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James Bogie Obituary
James C. Bogie of Darien, Connecticut, died unexpectedly of a heart attack on July 12, 2020. Jim is survived by his loving wife Patty, sons Chris and Cam, and their dog Cooper; his mother Helen Murphy Bogie, siblings Peter, Susan, and Scott (Lisa) Bogie; and many nieces and nephews. He was predeceased by his father, Duane C. Bogie.
Jim grew up in suburban Chicago and was proud to have Midwestern roots. He went on to receive a journalism degree at the University of Kansas, where he met some of his closest lifelong friends and became a diehard Jayhawks basketball fan. Jim met Patty while earning a master's degree in advertising at Northwestern University, and they immediately started a life together that lasted 40 years.
During Jim's advertising career at J. Walter Thompson, Young & Rubicam, Carrafiello Diehl, and more, he put his creativity and passion to work on brands such as Dr Pepper, Cadbury, Centrum Vitamins and ICEE frozen beverages.
Jim approached life with enthusiasm. Nowhere was that more evident than when he coached Darien Little League and YMCA Basketball. Jim motivated his teams and shared his love of sports by creating events like Friday Night Hoops at Cherry Lawn.
Family time included everything outdoors – camping, hiking, road trips and kayaking. Jim loved tending his pond, garden, and playing with Cooper. In addition to regular board games, Jim and Patty played cards with their close-knit Poker Gang friends for decades.
Jim considered himself a lucky man. He was proud of his sons and fortunate to see them embark on their careers. Within the past year, Jim had attended a Jayhawks basketball game at KU's Allen Fieldhouse, traveled cross-country with Patty (and Cooper) to visit family in Dallas, and was planning a new Adirondack adventure. Jim will be buried in Wisconsin, with a celebration of his life planned for 2021.
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Memories and Condolences
for James Bogie
5 Entries
Thomas Bolitho
April 30, 2025
Jim was a great friend while we both attended KU and earned journalism degrees. He was advertising and I was editorial so we had lots of fun arguing which was more important! We often played tennis on campus and visited each other at our apartments. A super guy, absolutely the best. I knew from a classmate he had passed but I am just now reading his obituary. I'm so glad he had a nice life with his wife and family.
Randall Wilson
January 20, 2025
How do I begin? With one of those woefully inadequate responses that you uttter when you don't know what to say? Like 'I'm sorry for your loss' ... 'He'll be missed' ... 'I'm deeply saddened.'
Sentiments even more lacking from a Johnny-come-lately like myself. A very late arrival to Jim's death, four, almost five years ago.
So I begin with an apology, heart-felt.
I'm sorry I let Jim slowly slip away from my life, for letting our friendship gradually end. I'm not sure why this happened. Envy? Perhaps. I probably was jealous of Jim's success, his happiness; when I read his letter announcing the birth of his first son, I was waiting to see my loan officer about getting an extension on my student loan.
Jim was moving ahead in life. I was stuck on the launch pad, embedded in a random series of flameouts.
I will always regret missing my chance to catchup with Jim, a special friend in my life. To meet his sons, Cam and Chris, to get to know his wife, Patty, better. The chance to close another bar with him. I always figured we'd talk about all that had happened over the missing years the next time we met. Now there's no next time.
I can't get my head around this --- Jim gone at 67 --- it's so, so sad, and will be for me for some time.
I had been on the road for several weeks searching for a home of my own, when I found out about Jim's shockingly unexpected passing. It was like finding out about the fatal crash of a 5-time Indy 500 champ. It just doesn't seem possible.
I was sitting in an all-night Denny's in Bozeman, Montana ('Big Sky' country), eating another Grand-Slam breakfast around midnight, checking online for Jim and Patty's address. Were they still in Darien? I was planning a surprise visit. A long overdue reunion with my long lost friend and NTE swimming teammate. A member of the 'Lord of the Speedos.' (Neither Jim nor I loved the smell of chlorine; it never smelled like victory.) I was uncertain about suddenly appear-ing on his doorstep after such a long absence. Silence. But while clearing out the attic, in preparing to sell the family home in Wilmette, I came across letters (and a K.U. postcard) from Jim, written during the college years, and during the aftermath of graduation, trying to realize the life we'd imagined, living on Mac & Cheese and Hamburger Helper in a shoebox with a staggering security deposit. The letters reminded me of Jim's sensible, good-natured, decent character; he'd be surprised to see me, but I don't think he'd slam the door in my face, or in my traveling companion's, Jenny, my 16-month old 55 lb. dark chocolate English lab (my Cooper).
