Long after Curwood Castle had been constructed and in use, Jim Curwood used to go back to the old bedroom-study to finish many of his articles and stories. Here he recaptured the inspiration that drove him onward when he felt that he was going stale. But James Oliver Curwood never went stale in his writing, for he kept constantly at it both day and night and led a full and happy life.
Many, many times Jim would leave his town studio in Owosso for his northern Michigan studio along the banks of the Au Sable, where it is quiet and peaceful. Jim’s northern studio, in the thick forests of northern Michigan, was built as a hunting lodge far away from mankind and the noises of the city. It was indeed a beautiful spot.
Not very far from the only entrance to the Castle there stands a large, stately tree. It was under this masterpiece of nature that James Oliver Curwood once sat and talked by the hours with his many friends. Here beneath this old oak Jim used to sit with prospectors from the wilds of Alaska and northern Canada who had come to visit him.
Jim would carefully listen to these men of the north and have enough material to weave a wonderful adventure story. Time and again he would invite the swarthy, weatherbeaten men of the gold fields down to spend days and weeks with him so that they might spin yarns for him and thus provide him with material for future stories. It was not only that he wanted stories from them, but he also wanted to see their faces again and hear them talk.
Many were the nights when several of them would gather at the Castle after a long journey and sit before a great open fire, swapping yarns and smoking huge cigars and strong pipes. All this Jim Curwood enjoyed to the fullest extent. He loved to have his old friends around him.
Many residents of Owosso and of other parts of the country have told that regardless of how famous James Oliver Curwood ever grew to be, he always remained “Jim” to everyone. He might be walking down the street or be riding in an automobile and still he would throw up his hand to those people he knew and even speak to those who were strangers. He considered everyone a human being and felt that all men and women should act as “brother humans,” and not try to appear superior. Jim’s usual reply to anyone who spoke to him was this:
“Hello, there, Bill! What’s new?”
James Oliver Curwood, the famous man that he was, loved his home town of Owosso with an undying love. It had persecuted him, laughed at him, scorned him, but still he loved it. Of Owosso he would say to his friends in New York:
“Come out and see, I think it is the nicest place in the world. I was born there and I hope to die there. Of course my love for it does not make me blind to its defects. We have our poor, pathetic smart set, our misguided flappers and a wee bit of the salt and pepper of life ... and we make coffins for half the world. I tell you these things because it would take too long to tell you all the good things about my home town. I think the nicest thing is that we’re not afraid to let the geese go barefoot around about where we live. Come out and see.”
A good many people have done that very thing and many who came to see have remained behind and have made their homes in Owosso or nearby. Such is Owosso, the town where James Oliver Curwood was born and died—one of the nicest, most beautiful little towns to be found anywhere on the North American continent. There is no wonder Jim loved it as he did.