The Reverend Junkyard Moondog
IN MEMORIAM - Jim Dwyer was born with a book in his mouth. We first met at a University of Washington history class taught by Giovanni Costigan. Jim went on to graduate from what was once called the School of Librarianship--Now Library and Information Science--and to librarian gigs in SUNY Albany, UofA Flagstaff, and finally CSU Chico. He wrote book reviews, ecology-related bibliographies, and poetry. What a perfect job for someone who lived and breathed books!
But not only books: We spent part of one summer in the '70s hiking in Alberta, Canada, from Lake Louise clear up through The Ramparts, a magnificent range designed to make a hiker feel insignificant. On the road there and back, Jim's tiny car had a huge appetite for fuel, and we struggled to get from gas station to gas station. Sometimes the road to majesty requires hiking with a gas can rather than a backpack.
Jim made regular December pilgrimages back to Seattle to see his kin, and would come like a wild-haired Santa, laden with books for me and the kids. One time he dropped off a recording he'd made reciting a Ken Kesey children's story. He also brought back evidence that he'd become an ambassador for other faraway places, much farther than Alberta's Ramparts range. Over the years, he transmogrified into the Reverend Junkyard Moondog, master of poetry slams, canoe rides on rapids, goodwill ambassador to unfettered imagination, and (usually) charmingly inappropriate behavior.
Cases in point: In 1997, Jim and I watched Ang Lee's The Ice Storm at a Seattle theater (probably the Harvard Exit), and we found ourselves laughing through about the first three-quarters of the film, up until the shocking moment of Elija Wood's electrocution, at which point the women in the row in front of us turned around, tears in eyes, and told us to shut up. We did. (Really, there was funny stuff--Sigourney Weaver with a whip? Christina Ricci wearing a Nixon mask during, um, a special moment?) Jim also loved food and liquid refreshments, and one evening serenaded Irene and me at Mama Melina's restaurant in Seattle. His song/poem went on for what may have been only ten minutes, but provided a taste of eternity. Other people didn't know what the heck was going on, but nobody complained...out loud. In a different venue, it would have been a beautiful example of democratic participation, and it was in the context of poetry slams and musical jams that Jim truly thrived--words in mouth, harmonica or kazoo in hand, and truly fearless in front of an audience.
It seems fitting that the last event Jim attended was a Grateful Dead reunion, sans Jerry Garcia, in Santa Clara. He died on the way back to his home, his haven, in Chico. I never was into the Grateful Dead, but Reverend Jim, say hello to Jerry G when you see him. I hope you packed your kazoo.