This is just a short story, from way back in our high-school days, and it is my favorite memory of Jim...we were walking down the hall at the Venango High Schools,  I think Jim was a sophomore at the time. All of a sudden, he passed us up, singing at the top of his lungs,  "Whoa black Betty bam, balam" ! Since then, every time I hear that song, I automatically think of Jim! 

Oh wait, I forgot one very important detail...he had an afro back then, and he also had a nickname..".Fat Jack  "

Rest in peace Fat Jack!!!

Jim was a dear friend of ours for many years. We grew apart while Steve and I  raised our son. We reconnected and it was as if no time had passed at all. We will always cherish our memories of Jim's wit. We still have letters he wrote us while we were working in Antarctica! I mean that says a lot. Anyway our hearts go out to Jim's beloved wife Inis and beloved sister Renee, and the whole family. 

~Always,

Samantha and Steve Bachechi

I had the pleasure of working with Jim for seven years, but Jim was more than just a coworker or colleague, he was a friend! And for those of us who worked with Jim, we all know he had a heart of gold! During Covid, Jim would randomly text me different TV shows that he thought were worth watching because he knew that I was alone. He’d send me random pictures of food that he was cooking and give me tips on things I should do or cook myself to keep myself busy. I’ve always been grateful that he cared enough to check on me. Jim will be greatly missed by so many people. I hope he knew how many peoples lives he touched. I will never forget him and his “long story short” and his “ is the juice worth the squeeze”.

My thoughts and prayers are with you, Inis, Renee and Harlen, and all the rest of the family and friends!

Our Story

Was the juice worth the squeeze? It was one of Jim’s favorite phrases. It became my method of analyzing situations as well. When it comes to Jim, the answer is a definite yes. The juice was absolutely worth the squeeze.

Jim and I met in January 1992 in a computer class at Pikes Peak Community College. We had a speech class together that semester too. But it was the computer instructor who first teamed us up for an assignment.

That fall, Jim followed me to CU-Boulder — where he proposed almost exactly one year after we met. Then after graduation, I followed him to Omaha. And that’s how the years unfolded — following one another along paths that neither of us would have discovered alone. Along the way, I introduced him to sushi and he introduced me to road kill.

I think it’s common knowledge that Jim and I were on the verge of separating when he was diagnosed. The finality of brain cancer was a shock, a jolt that changed priorities in an instant. Instead of parting ways, he asked me to stay and team up with him one last time. I said yes and I’m so glad I did. Because the most poignant moment of our entire 32 years together came just before he lost verbal function.

One thing I appreciated most about Jim was his compliments. If you’ve ever received a compliment from James Lovely, know that it was sincere. He did not play the false flattery game. If he praised you, he meant it and you likely earned it. Jim’s confidence in my ability as a writer is the reason I’m still at it. He wouldn’t let me give up, and now, in his memory, I won’t let me give up either. I am eternally grateful for his support. His confidence was contagious which made it such a magnificent gift.

Asking me to stay and help him die was his greatest gift of all. It wasn’t easy, but through buckets of tears, we became a team again maximizing the time he had left. Sushi, steak, friends, and family. The important stuff.

We reminisced too about the amazing experiences we had and the wonderful people we met along our journey, especially during our media years. Sharing our last sushi meal, at a place where we celebrated most of our anniversaries, we agreed that we were still — despite mistakes and heartaches along the way — the best things to have happened to one another.

When Jim began to lose verbal function, he ask me to help write his obituary. Notepad in hand, I asked what I was to him, officially for the obit, because I honestly didn’t know. Was I friend? Partner? Estranged wife? His voice cracking with emotion, he replied with the two most poignant words he ever said to me.

“You’re everything,” he said. And in that bittersweet moment, with some of the last phrases he would speak, my husband did his best to patch up the largest hole in my heart and set me on a path to heal. You’ll have to read the obit to see what he settled on, officially.

We began as a team on an assignment and we ended as a team on an assignment. All-in-all we made a pretty good team over the years.

Here’s to you, babe. No regrets. Not one. I am so grateful to have had you in my life. The three decades with you were definitely worth the squeeze.