James Oliver Curwood, Disciple of the Wilds

by Hobart Donald Swiggett

For many years father Curwood had mended other people’s shoes in his old-fashioned way, with needles, thread and wooden pegs. One of his outstanding characteristics was that he never shirked his work and never did less than his best. Because he was the kindly old gentleman that he was, he was always held in high esteem by the townsfolk. His politeness and courteousness were appreciated by all who knew him. Many years passed since the time he had made his return to Owosso and again set up in his cobbling shop. His hair grew white from his hard work, but he always kept his head high and stood as straight as any soldier. Jim often said that no son could have had a finer father than he.

Shortly after his fifteenth birthday young Jim secured employment in Fred Crowe’s grocery store. Here he worked on Saturdays and earned fifty cents for his day’s labor. At this time in his life this small sum seemed like a small fortune.

Work or play, as he chose, the young aspiring writer always found time to hide away to do his daily stint of writing that was in years to come to net him several hundreds of thousands of dollars. He loved to go where it was peaceful and quiet. It seemed that his best work always came when he was in a quiet corner of the world.

Writing as he did at this age (and that was a great deal), Jim had not as yet mustered up enough courage to send any of his stories out to the publishing houses.

The spring following the fall that Mr. Curwood and his family had moved back to Owosso to rejoin their youngest son Jim, he bought a nice little home on the one sweeping bend of the Shiawassee river in all of the town. It was a two-storied affair and from Jim’s room upstairs he would sit and look out over the river and commons that were filled with some of the most beautiful trees in all of Michigan.

Shortly after moving to the new house, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood outfitted their writing son with a desk and a table for his own room, as well as a second hand Caligraph typewriter. At last Jim had his own study, his own private study. The young lad felt that he was now on an equal basis with the great writer Fred Janette and proceeded to decorate his room in much the same manner as Mr. Janette’s.

Here he knew that he could work without interruption and fear of being disturbed. Here he could lock the door and write as much and as long as he wanted to.

Just outside the window below him as he sat at his desk was his river, flowing gracefully and silently along as it made its way in a final sweeping bend before entering the surrounding wilds. The thought that entered Jim’s mind when he first sat down to write was: “Surely I can get an inspiration here!”

Time quickly passed by, and as time flew, so did young Jim Curwood’s stories. For just as fast as he would complete one story on the second-hand typewriter, he would begin another one.

One of the most enjoyable things to him at this age was after the supper hour, when his family would gather around him and listen as he read his newly-written stories of adventure. Actually his elders were almost spellbound at their son’s accomplishments. Every story that the young lad wrote was indeed good, his parents readily agreed, even though there would be an exceptionally exciting one occasionally. Many are the times that Mrs. Curwood would remark to her neighbors how her son, Jimmy, was progressing in his chosen work. And even as quiet a person as his dear old father was, he, too, broke down every now and then to praise what his youngest child was doing.