago.”

“What!” I shouted, as an immediate feeling of shock spread through me. “How did it happen?”

“He had a dental infection that spread to his heart. He had a heart attack as a result,” said the sheriff without a hint of emotion. “We found a will that he had made up several years ago. He wanted you to have everything, so you might want to come down here and take a look. The address is 1229 Niagara Street. Go around back and take the stairs to the second floor.”
“Thanks. I’ll be over shortly,” I said. We said our goodbyes and hung up. I quickly put on my jacket and headed out. I wasn’t surprised when I saw the house that James called home. As I suspected, the place was a dump. I went around back and started up the steps to James’ apartment, carefully stepping on one rotten wooden stair tread after another until I reached the landing. While rapping on the door with my knuckle, I heard somebody shout “come in” from inside. I opened the door and went into the dimly lit kitchen area. I stepped slowly into the dark living room and noticed that a light was on in one of the two bedrooms.

“In here,” said a voice. I walked through the door and met Sheriff Donaldson, a tall man in a spotless uniform. We shook hands, and after a brief introduction, proceeded to commence with the task at hand.

“Most of this stuff is worthless junk,” said the sheriff. “Take whatever you want. It’s all yours according to the will.” He handed me a piece of paper with some scribbled notes onto which my business card had been stapled.

On the nightstand next to his bed, I saw a dilapidated copy of The Complete Works of O. Henry, its stained brown cover barely attached to its ragged, peeling spine. Then something caught my eye. It was a piece of well-worn green paper sticking out of the top of the book. It was obviously a bookmark and, for some reason, it seemed vaguely familiar to me. I opened the book to the marked page. Looking closely, I picked up the bookmark. My chest tightened and I gasped when I read, “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you over the past year…”