Sensible? Yes, and meticulous, fastidious to a fault. (He introduced me to his Harley-Davidson hair stylist, Kurt, the owner of the "Roman Room.") And most certainly a Grover's Corners guy. A pillar of parenthood, and of the Darien community. A Coach of Our Town.
The YMCA should probably rechristened a locker room in his honor.
But before Coach Bogie, before Our Town, there was the North Shore, and 'The Young Man in the White Convertible Mustang.' The occasional Guy Gone Wild. As sensible as Evel Knievel on his rocket-boosted sky-cycle hurling across Idaho's Snake River Canyon.
That young seventeen-year-old man, a mid-western Mad Max, gave me a graduate education in the wilderness of Whitewater, Wisconsin one dark moonless night, speeding through its wooded serpentine roads in his Mustang until suddenly extinguishing the headlights and screaming a piercing death-defying shriek into utter darkness, giving me an apoplectic shock and an electrifying awakening. An exuberant, irreverent, thrilling jolt of mortality.
It was Jim's good-natured way, perhaps, of reminding me that in this life you're always in danger of going off the road.
On the teenage dating front Jim was another Jim Fossett, handling its many perils fearlessly, like cold-calling the head cheerleader, a Snooty Little Cutie; his version of plummeting 29,000 feet into the ocean in a hot air balloon. Having a low threshold for boredom, Jim pushed himself through a series of exploratory romantic feats, most famously remembered for an adventure to Key West.
In 1972 Jim was one of Three Musketeers (D'Artagnan?), 4th-year swimmers finally on Spring Break, in a non-stop Ford Pinto, nicknamed 'Prudence,' rocketing at warp-speed to Key West, the Conch Republic, fueled with baloney sandwiches and Mountain Dew and the dream of college girls, unflinching University of Florida females, Gator Girls, with unabashed opinions ('I say what I think.'), and knowing eyes, vibrant smiles, bodies shimmering with baby oil, blithe coed spirits who wouldn't let our adolescent admiration of Dan Fogel-berg, or a Ford Pinto, "Prudence," diminish our success with them and their sure thing fantasy service in the Sunshine State.
Of course, it never happened. No epic encounter. No kiss like the flap of a butterfly wing setting off a tornado. For we'd become Icarus-children-of-the-night, having laid too long in the sun on our first day. We were untouchable boiled lobsters, severely sun-burned, seldom leaving our tent, sleepless arthritic old men popping extra-strength Tylenol and lathering ourselves in layers of Noxzema, Burt's Bees, Aloe Vera, and Maui Island Secret Burn to Brown Formula --- spraying each other with Alocane as if it were some sort of indomitable cure-all, a panacea, ambrosia, an elixir of life, like Highland Park 50-year-old single malt scotch whiskey.
Our last night in Cayo Hueso (Bone Island), we sat among a clutch of free-roaming chickens, silently staring into a dying camp fire, our kick-started tans already peeling, when Jim calmly said: "Someone once told me our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized." He paused, and then with the necessary mix of sardonic humor and humanity, said: "The girls are gone." We smiled to ourselves and passed around the Alocane.
That occasional Guy Gone Wild inevitably settled in Jim. Like many a liberal or sometime maverick, the young man who could jump off the familiar script (or road) in a way no one saw coming, aged into his Grover's Corners, Darien, although it wasn't as bad as Jim hoisting a croquet mallet above his head and proclaiming it could be removed only by prying it from his cold dead hands.
From his letters, I could see that Darien was becoming a place that added awakenings to all parts of his life, that Patty, the kids, we're bringing out the best in him.
I saw the change, the signs of those turbulent unsettled teen years subsiding, his freshmen year in college, Jay Hawk Land, when I received a postcard from Jim inscribed with only 2 words: "Now what?" Like many of us pre-life majors he was adrift, part of the floating population lost among the beer can pyramids and centerfolds, the bongs and bottles of Brut cologne, uncertain about what he was doing. He felt off-the-road. Concerned, I hitchhiked to K.U. to talk with him.
