James Slater "Jim" Sherlock

Our beloved son, brother, uncle and friend, James (Jim) Slater Sherlock, died on January 22nd, 2025 in a bike accident in Eugene, Oregon. Jim was a kind, generous, and conscientious person who loved without pretense or ego, and we were lucky enough to receive this love, in all of its myriad expressions, for 58 years. We love you so much, Jim.
Jim loved life in many ways, but particularly when he was salmon fishing on the Siuslaw River; flying the remote-controlled model airplanes he built himself; and making food for the people he loved. Jim was a mainstay of the Friendly neighborhood, easy to find behind the counter of the Little Y Market or flying his planes in Washington Park. Crowds of children-and parents-would form around him as he loop-de-looped his airplanes above their heads like an aeronautic pied piper, hovering a plane just beyond someone's reach before dashing it into the ether. He was an expert flier, with ribbons and trophies variously stashed away, but what he loved most was sharing his love of flying with others. When I invariably crashed multiple brand-new planes straight into the ground after just seconds of flying them, he never got angry: instead, he smiled and supplied a new plane, and told me it was all part of the process.
Jim was humble, understated, and profoundly good at loving other people. Once, when he was working as a cook in Southern California, he wrote to his brothers, "I am not a great cook but I love to satisfy my peers' palates anyhow. I find it therapeutic." Jim, can you explain the buttery smoked salmon you would catch and smoke yourself then? The hollandaise you would make from scratch and spoon over eggs Benedict for your mom when she was in town? The beef Wellingtons wrapped in chanterelle mushrooms you had harvested yourself? The fact that people would visit from out of town to eat the smoked pork butt you made?
Jim was attuned to the natural world and loved to move through it-skiing, sailing, biking, and flying. He was perhaps most at peace on the water, in his fishing boat, with early morning mist dissolving into the sun. He loved to take people fishing, and he joked about having a "Beginners Only Guide Service," because first-timers would always catch a salmon even if he didn't-a testament to his teaching and lack of competitiveness. He was a selflessly acrobatic fisherman, somehow managing to steer the boat with his elbow while baiting someone's hook with one hand and maintaining his own line with the other. He possessed technical and emotional intelligence in equal measure, and he had a genius for making you feel like you were doing a good job.
Jim's house was home to chickens, bees, and his beloved cat, Jimmy, a glossy black cat with whom he shared a fervent mutual respect. Jim cared for Jimmy with total deference to his independence; consequently, Jimmy was obsessed with Jim, and they developed rituals together. Jimmy would follow Jim from a distance around the neighborhood, making occasional appearances as if the rendezvous were sheer coincidence. Upon Jim's return home, Jimmy would assume his position: crouched low in a neighbor's bush, waiting. As Jim approached, Jimmy would leap out of the shadows like a 10-pound panther, ambushing his beloved with masterful timing and agility.
In his spare time you could find Jim volunteering at the Egan Warming Center, or working on the outdoor kitchen he was building, or listening to NPR and local blues music, or shooting the shit with his two brothers, both of whom also live in Eugene. He was funny and irreverent and could find common ground with almost everyone; in an early letter from his twenties, he reported that "My new roommate and I seem to be getting along just fine. We had each other laughing in stitches last night as we went to sleep." But he was also a deep listener, and he had a way of melting away your shame. As my uncle, he did one of the most meaningful things one can do for a young person: he asked me questions and he listened to my answers. He paid attention to my stories and preferences, remembered my friends' names, and made me feel like I was an interesting, smart, and fun person to be around. He was always on the lookout for ways to show you he loved you, and his gentleness and sensitivity were palpable. "I'm grateful for being able to cry," he wrote in a letter from the same time period.
Jim was born in Palo Alto, CA on October 12th, 1966, the youngest of three boys, to Phyllis and Paul Sherlock. He attended the University of Massachusetts and traveled widely in Europe and Central America, hitchhiking, learning Spanish, and visiting theaters and museums. He lived in Chicago and California before settling down in Eugene, just one block away from his brother (and me), where he worked as a carpenter, foreman, and chef. He is survived by his mother, Phyllis Sherlock; his brothers, Liam and John Sherlock; his sister-in-law, Jennie Sherlock; his niece and nephew, Carmin and Bodin Sherlock, in whose lives he was an active presence; and his cat Jimmy, who has been adopted by Jim's beloved friend, Samantha Chirillo. Jim joins his predeceased father, Paul Sherlock-a fellow model airplane builder-in what we hope is an afterlife spent fishing and flying invisibly among us, and-in Jim's words-"feeding himself with love."
"What we call the beginning is often the end," Jim once quoted from T.S. Eliot in a letter. "And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." A memorial will be held on Saturday, March 1st, at 2:00pm at the First Congregational Church in Eugene. All are welcome. In lieu of flowers, donations in Jim's memory can be made to the Egan Warming Center.