Stu's email address is stumail@earthlink.net.

 

If you've never heard of poet, novelist and screenplay author Jim Harrison, you've been living under a literary rock with me and millions of others. Yes, embarrassingly, it's a big rock. Yet, if you bring Harrison's name up in conversation, many other people will know of him and his acclaimed novels and poetry. The third category are those who say, "Yeah, dude, wasn't he the Beatle who just died?" No. That was George Harrison. I asked my good Mackinac Island and Ozark friend/ professor/poet/sculpturist/savvy traveler, Jim Bogan, how it is that so many people, including me, could bump around in society for so long and not know of Jim Harrison. He said, "Easy, people just don't read." Gulp. That's me. Yikes! I think I did it backwards. I first learned of Jim Harrison by someone discreetly pointing him out in bar in the Upper Peninsula a couple years ago, then being introduced to him in the same bar this past summer, then seeing him speak at a book tour reading at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, then reading his new book of memoirs called "Off to the Side", then seeing him interviewed while he was on a book tour in San Francisco, then being inspired to read his novels. This is clearly more about my aversion to reading fiction, than the merit of Harrison's works. I am, admittedly, a product of a TV generation, prone to engage in watching rather than reading. In my defense, at least I didn't think he was a Beatle. Thankfully, I share some geography and traits with Jim Harrison, which lead me to be interested in him, his highly regarded work and life story thus far. We're both extraordinarily curious, love dogs, enjoy good food and treasure our time in the Upper Peninsula. Harrison's new book of memoirs is engaging. It's also a fine introduction to Jim Harrison: His life growing up in Michigan, being blinded in one eye as a child, his fondness for wine, women and strippers (and not necessarily in that order), the tragic loss of his father and sister killed by a drunk driver, love of the outdoors and bird hunting and fly fishing, his foray into the dream machine of Hollywood, his celebrity and regular-Joe list of friends, his addictions, his far-out vivid dreams and thus his famous imagination which has allowed him to craft such popular works as "Legends of the Fall," "Wolf" and "Dalva," just to name several of many. The first two have been turned into films and the latter a TV movie. Harrison's connection to the Upper Peninsula is his small, remote, secret, off-the-grid cabin near Grand Marais, which he visits several times each year for prolonged stays. As you'll read in his memoirs, Harrison bought the fifty acre property bisected by the Sucker River decades ago as a sanctuary from the pressures of life, namely the viscousness of the monster known as Hollywood. Essentially, what he did is create what Harrison refers to as a "thicket," where he can hide out, feel safe, recharge his batteries, regain his sanity and return to the quieter and simpler times of his childhood, when his family had a similar cabin near their home in Reed City, Mich., where he would fish and spend time rowing his aging Swedish grandfather (who called him "Yimmy") around in a boat. And if that seemed like an awfully long sentence, it was. Harrison is fond of long sentences. For me, coming from the school of short-sentence writing (School of Journalism, University of Montana, Missoula) and a TV generation, reading his sometimes long, but delightful passages took a little getting used to. But back to Harrison and Grand Marais. In addition to his writing, his passions include long walks with his dogs, bird hunting, fly fishing, collecting old stumps, napping in the woods, watching ravens, rowing his little blue and brown row boat, and socializing with his friends at the Lake Superior Brewing Co./Dunes Saloon in Grand Marais, home of some of the finest craft ales east of Portland and Seattle. In Grand Marais, Harrison, as the token celebrity, is a source of unspoken pride. For instance, one friend of mine has even named his dog "Julip" after one of Harrison's characters and novels. Locals give Harrison space, treat him like the next guy, but at the same time are politely guarded about him and the whereabouts of his famous cabin. So, don't bother asking, thank you. In San Francisco, there are two bars named after his characters and novels: "Julip" and "Dalva." I live in Hollywood half the year, so I'm typically (but not always) nonplussed by seeing or meeting celebrities or others of that ilk. But meeting Harrison this past summer was intriguing to me because I had never read his work (and therefore was not in awe of him), and because he immediately passed the test of someone I want to know better, that being someone who is interested in other people besides himself. When you meet Harrison, he is pleasant, gravelly-voiced, down-to-earth, genuinely curious and in his own way supportive about those around him. He'll ask probing questions, then no matter where the conversation goes, and it can go to some outlandish places, he'll have something to say that is fascinating, thought-provoking, sometimes potentially offensive to polite society, sometimes humorous, or not. He seems most comfortable with a lit cigarette and a vodka on the rocks. When I saw him speak in San Francisco, he was being interviewed while sitting in a wing back chair in front of 500 people at the Herbst Theatre. Without his pacifiers, he continually ran his fingers through his hair and wrung his hands while pontificating on various subjects in front of this made-to-order audience of people who had obviously, unlike me, read his work and could ask educated questions. I asked him a question at his reading in Marquette this past October, after he explained that he had to get out of Hollywood ( which he describes understatedly as "a different arena of experience") and give up screenwriting before it killed him. I asked, "Did you ever think Hollywood may have saved you?" He replied, "Well, that's an interesting question. It certainly did financially." He said that prior to Hollywood taking an interest in him, he made about $10,000 a year for the previous 12 years. "Suddenly I had too much success," said Harrison. "...There is no middle ground for writers." With this success and notoriety, he is now able to make his living from his novels and some journalism. His novels, novellas and poetry have been translated into 23 languages (I can't even name 23 languages) and he is even more popular in France, which produces about half of his book sales. The smoking ban in California in places of employment, i.e., bars, is a nagging thorn in the side of Harrison, who clearly disdains it. In California, it's a forgone conclusion. It would be like complaining about the bottle bill in Michigan, which has just become part of the social and much cleaner literal landscape by now. In some ways, Harrison prides himself on being a "geezer," (his word at age 65) from a generation where most people smoked and being, admittedly, computer illiterate. He writes longhand and has an assistant transcribe his work. One of Harrison's many affinities and favorite words is "geopiety," the study of human geography. Another pet word of his is "banal," meaning trite or insipid. This is part of the fun of reading Harrison, his lexicon and choice of words, the germ of which he inherited from his father and then built upon by studying literary masters, living life, traveling and being a keen observer of the human condition and language. A couple of the outwardly funnier moments in Harrison's memoirs come from quotes from his late mother: "You've made quite a living off your fibs" and "Don't your characters ever have normal sex?" Harrison is the self-proclaimed black sheep of his family. Or, at least he used to be. Harrison, with his wife, Linda, of more that 40 years, and two daughters, up until recently, lived on the Leelanau Peninsula, north of Traverse City, on a farm purchased 30 years earlier. With his two grown daughters and grandchildren now residing in Southwestern Montana, Harrison and his wife sold the Leelanau home. He now divides his time between a home near Livingston, Montana; a small casita near Patagonia, Arizona, and the Mexican border; and of course his rustic cabin near Grand Marais, the shore of Lake Superior and his little blue and brown row boat.