Dr. Harris
March 17, 2020
Dr. James S. Harris was the beloved son of Blackstone, Virginia, a doctor who made you feel better the second you saw him, a baritone with a voice like velvet, and a man who made being good seem like the most natural thing in the world.
He sprang into every room and situation, his face all smile and delight, rubbing his hands together like a person does before digging into a feast, in anticipation of whatever wonderful or trite thing he was walking into or thing he was expected to do, a tad late always and always welcome. He lit up the room, for sure, and everything suddenly got better. Whatever had been impossible before now was possible. Whoever had been crabby was miraculously transformed. Some folks called him Dr. James, I called him Dr. Harris, of course, but Mama and Daddy called him Jimmy.
Jimmy Harris was fourteen years old and my mother around age 31 when she took the job of minister of music at the Blackstone Presbyterian Church, and in no time, she had him sweet-talked into joining the choir. She could turn on the Georgia peach charm when needed, and actually it was almost always needed. That was the beginning of a long and very sweet relationship between Jimmy and Mama, and between Dr. Harris and our whole family. He went off to college, had a brief stint in the Marines, I believe, med school, married the love of his life Fran—who always, when asked about their children, said they were just “wuhhhhn-derful”—and then came back to Blackstone to start a practice and a family.
His older brother Epes, also a doctor, was quite a brain, with a wide-ranging curiosity, and a bit of an eccentric, at least in that time and place, because of his habit of jumping on his bicycle and heading off down country roads. Epes was an esteemed diagnostician, president of the Virginia Medical Association, and also came back to his home town and together with his brother James, founded the Blackstone Family Medical Center, where doctors from the Medical College of Virginia came to do residencies. It was a one of a kind institution and served the people of rural South Central Virginia for miles around.
Dr. James Harris was everywhere. He was a doctor, a father of three children whose every recital, ball game, and choir concert I’m sure he attended, a loving husband, an active member of the Blackstone Presbyterian Church in the Sunday School, the choir, the Session, and, for crying out loud, the mayor. His photo was constantly in the Courier-Record, overseeing with visible pleasure a town council, a fair, or ribbon-cutting, or store opening, every last thing there was to oversee in his hometown. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. He was in great demand as a singer. He sang at school events, wedding, funerals, and in everything Mama wanted him to sing for. I was lucky enough to grow up singing duets with him, especially “O Holy Night” every Christmas Eve. I think of it every Christmas Eve to this day.
I have often thought of re-doing the bumper sticker “WWJD” (What Would Jesus Do) to mean What Would Jimmy Do? Because whatever Jimmy would do would be kind, full of class, and absolutely the right thing.
On my very last visit with Jimmy, July of 2007—he stopped by the house in Blackstone to say he would not be able to attend Mama’s birthday party—we visited on the side porch as we had visited with him so many times. His health was a concern, although he was too gracious and modest to hint at the severity of his condition. He had retired and had been looking forward to gardening and taking voice lessons. He was in the process of building a house with geothermal heating and cooling, because, as he said to me that day, we had to start taking climate change seriously. I feel sure that he was the only person in that town with that degree of vision, and sadly, many people there now would laugh at the idea.
He told me he had an incident where he needed to go to the medical clinic after hours, the very one that he and his brother had founded. He called the current doctor there, someone he knew and had actually hired, and was told under the new ownership, the new regulations, afterhours appointments weren’t allowed. Jimmy looked at me, shook his head, and said with the most uncharacteristically sorrowful sound, “We have lost our way. We have lost our way.”
My heart sank. If Jimmy Harris, the most can-do, optimistic human being ever, felt that, then truly we had lost our way. Jimmy had spent his life in service of others and did so with a palpable, infectious, almost spiritual joy.
At his funeral the following January, the church was filled to overflowing. Afterwards I heard a man, who looked like life had not treated him the kindest, say, “Dr. Harris made us all better people.”
Indeed he did, and lucky I was to know him.
©2021 Joy Cunningham