James L. Minnie

James “Jim” Minnie, age 69 of Saranac Lake, died on Thursday September 11, 2025 at the CVPH Medical Center in Plattsburgh.

Jim was born on November 21, 1955 in Ithaca, NY the son of Harold James and Goldie (Helms) Minnie.

Jim Minnie didn’t want a boring obituary. He never said it out loud — he didn’t need to. Anyone who knew him knows he’d want this told the way he lived: stubborn, funny, kind, and absolutely fearless.

For more than three years, Jim fought cancer his way. They took his voice and handed him a stack of hard days, and he still smiled, scribbled jokes on paper, and let a computer deliver punchlines in a robot voice that somehow made them better. When people asked how he was, he offered the two truths he lived by: “It is what it is.” and “I’m too damn stubborn to let it beat me.” He didn’t mean surrender. He meant: try me.

Even while the fight raged, his first language never went quiet: music. Since the 1970s, Jim played guitar in more bands than anyone can count, lifted up nervous musicians, and gave people chances they didn’t know they deserved. When he was behind the soundboard at Winter Carnival and community shows, the microphones behaved. If they squealed, he’d stare them back into line. People swore they never sounded better than when Jim was mixing.

By day he ran Onsite Computer Service, a one-man rescue shop for anything with wires. Laptops, amps, printers, stereos, even the odd TV — if it blinked or died, folks brought it to Jim. They came for repairs and stayed for conversation. He explained problems without making anyone feel small and always looked for the simplest, most honest fix first. Customers left with working gear and lighter shoulders.

Outside the shop, he chased joy. Jim was a fixture in the Adirondack Canoe Classic 90-Miler, the three-day, ninety-mile grinder from Old Forge to Saranac Lake. He didn’t just finish — he kept coming back. In 2017 he and a partner won their division. And one year he didn’t practice even once — not a single paddle stroke — shrugged a week before the start and did the whole thing anyway. Stubbornness was his training plan. When he wasn’t on the water, he was on two wheels, taking the long way home because the long way was always better.

Maybe the most important part of Jim’s story is the one he rarely talked about. Years ago, he faced down his own demons with alcohol and won. He never bragged about it. He never made speeches. Instead, he turned around and showed up for others — quietly, steadily, for years. He sponsored and mentored people in recovery, poured the late-night coffee, told the truth when it mattered, and walked people back to their lives. There are folks breathing today who will quietly say, “I wouldn’t be here if not for Jim.” He never asked for credit. That’s just who he was.

Through everything, he never stopped being himself: funny when it was hardest, kind when it counted, stubborn in the best way. He carried people when they couldn’t carry themselves and kept showing up, right to the end.

Jim is survived by his children Jaimie, Jason, and Travis Minnie; his grandchildren Isabel, Aidan, Charlotte, William, Lucas, and Hailey; and his brothers Mike and John Minnie, along with his Step Mother Sue Minnie.  He was predeceased by his parents, Harold and Goldie. Jim is also remembered with respect by Barbara Skiff, the mother of his children.

A service comemorating Jim’s life will be held Saturday, September 27, 2025, from 1:00–3:00 p.m. at Fortune-Keough Funeral Home, 20 Church Street, Saranac Lake. A celebration of Jim’s life for family and close friends will be held at a future date.

Jim liked to say, “Not a single one of us are getting out of here alive.” He knew that truth, and he faced it without fear — with humor, love, and the same stubborn grace he gave the rest of his life. The world is smaller and quieter without him, but if you want to honor him, do what Jim did: help someone who needs it, show up when it matters, mentor without applause, listen without judgment, love without holding back, and — when the room is heavy — make them laugh. That’s how he lived. That’s how we’ll carry him forward.