My friend and colleague, James Meadow, passed away Sunday evening after a suffering massive injuries in a bicycle accident.
James and I first worked together in the mid-70s at the Rocky Mountain Business Journal, the incarnation of the legendary Cervi’s Journal after Gene Cervi’s daughter, Cle, sold it to Dan Lynch and Bruce MacIntosh. I was the managing editor when this skinny hippie with a New York accent and a flair for colorful, dramatic writing was hired.
Mine was the unenviable task of editing his over-the-top prose and somehow shrinking his thousands of words down enough to squeeze into our pages. James’ answer to my pleas to write shorter was that “I think of my work as a magazine article,” to which I would invariably respond, “But this is a newspaper.”
I still remember the chronicle of his travels in India, during which he contracted a serious illness, which left him even scrawnier than when he left. It may have affected his health, but it didn’t harm his skills; his travelogue, which we serialized, was a stunning piece of writing.
I was delighted when he showed up at the Rocky a few years after I was hired, thankful that a much larger group of readers would have the pleasure of reading his prose, and that I would be able to enjoy of his unique presence once more.
I last saw him at the farewell party last Saturday night after the Rocky’s last edition. He was as upbeat as the situation required, meaning he was the normal James Meadow, who always managed to find the perfect balance between humor and cynicism in just about every situation. I will miss you, James. We all will.
You hit the nail on the head when you described his biting command of just the right mix of humor and cynicism, Ed. James was always a pleasure to read, if not to edit! We will be poorer for the lack of his writing.
My memories of James go back as far as those of Ed — to the time when my late wife, Sherry Keene-Osborn, was the editor of the RMJ. The notion that James might well be the finest writer in Colorado wasn’t a view held exclusively by those at the Journal. Moreover, he was, in every sense of the word, a “mensch.” So long, James.
Can’t get my fingers to do what I tell them to. It’s Kindig, not Kingig. Also, to avoid confusion, I was Mike Osborn…back in the day. Before my I changed my name back to its original form.
Thanks Ed.
After the Journal, James did become a magazine writer at the original Denver Magazine. He poured his heart and soul into everything he wrote, and agonized as editors tried to make his stories fit into the allotted pages. I had the pleasure of working with him in those days where he taught me that Bruce Springsteen was a prophet and that Keith Richards was the real talent behind The Rolling Stones. We shared more good times while at the Rocky where he concinced me I could ride a mountain bike 60 miles during the short-lived Bike to Nature events and took me snowshoeing for the first time. I loved helping him think of all the “great stories” he could write and he always humored me by saying “yeah, that would be a great story.” I already miss those stories I won’t get to read. Thank you James for 30 years of friendship. Love, chris power bain, (aka “Slimbo”)