James William Harrison, better known as Bill, has lived 57 of his 104 years in Grant County, New Mexico. From humble beginnings, always anchored in his Christian faith, Bill worked hard to make a difference in the world. He learned to shoot squirrels from bank robber Pretty Boy Floyd, explored South Pacific islands while serving in the Navy, earned a law degree, and was town manager in Seward, Alaska, at the time of a historic earthquake.
Eventually, after making his way to the Southwest, Bill was elected Grant County commissioner and assisted four local counties with civic projects as director of the Southwest Council of Government. A member of the Rotary Club of Silver City, Bill is likely the oldest living Rotarian in the U.S. and possibly the world.
He was born on June 22, 1922. His mother died just 16 days later from severe deep vein thrombosis. So, Bill went with his father and sister to live on Jimmie “Grammie” Hodges Harrison’s farm in Piedmont, Oklahoma, along with five cousins orphaned by the Spanish Flu.
He nearly didn’t graduate high school due to farm-related work responsibilities and his family’s poverty. The superintendent of Piedmont’s single school housing all 12 grades, Harold Collett, advocated for Bill to receive 50 cents an hour (a high price then) for attending school via a new government program, the National Youth Administration. Harold personally advanced Bill money to afford to purchase clothing and books.
When Bill was young, Grammie and Dad bribed him with a gold Tavannes watch to abstain from smoking and drinking. He still has that watch and case.
“I saw liquor do so much damage to people,” Bill reflected. “I had a quality life without it.”
Grammie, Bill said, was “stricter than Jesus” and “a true Oklahoma pioneer.” She was his main hero, in addition to an uncle on his mother’s side, George Leland, who demonstrated for Bill that a person doesn’t have to plow a field to make a living.
Motivated by his uncle, Bill hitchhiked 20 miles from the farm every morning after graduating high school to attend Blackwood Davis Business College in Oklahoma City. Soon, however, World War II began and there was a draft.
Bill's uncle had served in World War I and warned that in the Army “you live in trenches, you’re dirty all the time, starving.” So, Bill voluntarily joined the Navy. Within two weeks he was sent to the Destroyer Base in San Diego, California.
He skipped boot camp and immediately became a third-class yeoman, a military secretary. This is because, in part, Bill nearly lost a hand at the age of 16 due to an accident involving broken glass. Doctors were skeptical about reattaching it, leaving the amputation option up to Bill.
“As long as I can have a hand, even if I can’t use it, I want the hand,” he proclaimed.
Sure enough, within a few years, not only was the hand functional, but also Bill, “could type like crazy with it,” and even won a school record for shorthand in typing at the business college.
He served aboard the USS Kaskaskia, an oil tanker named after a tributary of the Mississippi River. It was a commercial ship acquired and converted by the military that got stranded when its fleet entered the Battle of the Coral Sea. Having collided with the SS York Town during a refuel on their zig-zagging approach, the large hose connecting the ships came loose, spilling crude oil directly into the ocean. The stray hose hit a propeller underwater and the ship was stranded, watching the others dip over the horizon.
“The whole Pacific was a battle area,” Bill recalled. “They [the Japanese] had submarines everywhere.” By afternoon, someone in a diving suit managed to cut the hose out of the propeller to get the ship moving again. “Being on that tanker, they could have blown us up with a BB gun.”
Bill survived the Navy admirably, exploring the islands they docked at, studying each in advance from an encyclopedia on the ship. He once typed a letter addressed to the White House from the president’s son, Elliott Roosevelt, without realizing who he was. As a second-class yeoman, he interviewed survivors of the Battle of Midway.
“After I got out of the Navy, I never got on another ship,” he said.
On his 25th birthday, Bill married Marjorie Eads, a violinist he met while attending a Southwest University officer training program in Georgetown, Texas.
“That’s the smartest thing I ever did,” Bill said of marrying Marjorie.
Bill bought a duplex in Oklahoma City and proceeded to work as a bookkeeper by day while studying law at night school. He got his degree and “like an idiot I opened a law firm and went broke.” He said, “It’s difficult to get the truth out of your client” as an attorney. “They tell you the good part; they don’t tell you the bad part.”
Despite the setback, Bill went on to serve as city manager for several years in Seward, Alaska, coinciding with the Good Friday Earthquake in 1964. At 9.2 magnitude, this is the most powerful earthquake ever recorded in U.S. history. In the wake of that earthquake, city councilors turned management of Seward over to the Army Corp of Engineers, telling Bill, “You don’t have a job.”
Fortunately for Silver City, a few years later, news reached Bill that this southwest mining town was in search of a manager. For a time, shortly after making the move, Bill and Marjorie owned the Murray Hotel. Eventually, Bill became executive director of the Southwest Council of Government, helping secure funding for projects in Catron, Grant, Hidalgo and Luna counties. His favorite part? The people.
“They don’t fuss, they get along, they work together.”
In 2022, honoring his 100th birthday, Silver City proclaimed June 23 as “James William (Bill) Harrison Day.” The Silver City Daily Press published an article, available online, commemorating the milestone and detailing several of Bill’s stories.
Now 104 years old, Bill resides at the Fort Bayard Medical Center. He is the proud father of two daughters and a son, four grandchildren and several great grandchildren. Bill looks forward to seeing his wife of 69 years again in heaven, and meeting his mother.
“I’m ready to go,” Bill said. “I’m not leading the band, but I’m not dragging my feet.”
“I think he’s amazing, living to be 104,” said eldest daughter Elaine Snyder. “He taught us good things.”
