Jim McFarland, or as I called him, Pappaw Jim, was a larger-than-life character with an oversized personality that matched his imposing physical appearance.
He was a natural storyteller.
After an evening at his house, it was common to leave with your face and guts hurting from laughing at one of his many tales, recalling his days growing up in the rural community of Shutlz in Pleasants County, his time as a professional baseball player, or his career in public service as a law enforcement officer.
His comedic timing was nearly perfect as he described the scene when, as a young boy, he dropped his favorite sailor hat in the outhouse of his one-room schoolhouse and how one of the older boys in the school fell in, trying to retrieve it.
He would chuckle while describing the bewilderment of the big league ballplayers when he would get at-bats late in spring training games during his days with the Cleveland Indians organization. In the segregated South, black baseball fans could not sit in the grandstands with white fans. They were forced to sit in the outfield, near the bullpen, where he also spent most of the games as a rookie catcher. As it turned out, the fans in the outfield brought their picnic baskets, food, and iced tea. He made friends, got a bite to eat, and became a fan favorite. The veterans on the team never could figure out why the country boy from West Virginia was so popular.
You could detect a sense of pride as he explained using a bungee cord to strap my booster seat to the back of his motorcycle, slapping an adult helmet on his toddler grandson, and taking me for a ride around the county.
Many of my favorite stories drew on his days as the two-term Sheriff of Pleasants County and later as an officer with the St. Marys Police Department. There were stories about suspects who were feeling a little too big for his britches. There was the time the two other cops in the county, as a prank, got him “committed” to the psychiatric ward.
No matter how many times you had heard a story, it was like you were hearing the stories for the first time. Sometimes, you were hearing parts of the story for the first time because you missed something previously, from laughing so hard.
As I reflected on his stories, something stood out to me.
People respected Jim McFarland. It was not because of his physical stature. It was not just because he was in law enforcement. It was because he respected them.
Even in those hilarious stories that left you teary-eyed from laughter, it was evident he treated people with respect and dignity and reciprocated.
He joked that some of his best friends were people whom he had once arrested. It was not unusual, after he had retired, for people on their way to jail to ask a deputy: “How’s Jim doing?”
That was a testament to how he treated people in some of their lowest moments. As sheriff, when inmates at the county jail went outside for exercise, there was no fence! A line painted on the ground marked the jail’s boundary. No one ever stepped over that line.
Pappaw Jim, as I referred to him, passed away last week at the age of 85.
He didn’t treat people the way he wanted to be treated; he treated them the way people should be treated. He would give you the shirt off his back if need be, but was not shy about dishing out some “tough love” if the situation necessitated it.
He dealt with everyone with respect and, in turn, earned the respect that so many people today demand but are unwilling to give.
He may be gone but he will live on in those stories and in the admiration and respect so many had for a guy who was just trying to do the right thing.