The boy who was almost Jesse James

He would have been named Jesse James if his maternal grandmother hadn’t attended his birth on the front seat of a Chevy van in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Fortunately, the van had just pulled into the driveway of a midwife that August morning in 1987.  The midwife, who had delivered other Blakeway children, quickly draped the van’s windows with sheets and calmly helped Nancy bring Jesse into the world as family members watched.

His proud father, James, beamed.  Grandma Joan prayed.  Jesse’s three slack-jawed, wide-eyed sisters, Vanessa, Mariah and Caitlin, were speechless.

A bouncing baby boy.  He’ll be named after me, “ dad exclaimed.  “Jesse James Blakeway.” Nancy moaned.  Grandma grimaced. 

They had driven the 110 miles up Parks Highway at a leisurely pace the previous day from their home on the Nenana River near Healy to pick up grandma at the airport.  After dinner they drove back, although grandma cautioned that Nancy’s time was near and there was no midwife in Healy, a tiny railroad crossing 25 miles north of Denali Park. 

Nancy announced she was in labor the following morning.  Jim hurried the three girls and grandma into the back of the Chevy van, eased Nancy up front, and put his foot on the accelerator.

“Jim, I’m not sure I can make it,” Nancy gasped halfway to Fairbanks.   The second time she said it he stopped by the side of the road.  “Go, go, I’ll be okay,” she said tightly.  He set a speed record the final 40 miles, grandma holding on with eyes closed.  Nancy couldn’t move when they pulled into the midwife’s driveway. So she got curb service. 

It wasn’t until Jesse had been examined by a physician and declared healthy in every way that the family checked into a motel for the night.   That’s when the discussion got a bit heated about the baby’s name.  “Jesse James, that’s it,” dad insisted.  “Jesse, yes, James, no,” the women protested

“You want to name that sweet little boy for an outlaw who robbed and murdered?” Nancy argued.

“I want to name him for me. We agreed to name him Jesse, that’s why his middle name should be James,” said dad. 

“You would name your son for a gangster who had a price on his head and was murdered by one of his own men?” Grandma pushed on.

Two against one.  Jim never had a chance.

Actually, I voted with my son-in-law for Jesse James, a man of action, a Robin Hood of his time, legend has it.  More like myth, I fear.  Mostly I voted for the name Jesse James to support his dad.  Never mind that other guy, Jesse Woodson James of Nebraska, who stormed  around breaking the law in 1866. But I wasn’t there by Jim’s side, and my telephone vote didn’t count.

“Well . . . ladies . . . what name do you suggest . . . if mine . . .  won’t do?” Jim bit off each word.

“Why not his place of birth?”, Grandma Joan suggested.

“What, Jesse Fairbanks Blakeway?” Dad said scornfully. 

“No, no, his place of birth,” Joan insisted, “Jesse Scottsdale Blakeway.”

Scottsdale was the name of the Chevrolet Van.  Big joke, grandma.  Ha ha.

The next day Nancy and Joan went grocery shopping before the family started for home, grandma holding Jesse.  “What a sweet little face,” a woman shopper purred.  “How old is the baby?” “Let’s see,” Joan paused, “just about 22 hours.” The woman mumbled something and disappeared. 

The real shocker for Jim was when he picked up a copy of the August 5 Fairbanks Miner.  There on page one was a story about Jesse’s arrival in the midwife’s driveway the previous day: Jesse Scottsdale Blakeway, fourth child of James and Nancy Blakeway of Healy.

Six foot tall, 215-pound Jesse visited us last Christmas, enroute to his new Coast Guard station at Newport, Rhode Island. He’s got a voracious appetite and the same winning smile he had as a boy, not at all like the stern-faced photos of Jesse Woodson James, the bad guy chased by Pinkerton detectives long ago.  Grandma Joan was right, as she usually is: Scottsdale fits the young giant very nicely. 

“How do you answer when asked about your middle name?,” Joan asked.

Jesse grinned. “Why grandma, I tell them I come from a very exclusive Scottsdale clan . . . movers and shakers on my grandmother’s side of the family.”

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Carlton E. Spitzer