The Awful Death of Jim Finkenstadt

by Bob McHugh

The awful death of Jim Finkenstadt has me stunned. Anytime a bright and genial soul is taken at age 55, it’s senseless. Leaving a wife and children behind makes it worse.

But anyone who knew Jim knows that his death is even a greater loss. Jim was a gentleman, in the most literal sense of the word. He was an extraordinary journalist – the Asbury Park Press, the APF, the Globe. And he was trying to help me speak French.

I have been to Paris a half dozen times, and twice when Jim and Elizabeth lived there. Visits to their home, to Jim’s newsroom and to Versaille made one of the world’s most wonderful places seem all more wonderful. Jim was a near-native French speaker and a pleasure to listen to.

Within the last year, he invited me to Paris again. Like a fool, I never went. Just two weeks ago, I sent him a “what’s up” email. Va tu, mon ami? Damn.

In 1979 – an unimaginable 30 years ago – I graduated from night copy boy to reporter at the Press. I was assigned to the “city zone” and to cover Eatontown and Bradley Beach, replacing Jim. (I soon realized why he was so delighted to hand over the reins …)

I remember Jim introducing me to the township attorney, an orange jumpsuit in waiting named “Nestor.” Jim was not the type to tell an eager new reporter outright that Nestor was, shall we say, less than credible. He simply told me to be careful.

I left the Press in 1985 for the Associated Press and I was proud that I had become a “wire service guy” like Jim.

I’ll always remember the Finkenstadt’s changing diapers at Jody and Carl Calendar’s. Jody and Carl stayed devoted friends to Jim. And I’ll always remember buying bread and cheese enroute to the Finkenstadt’s house outside Paris.

And I’ll never forget my friend, Jim.