Fly High, Mama Gay

We are driving east across rural Montana when I get the news that James Patrick Fortin has died. A few hours earlier, as my old and trusty van rumbled down gravel roads in West Glacier, we’d turned on Bohemian Rhapsody and sung loudly, all the voices. I think James would have approved.

“Mama!” he’d exclaim, enthusiastically and so alive, every time I saw him at Safeway getting groceries or turning in for the evening, downtown…




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