Crossing Paths

A new novel based on a true story and soon to become another testament of American history.

Interwoven Lives of Hunger, Pain, Forgiveness and Love

Crossing Paths Prologue

The earth script is finished! However dying doesn’t mean James is finished any more than the story he lived.  What if the story has only begun? What about the blank pages still remaining or the ones filled with a million moments he lived and loved? What about every soul that crossed his path? Is their ink on his pages eternal? Many so confidently declare that dead is dead and gone is gone, unless perhaps it pertains to someone who has made history or is externalized in the pages of a well-known book, and then they say that person is not really gone because their story remains in our hearts or memories. Yet, phenomenal people do die, just as James managed to do. Eventually it is the fate of all the actors who perform on the earth stage to hand their script over and move to the next performance. But is the play ever finished? Even up to the point of flight?

 We are launched into this life like understudies in the middle of a performance.  We are nervous about our lines; we continually rehearse under our breath as we observe the actors around us. We always manage to question the purpose of our character and whether or not it is enough to play the lead. We believe our play is not the one  we  prepared for in the preexistence, worse yet, the sets and the characters change from one moment to the next, and before we know it, our performance is  full of critics and judges as if they are the producers, and then, we become our worst critic. There are times we may even entertain the notion that God isn’t our fan. Why did we ever get the notion that we must live off our wits, or improvise or stand behind a fake facade, going so far as to think we need to change every role we play to please the audience? Then, life is question after question after question.  James was full of them, not simple ones either. He was never content with the roles he played, maybe because he didn’t believe he was the creator. Yet, like so many of us he assumed it was his destiny to accept them. And while he was busy accepting them, he was changing them. It’s been said that the more we struggle, the more polished we become and the better we play the part. So when the play ends and the curtain comes down, it’s time to move on to the next performance.

Does our life follow a script written by members of our lineage, or do the successes or misfortunes of life write it?  Is it ordained or is everything just coincidence or the circumstances of our birth. Does any plan really rise above the fate of our birth?

James didn’t waste much time hanging around the little room that housed his bedridden body for the last two years of his life.  As soon as his soul was set free, he was out of there! There was a new story to write, or perhaps an old one to resume.   Shortly before he departed, he mentioned how his sweetheart was sure to have a party waiting for him. His little sisters would be there to greet him and they would be healed from the scars of their childhood. Probably so, but a couple of his children were sure that before celebrations could take place his sweetheart was sure to chastise him for the times he threw in the towel of his faith or because he got involved in things that were capable of making her  roll over in her grave.  He’d smile and say she was forgiving and still see to it that all his dearly departed friends and family would be waiting with open arms. She would organize the potluck and everyone would bring his favorite foods, mostly fruits, vegetables and chocolate because as a poor kid growing up during The Great Depression, he never managed to get his fill of such things. There was always a hunger. So while drifting in and out of consciousness, he would chatter on about the possibility of his committee even showing up with fudge, popcorn balls made out of cherry Jell-O and sweet pomegranates. He was never one to let the grass grow under his feet, so when the time came and he sucked in his last breath, he hastily took flight.  No essence of his spirit lingering for the ones he left behind, no, just gone!  No sense staying when he had yearned for so long for the curtain to come down.

The November air was crisp when he left and the leaves on the trees were displaying the colorful shades of autumn and like him they were departing. Little gusts of wind whisked them to a frenzied circular dance and carried them away; leaving the little squirrels he loved to watch from his small patio window scurrying up and down the naked branches.

            James’s life, like many others, came with a family, stories and history. Some cherished, some worth forgetting, however, good or bad, he was constantly reaching from the highest branches and the deepest roots of where and who he came from. His history shaped his legacy good or bad, like clay on a potter’s wheel…and he defended all, even the ones that brought him the most pain. The beauty of clay is that it can change until it becomes what it is supposed to be. The heart is like clay, ever changing until its transformation flows like a river through the darkest of times and the happiest, eventually making the soul complete.

James started as little Jimmy and such a story just simply can’t be made up; it can only be lived. You can mold the experience, soften the clay, and ineffectively try to discount parts or sensationalize others, rendering excuses for the uninvited, but the clay will dry and the story, having been molded and shaped by every person, place and thing that crossed his path, will dry into history.  He may have been analyzed by others with narratives such as genius, crazy, dreamer, intelligent, afraid, loving, and distant, yet, no one narrated who he was better than he, because no one could quite put their finger on him and who he was or how deep his roots actually molded him. As it can be said about a tall a majestic tree, what determines the growth of its branches starts with the depths of its roots. 

To some, James was an enigma; to others a man born of scarcity, but to those who knew and loved him, he was a dreamer, a hard worker, and a frustrated genius; which was his means of survival. He never referred to himself as a genius; he was too humble for that.  If one was a genius, things were supposed to come easy, but seldom was anything easy for him. Being a dreamer wasn’t easy either. Dreaming only meant keeping an eye on the future so his painful past wouldn’t rule him even though it played a significant role in how his life unfolded.   

Jimmy was born in Radersburg, Montana on Flag Day, June 14, 1925, the year of the great Montana earthquake. Radersburg, a small silver mining town east of Townsend, Montana in Broadwater County, was about fifty miles south of the state capital, Helena. It was one of the first boom towns in the Montana Territory. Early mining camps in 1866 and the East Pacific claim in 1867 brought people to the area and before long there were over a thousand residents. Radersburg later had their claim to fame because the “The Queen of the Movies,” Myrna Loy, a beautiful Hollywood star was born there twenty years before Jimmy on August 2, 1905. The earthquake relentlessly rattled the over mined area and shook the earth for at least 600 miles from its epicenter. Neighboring States and Provinces were shaken by the intensity and in certain parts, many buildings made of brick toppled like children’s building blocks. Jimmy was only 14 days old when the earth moved and the fact that his family was so poor likely saved his life because he lived in a lowly shack outside of town that couldn’t topple and fall.

How does one make a story eternal? When a story is told, it is not forgotten. James wrote his story , documented the moments of his life, even moments that could so easily be forgotten when he moved on. His memories flowed through dark times, unbearable pain and even through love, the purest kind. I watched as he wrote his story and researched his roots so any lessons he learned could be passed on to those he loved most, his family, the ones that came before him, the ones he lived with and those who are still waiting off stage, ready to enter.