James Ernest Sunderland, Jr.

I've written quite a few obituaries, tributes, and speeches in my day. But writing one for your own parent hits different. The words are harder to find, the sentences harder to construct. The details are the easy part, so we’ll get them out of the way: Jim Sunderland was born in 1935 to Margaret and his namesake James Ernest Sunderland, Sr. He was a brother to his older sisters, Marie and Margaret, whom he cherished and missed deeply when they passed. On July 15th, he celebrated sixty-five years of marriage with his ride or die, Kathy Sunderland, and he was a father to his one and only - that would be me. Jim worked at a bank early on, hated it, and then moved on to auto sales where he found his true passion. He worked at every car dealership you can name until retirement. My dad was a salesman, a cool guy and a storyteller. This is his story.

Jim was born to be a salesman, make that a great salesman. But here's the difference; he was passionate about what he was selling. Cars were his religion and gasoline was in his blood. Growing up we probably had two of every car ever made - a bit of a Noah’s Ark vibe. Cameros, Mustangs, El Camino’s, Impalas, Chevelles and Corvettes were just a few of the models that found their way to our two-car parking pad on Northern Parkway. He left my mother with a two-foot strip to garden and cemented the backyard to home his cars, renting garages to accommodate the rest. In full disclosure, some of them were junkyard worthy but he was always invested in fixing them up. I can remember being woken up on a particular Saturday morning as he turned the ignition key on his latest purchase. The entire neighborhood was engulfed in a plume of smoke and serenaded with the sound of a wailing engine. Neighborhood kids on their Schwinn bikes would gather round to watch him work on his latest project.

When I turned sixteen and had my party on that very parking pad, there was an expectation from the neighbors that I would be presented with a sports car. Instead, I got a red velour dress and a plaid skirt. Don’t feel sorry for me because he went on to buy me at least five different vehicles in short order. A baby blue Trans Am with a gold eagle, an optic metallic dash and crushed blue velvet interior is one that comes to mind. He asked me to leave the keys one day because he wanted to take it in for service. He traded it for a manual Ford Fiesta. That car was the equivalent of a tuna can with a radio that would change stations when driven over a pebble. Moral of the story, never hand over the keys.

And of course, there was that infamous day that he threw a set of keys to me and told me to drive his company loaner car to work as he wanted to take my “then car” for service. Little did he know that five minutes later I would drive it backwards, forty miles an hour through a grocery store window, landing on a grocery check-out belt and taking down the entire facade. Remember what I said, never hand over the keys.

My mother and I learned early on to not leave a vehicle with him unattended because when you returned, it was likely to have something “extra” mounted on it. A random hood ornament, some sort of striping, glued on emblems and racks were in his repertoire There was once a Jeep that he embellished with a pair of crisscrossed skis on the tailgate. No one in my family or extended family has been within one hundred miles of a ski slope. I guess they were there “just in case”.

In the spirit of fixing things up, I think he was also a frustrated inventor. Not exactly Shark Tank worthy, but rather someone that liked problem solving. In his mind, a bungee cord and a drill could fix just about any issue. When I had my college interview at the Maryland Institute College of Art, I had to come up with a way to transport my artwork to the building. My father embraced the challenge and fashioned an open-topped cargo system cobbled together with left over paneling from the basement. He dismembered my roller skates and added the wheels to the base, attached a luggage handle to the front and I was good to go. Rest assured, he plastered my name in large vinyl letters to my makeshift Hulken to ensure everyone knew who was in the building. While my fellow candidates arrived with slim black leather portfolios, I arrived loud and proud with my bespoke, Jim Sunderland creation. Not sure if I was accepted that day based on my talent or if they just felt sorry for me.

My dad had a curated fashion style, mostly sourced from the Goodwill or Savers. His thrifty style was not limited to fashion, and he would comb the aisles for other treasures. Anything with an eagle, an American flag or a clock was scooped from the shelf and going home along with vintage exercise equipment, canes, anything with wheels and stuff he thought I might like. True confession, most of the items went directly into my personal Goodwill pile. We’ll just consider that the circle of life.

His obsession with the American flag surely stemmed from his three-year period of active duty in the Army. His obsession with clocks and timepieces? No clue. He purchased a grandfather clock which still stands in their townhome. About two months ago, not too steady on his feet, he wandered over to the clock, opened the glass door to fix the chimes and found himself underneath its weight moments later. My mother called me in a complete panic and said that Rick and I needed to get there ASAP because Dad was trapped under the clock cabinet. As an aside, she calmly asked, “Do you think you could stop by McDonald’s on the way and pick up a spicy McChicken sandwich for Dad? I can’t get into the kitchen to make him dinner because the clock is in the way.”

Welcome to life with my parents.

Jim had a generous spirit that was unmatched. He always wanted to give a little something to anyone he met. Toys for children at church, candy for the bank tellers, a few dollars for anyone that asked. Visitors to their home could not escape without a little souvenir. Imagine my surprise when I found out he would get up at 5:30 am every week to give the trash man a twenty-dollar bill to roll his trash can twenty-five feet across the flat driveway. And then there was the time my mother almost killed him when she found out he took most of his current wardrobe to the church clothing drive. A generous spirit indeed.

Kass and Jim were a unit, a dynamic shopping duo. There were Target Tuesdays, Wegmans Wednesdays and any day was fair game for a trip to the Dollar Store. White Marsh Mall was a regular destination and my father always made sure to squeeze in a thrift store pitstop. After my dad’s glaucoma diagnosis, my mom took the wheel while he navigated from the shotgun position. Not sure that either one really knew where they were going but at least they tried. Even in the last year, as his mobility declined, he always wanted to be by her side even if it meant waiting in the car while she ran her errands. I’m sure he will continue to co-pilot, guiding her every step of the way.

My father had a sales motto, “Everybody Rides”. He made sure everyone left the lot with a car to take them on their next adventure. Today, although you can’t see him, he's wearing one of his favorite shirts, and has a wallet in his pocket with a crisp ten-dollar bill and a few coins to spare. He’s ready to go. Pick your car, Dad, any car. Time to ride.

Receiving of Friends on Friday August 21st, from 9:30am to10am at Sacred Heart Parish Church, 65 Sacred Heart Lane, Reisterstown, Maryland 21136, where a Mass will begin at 10am.

In lieu of flowers, contributions in James Sunderland’s memory may be sent to the Alzheimer’s Association, Greater Maryland Chapter, 2027 Memory Ball, 502 Washington Avenue, Suite 300, Towson MD 21204