I can’t remember when I first met Keith Timm Jr. It was likely as a kid at one of the Coal Miners’ picnics typically held at Lake Retreat. They were the highlight of our summers. Free pop and ice cream, foot races for money, penny hunts, swimming, the Russian horse, baseball games, and watching coal miners and truck drivers drink too much.
And then there’s the vague memory of Keith, waiting for the bus at Enumclaw Jr. High (he was five years older than me) barking, “Hey! Aren’t you a Kombol?”
But we really got to know each other in the early 1980s when I took over as Manager of Palmer and hired Keith. He began on the picking table, the usual starting job at a coal mine. At the same time, cousin, Bob Morris was racing boats down the Cedar River, so Keith and I became his crew. Hanging out together we soon became fast friends. Maybe it was just driving around together in a pickup truck. Anyone who rode around with Keith became his friend.
A few years later Keith told me he needed a place to stay. He’d been living with his Mom and stepfather at their Black Diamond home. Day after day, Keith complained about how much he detested his step-father, Ray. I don’t know the exact circumstances – some say Ray hit Keith’s Mom, Lorraine. Whatever the cause, Keith proceeded to beat the crap out of Ray. When the Black Diamond Police arrived they dispensed justice the “old-fashioned” way. They told Keith to get out of town for a while.
Back then Lake Sawyer wasn’t part of town, so Keith asked if he could move in with Mom and me. Soon Keith had a new home, but more importantly, someone to wash his clothes and fix his meals. Several weeks into his stay, Mom asked me, “How do you think things are going?” I said, “Pretty good, Keith seems fine.” She replied, “There’s only one thing I can’t figure out – why is my toothbrush always wet?” “So is mine!” I added. Mom promptly bought new toothbrushes for all and wrote Keith’s name on his.
Keith was very proud of his sobriety. He was an avid A.A. man and could tell you to the day how long he’d been sober. I was still drinking back. One Friday night we went to a hockey game. I got pretty drunk and Keith had to drive me home then put me to bed. For the rest ofmy life, he never let me forget that night. In time I realized Keith’s wisdom, so joined him in temperance. For me, it’s been 32 years, 21 days. It was the second-best decision I’ve ever made and if it wasn’t for Keith I may not have made my best.
St. Patrick’s Day, 1985 – Gary Grant, our King County Councilman was running for re-election and held a fundraiser at the Lake Sawyer Community Club. I asked Keith to be my date. He was reluctant until I told him there’d be free food and pretty girls.
So we tooled over in my pickup and sure enough a pretty girl checked us in. We sat down and ate some food. But, I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl at the welcome table. She looked fairly young. Being the suave guy I was, I wouldn’t dream of walking up and asking her age. So, I had Keith do it for me.
Keith plops out of his seat, lumbers over to her table, and bluntly asks, “How old are you?” With answer in hand, Keith shuffles back and tells me. Well, one political fundraiser led to another, and that to a Fourth of July party, a Volleyball game, and a burning boat. Four years later I asked this pretty girl named Jennifer to marry me. It was the best decision I ever made. And, still happy she didn’t take a fancy to Keith.
In 1983, I was best man at Keith’s wedding to Kimberly Vaughan, a small affair in her parents’ home in Burien. The marriage didn’t survive, but Keith was unfazed and confessed, “It sure was fun while it lasted.” At times he drove me crazy. But, like a boomerang, Keith always bounced back usually with a smirk on his face. I’d ask, “What are you grinning about?” He’d snicker as his smile grew wider.
Keith was famous for borrowing $2 for this or $5 for that, and usually paid you back . . . that is, if you reminded him time and again. For those of you who haven’t been repaid, we’ve filled this glass bowl with dollar bills. If Keith still owes you any money, now is your last chance to settle that debt.
There are so many more fond memories of Keith – like the time we toured the art galleries of Pioneer Square accompanied by a certified art snob – Keith in his stained overalls and plaid shirt surrounded by urbane Seattleites in snappy blazers and fashionable frocks. Or the time I asked him to join me for dinner and a Mariner game at Safeco Field. “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. Without missing a beat, Keith replied, “The Metropolitan Grill” (the most expensive steak house in Seattle). “I’m not taking you to the Metropolitan Grill,” I snarled, “I don’t even take my wife there.” We went to the ball game and out to dinner, but not to the Metropolitan Grill.
Or how about Keith at Alcoholics Anonymous? He’d normally attended meetings in Grange halls or church basements, but in time grew more adventuresome. Like when he started attending nude A.A. meetings held at a Jacuzzi in Bellevue of all places. Now, that’s a picture to wrap your brain about. “Hello, my name is Keith and I’m an alcoholic” . . . buck-naked in a hot tub.
But, some of my best memories of Keith are just driving around playing old-time music and joining him as we crooned to the stereo. We did it one last time – a few days before he sank into the coma. Two songs we heard that day are those I chose for his video tribute.
We hadn’t seen Keith for a few days which was unusual because he always came by the mine office for something. Shelley Arnold, my secretary of nearly three decades suggested I check up on him. I drove up to his camp trailer and saw his pickup, so knew he was home. I banged on the door and yelled his name, then made my way through his collection of everything and found him lying on the bed.
Keith was breathing faintly. I shook him, but he was unresponsive, so called 911. The operator took our location and talked me through performing CPR and continued for 10-12 minutes before medics arrived. It wasn’t easy hauling him out of those tight quarters. I followed the aid car to Valley General and checked him into the hospital.
The doctors and nurses hooked him up to a dozen tubes and devices, but Keith’s days were numbered in single digits. I knew he wouldn’t mind me taking his picture, and if he recovered would enjoy seeing all the efforts undertaken to save his life. Oh, what a laugh we would have had over this photo. And an even bigger laugh when I reported about all the pretty nurses who fawned over him night and day. Keith’s grin would be sparkling like the morning sun. Then he was gone.
Keith Byron Timm Jr. was one-of-a-kind and I miss him dearly. He was my buddy and I was his boss. We were best friends.
Click on this link for a video of photos set to the songs Keith and I listened to on our last drive-around: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVPbCXxV0yE
A celebration of his life was held Friday, June 16, 2017 at the Black Diamond Community Center, where I delivered the above eulogy. His obituary and two photos appear below. – Bill Kombol
Obituary:
Keith Byron Timm Jr., a lifetime resident of Black Diamond, died on May 27, 2017, at Valley General Hospital. He was 68.
He was born on Aug. 6, 1948, to Keith Timm and Lorraine Gibson. He grew up in Black Diamond and graduated in 1966 from Enumclaw High School. At the height of the Vietnam War, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and entered boot camp before receiving a medical discharge. He worked in the paint shops at Pacific Car and Foundry for a number of years, before joining Palmer Coking Coal Co. and later Pacific Coast Coal. He was married in 1983 to Kimberly Vaughan for a short time. He was a former member of the Black Diamond Fire Department and a Thursday regular at the Black Diamond Historical Museum. He loved antique trucks and was particularly proud of his 35-plus years of sobriety.
He is survived by his sister, Donna Elaine (Timm) Snow.
Remembrances can be made to the Black Diamond Historical Society, P.O. Box 232, Black Diamond, Wash. 98010.