His pursuit of a journalism degree seemed to him an enveloping grayness. An Alzheimer's symptom.
To be or not to be a fair but feared investigative reporter invoking the ire of the powers-that-be. Or perhaps a foreign correspondent making his mark explaining outsize global events in 30-second sound bites. Or a news anchor with a warm, breezy unironic manner sounding like a game show host ... an everyman's show-biz uncle with a talk show.
Jim did mention Tim Russert, host of 'Meet the Press,' the people's voice, a mid-westerner who never lost track of his roots. I told him, jokingly, that I didn't see Duane, his father, as his "Big Russ," Russert's own father, a sanit-ation worker, who he always kept in mind when pursuing a story, wherever it led, asking himself what Big Russ would want to know.
Jim nodded, smiled, saying, "Big Duane." This led to a long discussion in the bar about his father. And the realization that what Jim really wanted to know involved his dad, how he'd decided what to do with his life, what to do for a living, and as a producer, what he actually did and how he did it.
We closed the bar that night but opened another door.
The next time I heard from Jim he'd taken a brief student sabbatical and was working for his father in London, where he was embroiled in the first produc-tion of "All Creatures Great and Small." The experience led to a better under-standing between father and son, as well as an article about the production, written by Jim, that appeared in the local suburban newspaper back home on the North Shore, run by the Pioneer Press.
I think the many rewrites Jim's editor put him through --- a man who boggled, impressed and appalled him --- may have diminished his interest in journalism.
At a 1980's lunch with Jim in New York (he had joined the ranks of the Mad Men), we talked about our Green and Gray days (school colors), growing to-gether in the New Trier East pool. Listening to him talk I realized in every accomplished versatile athlete there's a high energy coach with an enduring passion for sports struggling to get out.
I also learned that swimming may have been Jim's faithful wife, but basket-ball was his alluring mistress. I was not surprised to hear about his involve-ment at the YMCA. Or to hear him talk about the importance of first getting to know your player, their character, before you sized up their skills. A rarity in this world.
My relationship with Jim began when he stood beside me on the starting blocks in 1969, at a swimming meet, Evanston Wildcats vs. New Trier East Indians, which indirectly introduced us our sophomore year. We were both a bit of an anomaly in the NTE Swimming Organization --- not being a seasoned 15-year-old product of the elite farm team that fueled the organization --- the Michigan Shores Country Club.
The anomaly was one vital part at the core of our friendship in and out of the pool.
On our team, a Band of Brothers, with a tendency toward hubris and preferential treatment, Jim was always his hard-working unassuming self; he never failed to swim past wherever teammates expected him to end up. Per-haps because he never got caught up in the self-involved follies of high school. He was never what he pretended to be; he was always very realistic about who he was. Those who did inevitably became one more whatever. After all, 'What you do today, you become tomorrow,' the head coach had often told us, ad-vice he would have been well-served to follow himself, having later been cashiered for "financial irregularities" in the management of the NTE Swimming Organization. And yet, years later, he was still celebrated at a com-memorative dinner; the memorialized pariah and socially acceptable thief for those who couldn't see beyond his long ago iconic Sports Illustrated cover story.
Neither Jim nor I attended the bizarre acknowledgment banquet.
I think Jim understood high school. How to navigate its uncharted waters. The closed societies. The poisonous cliques. The comfortably sequestered world given to hyperbole and distortion. Where any 15-year-old stumbling through "Stairway to Heaven" on a used Fender was a rock star, or a trust funder with a silver roach clip was a revolutionary, or a student with a frayed second-hand copy of "Siddartha" was among the Best and Brightest. He under-stood athletes were also susceptible to being seen iconically, having made the final shot from half-court or grabbed the winning touchdown pass with one hand or come from behind to win the race in a record-setting time. If either one of us forgot this susceptibility, there was a mechanism in place to deal with the temporary amnesia: our friendship.
In the pool, and on the driveway, playing one-on-one late at night, we gave each other a hard time, knocked down our successes, played on the other's flaws --- false starts, missed flip-turns, double-dribbles, egregiously errant sky hooks landing in a neighbor's fenced back yard --- but always with a sense of irreverent fun and underlying affection.
We kept each other in balance, which was another vital part at the core of our solidarity. It made those teen years better than they would have been without him.
