Missing Jim

When I was taking fiction writing classes from Bill Kittredge back in the 1970s, he used to talk about the difficulty of “rendering the ineffable.” It’s relatively easy to describe people, objects, places, actions, and some basic emotions (like the jolt of fear you’d get if you opened your mailbox and realized there was a rattlesnake inside). But putting more subtle thoughts and feelings on the page effectively is one of the greatest challenges a writer faces.

Jim Welch was a master at it, but that’s not what I’m trying to get at. Instead, I’m trying to explain how difficult it is for me to write about him. He’s the ineffable here.

I’ve put off this piece again and again, which is very unlike me, looking for a way to do him justice. I haven’t succeeded. I’m most honored to be invited to write this, but I hate writing about him in the past tense. I was incredibly lucky to know him and I loved him dearly, as did all his friends. I’ve never known a more wonderful human being. He was great-hearted, generous, brilliant, humble, and funny as hell. I can hear his laugh in my head clear as day, but I’d give anything to hear it again for real. He had a presence, so steady and understated that we all took it for granted—like air—yet so powerful that we depended on it heavily.

But none of that conveys the man himself or the sheer pleasure of being around him. The best I can think of to do is mention a few things, with no particular relationship to one another and in no particular order.

Jim was remarkable for his gentleness, but he was very strong, with a very tough side. For openers, he spent his early childhood on the Blackfeet and Fort Belknap reservations—hard enough in itself. To go from there to the University of Montana took tremendous courage, and it took a lot more to face the rigorous work and risks of learning to write world-class poetry and fiction.

He served for several years on the State of Montana Board of Pardons and Paroles, dealing with dangerous criminals and knowing that they’d be enraged, and might even come seeking revenge, if their appeals were turned down. He was especially effective with Native American inmates, who understood that he was sympathetic to them, but that they couldn’t bullshit or intimidate him.

And there’s a famous story (I was reluctant to tell it because it’s not mine to tell, but Lois wants me to, because maybe it otherwise wouldn’t appear here) about a big-time East Coast critic who savaged one of his novels in a review then, after finding out how revered Jim was, sent an emissary to try to make friends.

Jim’s answer went, “I wouldn’t walk across the street to watch him eaten by wild dogs.”

On the sweeter side, Jim and Lois had the mutual good fortune to hook up, and that was what really made it all work—two very smart, complicated, and outwardly different people meshing in a way I’ve rarely seen. I don’t think there’s any doubt that without her, he would have been much more prone to the self-destructive side that many writers have. In turn, he introduced her to a world that was foreign and even threatening but where now she’s very much at home.

They threw frequent parties (she still does), where you’d hang out in the living room or backyard with your best friends and come away feeling like your inner batteries had been recharged.

Once Lois and Jim met my wife, Kim, and me in Livingston, Montana, and treated us to an exquisite four-star restaurant dinner. But the next morning Jim must have woken up with a boyhood hunger. He led us firmly past the cafes serving brioche and latte on to a railroad diner, where we tore into liver and onions, greasy sausage, and eggs over easy. We (he...