a moment with brown drink

Jim Crumley passed yesterday. Missoulians are mourning one of its finest--and most notorious--authors. I'm sure there are plans to bronze a stool at the Depot or Charlies, and the state liquor store may well be out of Macallan single malt by day's end.

Though many of the numerous writers in the now-famous Montana Mafia--centered in Missoula-- were quite accessible, Jim was, well, accessible AND easy. Easy in that you didn't have to be anything other than what you were around him. Easy in that it didn't take much to make his body shake with a laugh. Easy in that he was always glad to see you. And it was genuine.

Half the time I didn't understand what came out of his mouth, covered as it was by a full mustache and beard, and thickened with a couple scotches or Coors (in a can, original only, never light) and with me being half-deaf, I was at a double disadvantage. But no matter...hanging with Crum was always a joy. We'd watch football and yell at the screen. We'd munch on goodies brought by friends during the UnSuperbowl, or whatever Martha called the gathering of women--mostly--who weren't as into the football as those who sat glued to the TV all day on Superbowl Sunday. I loved football, but there was much more to see in that house in the South Hills...often, during long commercial interruptions, I would wander around Martha's studio, holding a piece of smooth porcelain in my hand, reading poems tacked to the walls. A sudden eruption of yelling and whistles from above--usually a signal that a team had scored--and I'd be sprinting up the stairs to rejoin the game. Some folks played with the cats; some watched the sunset from the deck. A common thread connected us: we all liked interesting, real people. We loved the heart of every person's story.

I know Jim changed a great deal in the last years of his life...his body began to break down, and in the end, after two trips to Palo Alto to see specialists, he was told to go home and enjoy the rest of his life. Some say he was unrecognizable at the end. In many ways, I am glad I didn't see him. I like to remember him in his leather vest, holding court at Charlie's, sitting on a stool underneath black and white photographs of all the people who'd warmed that seat before him. He came up to me after one of my readings once, at the Old Post, and recited back to me a line from one of my poems: "or don the cheap slicker of selective memory." He liked that line. I was honored, and humbled. I mean, he remembered that line. That kind of generosity of spirit was the James Crumley I knew.

He's probably flying above us all now, heading to the Borderlands that were such a part of his personal landscape. Peace to you, dear Crum. Eldridge and Catherine the Great and Chico...they're waiting for you at the door.








James A. Crumley
October 12, 1939-September 17, 2008