This was never more present then at the end of our days among the Green and the Gray, "Indians," never accepting a no-I-can't when we wanted to hear from each other yes-I-can. Passion and tenacity and seriousness of purpose, the vital essence of any successful athlete. Within less than 2 1/2 years of swimming competitively, when others had been at it for almost 13 years, Jim made the state meet team. His victory gave me hope, for having achieved a shared goal, dream, I began to believe it was actually possible.
Jim loved to compete (as did I), despite many thinking competition was the cause of much of the divisive social and political tumult of the 60's. And with every competitive face-off Jim made astonishing progress. More importantly, with every unassuming victory (there were no touch down dances in his end zone), he became a bigger figure and became a varsity captain. Why did his teammates --- most of whom weren't part of the elite farm team from Michigan Shores --- support Jim? Because they respected him. And because he was one of them. One of us.
One of those people who could be cynical and sentimental, furious and full of good fellowship, defiant and approachable.
Yes, one of "Us."
Unfortunately, that election was actually stolen, by the head coach, the socially acceptable thief who decided only he'd tally the votes. (Didn't he realize we'd talk among ourselves to discover the real outcome?) Jim calmly tackled this challenging moment with silence.
I think his silence had something to do with wanting to be one of those rare people whose very presence lifted your spirits --- something none of the elected captains were or did --- and complaining about a fleeting forgettable title wasn't going to have a positive effect on anyone.
Jim did not, however, always remain silent, especially when the illegitimate captains changed the long-held tradition of the state meet party; every senior on the varsity team, and that included those who didn't make the state meet line-up, were traditionally invited to the after-party. Flaunting their self-involv-ed authority, the captains unexpectedly changed the tradition. Only those in the line-up were invited to the party.
Proof that one too many elite athletes --- fifty-meter immortals, grandmas-ters of the horizontal position --- feel the need to act like one.
The real tradition of NTE swimming, its purpose, was to develop discipline and courage, a reservoir of strength to draw on throughout life. Just as impor-tant, it was to build friendships that endure beyond a season.
The all-star flutter kickers, the top-notch crawlers, their exclusionary ways had turned the tradition into another "Diddy Party."
For some it was like being blacklisted from Hollywood by the House Un-American Activities Committee, which had something to do with failing to be a Jack Armstrong the All-American boy, an iconic jock.
Jim, who had volunteered his family's home in Winnetka for the dessert part of the after-party (Helen, his mother, known for her home-made pies, was the real power behind the dessert table), insisted every senior on the swim team, in the line-up or not, was invited.
I knew Helen Bogie for much more than her pies, which could have easily turned "Harry & David" into "Harry, David & Helen."
In a life that had its share of turmoil, I knew Jim's mom mainly for her modest, warm and reassuring manner, which was what those sometimes tumultuous teen years needed. She loved her friends, her family, Jim, who didn't always make it easy for her on his Honda 350. Or in her living room, Kung Fu fighting (a series of martial arts exercises), until he threw a leg out of joint, which I had to yank back into place; Helen and I followed the ambulance in her car.
But what I remember most about Jim's mom was an afternoon walk in Greenwich, Connecticut, to a Swan's nest, and the way she got us to begin to see the beauty and fragility of our natural surroundings. I'm sure Helen is where Jim got his love for the great outdoors.
Back indoors, in front of the Adolescent Un-American Activities Committee, Jim did not only oppose those who thought there were only two types of people, qualifiers and others (perhaps this juvenile committee was more of a sub-sect of "Know-Nothings" who saw us as aliens, devils, tempters, dangerous foreigners, wild Irishmen, German Catholics with a view to disturb their tran-quility), he redefined the accepted notions of "team."
This was one of those singular memorable moments for me, however ridiculous it now seems from Kalamazoo.
The State Meet Party. What was it? A bottle of Mondavi, a few Little Annie Fanny cartoons, and the never-ending blare of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." It was the "Green and Gray Ball" filled with big-fish-in-a-small-pond whose life-cycle as the high school athletic sensation, the super-jock, inevitably fades into the Great Etcetera as quickly as others lose and gain weight.
The Captains were probably too young to see the high school sensation, the super-jock, as a mirage. Or as a persistent and alluring myth, a Camelot, that they lost one teammate at a time.
