Good morning.....my name is Brad Moroni. Being Italian, I was raised in the Catholic Church, and this is the very first time I could talk in church without being yelled at. So, I am going to talk about my friend Jim.

I guess the "why" of it, is unimportant. The net result is the same regardless of the reason. And I'm going to miss him. Jim was a very good friend to me and I don't have many friends. But we had a lot in common. Just like I do, Jim loved to cook. Jim loved to eat too. Again, just like me. Jim loved hot sauces and chili peppers and woodworking and design and music. But more than those things, Jim loved his wife Hilda. Jim also loved his cats. Jim also seemed to love the poems and stories I emailed to him. I knew he read them because he always commented. When I send out the periodic installment of my silly comic strip, The Evil Mr. Toes, a running joke about a housecat trying to take over the world, Jim always offered constructive criticism, not to me, but to the cat. Jim always had new music and great stories to share. Jim was one of the funniest, most interesting and sometimes one of the most frustrating people I ever met. I'll say it again, Jim was a good friend and I don't have many friends.

The last time I saw Jim was April 2nd, last year. I had just begun a 3500-mile road trip in a small sports car with a polydactyl housecat. In case you aren't familiar with that word, "polydactyl" means extra toes. That's why we named him Mr. Toes. Be that as it may, I took a big ride in a small car with a freak cat and now, I'm writing a book about it. The first day of our trip ended at the home of Jim and Hilda. Here is how I describe that stop in my book:

"Jim and Hilda live in Elkridge, Maryland, a suburb of Baltimore. They are both frightfully intelligent, and a little crazy and wonderful and warm and sensitive and funny. Jim talks like a madman, full of great passion for all that interests him. And Jim tells stories. He tells stories of familiar things and things I had never heard of. Jim tells stories of things that matter to the world and things that don't matter at all. He tells stories that become convoluted with tangential sub-stories. He tells stories that last for seconds and he tells stories that last for days. When Jim tells a story, I find it imperative to listen very carefully because Jim operates on a much higher plane than me and I often get lost. Luckily, Jim is very patient with me and my frequent questions. When I get lost, he'll go back to where he lost me and begin again. Jim's stories always include the phrase, "lo and behold" and, they always end with a "kicker". When you hear Jim say, "Here's the kicker", you know the end of the story is approaching, sometimes approaching like a freight train out of control. However, much like missing a train, I often miss the kicker, but he tells a great story anyway.

Thankfully, Hilda is always nearby and happy to fill in the spaces left by Jim or, sometimes, she will lead the story down many twisting and uneven side roads adding details to which she may be more attached than Jim. Between the two of them, you are certain to get the "whole story".

Our times together are invariably full of obscene overindulgence and conspicuous consumption. Our rambling conversations last through the night and until the sun is once again high in the sky. Then we have a fantastic breakfast while the conversation continues. Jim and Hilda hold my interest to an extreme that can only be described as hazardous.

When I parked in front of Jim and Hilda's house after a long, lonely, annoying drive through five states in the pouring rain with an angry cat, Jim greeted me at the door. I've never been happier to see another human than I was to see Jim that day. Jim, Hilda and I stood in the kitchen, talking in huge loops and swirls. We had perhaps five complete and satisfying conversations going on at once. We spoke of work and food and music and wood and home remodeling and those who remodel homes. We discussed the ride down Mr. Toes and I shared and the plan for the rest of our trip. We discussed the sadness of sick relatives and we discussed the joy of good friends. Jim told us stories of social activism and his great, generous efforts to make the neighborhood better for all. For two and a half hours, we rambled on, thoroughly enjoying each other's company.

Eventually the conversations began having a common thread, even if they were not specifically about food, every word uttered seemed to somehow touch on eating, or preparing food to eat. Unable to resist our empty stomachs any longer, we went out to dinner at a Korean barbeque restaurant. I had never had such good food. I didn't realize how hungry I was. Through dinner, the conversations continued but I began thinking about getting back on the road. As we drove back to their house, Jim and Hilda told me about the people who owned the restaurant where we just ate. I was amazed how much they share with everyone around them. I could spend the rest of my life with Jim and Hilda, but not now. I hoped I wasn't being rude when I told Hilda I needed to sleep. It was about three in the morning and I was done.

When Mr. Toes woke me in the morning, I was just going to leave but Jim and Hilda insisted we go have breakfast together. We went to a nearby diner and, the stories flowed as if they had not been interrupted by a period of sleep. As we were on the way back to their house, Jim stopped the car to show me one of the flowerbeds he planted.

The flowerbed was pretty and overflowing with daffodils so brilliant and yellow they hurt my eyes. Any other time I would have admired and complimented his work but this time I didn't. I so was filled with anxiety about resuming my ridiculous road trip, I went totally Ralph Cramden on poor Jim. Always eager to please, before I even finished my tirade about him not understanding that I had to leave, Jim slammed the accelerator to the floor, spinning the tires on his Volvo sedan, and sending me back into my seat. Being very cooperative, Jim proceeded directly, and quickly, to his house.

After one last hug with Hilda and Jim, I got in the car, started the engine and pulled out onto the road. I tooted the horn, Mr. Toes began to cry and, from the sky, a heavy rain suddenly began to fall."

As it turned out, when I left Jim and Hilda's house that morning last April was the last time I would ever see Jim alive. I am glad I went through Baltimore on my trip. If I were a moral type of guy I guess that would be the moral of this story. So here's the kicker: Take the time to go see a friend, even if it's out of your way. You may not otherwise have the opportunity to pass that way again.

Thank you.