|Jim Bowsher, talkin' the talk...|
You can tell he’s proud of this unabated level of energy, and his brilliant mind seems to constantly nurture it. He refuses to accept aging, a sort of Peter Pan ad hoc anthropologist, who’s ready on a moment’s notice to toss a shovel into the bed of his battered Toyota pickup truck and drive anywhere on a tip that there might be some artifacts to be had. He’ll also gladly rifle through old barns, sheds, abandoned houses and wrecking sites, sifting through the layers of time like some cultural vulture, to find something discarded, if very specific, that he’s looking for—something juicy, something with a great story to tell. And nobody I’ve ever known has been better at it than Jim. The inkwell that was on Leon Trotsky’s desk when he was murdered, the sunglasses Capote once wore and that Philip Seymour Hoffman took possession of when he played Truman in the movie, the bottom step from the entrance to the town’s erstwhile Ku Klux Klan hall, the slot machine that a local land baron installed in his house to try and quench his wife’s insatiable gambling habit, the marble slab from the Bluffton bank onto which John Dillinger first hopped up and declared, “I’m John Dillinger and I rob banks!” They are all—and so, so much more—under Jim’s roof or in his yard, forming part of his eclectic collection, his wide-ranging and ever-ongoing storyline.
|...and walkin' the walk|
|Jim holds up the portrait of Angela Mercurio|
Jim with Queen Lil's hand mirror...The killers
got the wrong woman
But they’ve shot the wrong woman. They’ve killed Nellie Harris instead of Lil.