A teammate, unconsumed by self-conceit, they could have helped surpass every coach's hopes, a powerhouse teammate they could have reminded that he's more than just a swimmer, a mid-tier teammate they could have told that just doing what's difficult every day will yield a treasure trove of private acclaim.
They could have told the dispirited competitor who experiences every defeat as an embarrassing personal loss and a test of manhood that he'll be alright, or reassured the hopeful --- the thoughtful quiet individual who takes the lead to soon, so determined is he to outperform --- that pursuing what's challenging 'is' the way to be, screw the popular kids. They could have shown other athletes that sharing their talent with others is valuable, even when no one knows about their generosity.
Year later, who cares? Was there any real lasting damage? Any cries of "Unchained Melody." Did it mean anything to anyone? Other than being a spectacular irrelevancy. There were no Medal of Honor winners. So what. Still, back then, it mattered; it was a summary slap in the face of the fervently com-mitted --- Organization Men of a sort --- who manifested their dedication as resilience, never quitting no matter how far behind in the race; it was their way of contributing to the betterment of the team.
Jim, one of the legitimate captains, a real "mensch," seemed to experience the new exclusionary tradition as a dawning moment of self-awareness, in-volving compassion, defiance, intelligence, and an attentive ear, a moment when you don't go along to get along. But it was more than just an exercise in nonconformity. A lesson in swimming against the stream. Jim upped the ante in another equally important and memorable way.
It's why I remember this discriminative incident. Because I was made to see by Jim, whose athleticism was undeniable, in the pool and on the court, that to take his measure by such physical skill would have been a discredit to him, for his heart and character far exceeded any such simple measurement.
The last time I sat down with Jim and talked was at his father's funeral in Whitewater, Wisconsin. We were sitting at a hotel bar telling "Duane" tales.
I told Jim about a chance meeting I had with his father in Chicago. He invited me to dinner at the University Club. But before I straightened my tie and but-toned my collar and entered the world of vaulted ceilings, limestone columns, soaring stained glass windows and Ivy Leaguers scooping white fish and sip-ping liqueurs, I took Mr. Bogie, Duane, at his insistence, on a tour of my place of business (not quite as medieval as Cathedral Hall). A place that in another six months would cease to exist. (The Help-Wanted Ad Men would soon be reading their Help-Wanted ads.) Afterwards, the Mr. Blackwell in Duane came out as we walked along the Magnificent Mile. He expressed a salutary skepti-cism about my sartorial choice for the evening. A corduroy sport coat. Too middle-aged. Too safe. Too boring for the ad game. (The Help-Wanted ad game?) Before I could say anything an irrepressible force of nature and fashion, called Duane, pulled me into a cab and hauled me off to Capper & Capper. A men's clothing store in Chicago. My liberator from the worst-dres-sed list. My gateway to the red carpet.
Thirty, forty years later I still have that coat, that 'amazing technicolor Dreamcoat,' or so it seems.
I didn't know Jim's father very well. The sometime unofficial master of taste and style, although he was always gracious and impeccably well-dressed. A man with a sparkling sense of humor. A lively intellect. A man who remember-ed names. And like Jim he never forgot where he came from (notwithstanding neither were ever 'Whitewater Plowboys'), which meant they'd never be com-fortable looking out on the world from the back seat of a limousine; they'd always prefer going to work by bus or train.
I will miss Jim, but I will not forget him, because he leaves behind an indelible legacy of optimism. For me his life is one long affirmation, revealing the pos-sibilities in a smile, a laugh, hard work, understanding, patience and love of the game.
All but his life lives on.
And being the fierce competitor he always was, I'll remember him for arriving at 'Big Sky Country' before me.
Susan Bogie
August 4, 2020
I miss you already! Jim was a loving brother and my "go to" guy for anything that needed fixing! We have lots of good memories that will help sustain us. Your favorite sister - Susan
John, Nance, John & Christian Freeman
August 2, 2020
Patty, Chris, Cam and the entire Bogie Family,
Our hearts go out to you on Jim’s sudden and completely unexpected passing. We share your loss. Jim was a real asset to Darien and through his coaching of sports impacted many young lives in a most positive way. He was always a true friend and a great companion. He will be sorely missed by us. We will cherish the many good times shared with Jim in our midst. We will never forget him.
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Doug Scott
July 30, 2020
The World is a lesser place today
Jim Bogie was a great human being
RIP
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