S'Long, Harry
On May Day I learned that our friend Harry had passed from this world. His passing made the local news (online, at least). It was an unremarkable death, a heart attack in his home. He had been cooking breakfast and the unattended stove caught ablaze sometime after he expired, sending dark clouds of smoke out into his gated community. The photo on the site featured a line of emergency vehicles on the familiar main drag in his neighborhood. So that's how it ended.
I met Harry around 11 years ago. A regular at my in-laws' house for their monthly Saturday night dinners, Harry tended to dominate with his boisterousness and sheer loudness. Not unrelated to that was his love for wine; he always arrived clutching a glass jug of Gallo red. Each night he would talk old time movies and opera, two of his passions. He was the widower of a French woman, with whom he owned and ran a hotel on Broadway in West Palm Beach decades earlier. As the wine flowed, his French flowed like the very music he loved. It was consistently entertaining to be around him. He was always the last to leave for the evening, and getting him to leave was no easy task. He never seemed to take a breath, never got tired. With his energy and knowledge, I always thought he should've hosted a radio show.
Harry also liked arsenals. When not waxing cinematic, he would rattle off calibers with sometimes alarming encyclopedic knowledge. I regrettably never got to see his collection but I heard it was vast, comprehensive. In fact, he was a licensed dealer, right out of his home. The article stated that his garage was filled with ammunition but the fire never got near it. I wonder what will become of all those weapons. Likely, the state/law enforcement will seize them and be that much better armed with all sorts of Desert Eagles and glocks.
I have spoken of Harry several times here since I began this blog. One entry was entirely devoted to the night I had to drive him home in his own car. A case of retrieving the keys from someone who had a few dozen too many. When I got to his house I had my one and only peek inside, seeing a table covered with the kind of wide umbrella you usually see outside on a pool deck. It looked pretty cluttered in there. My wife and I had spoken of intervening, helping him organize his place. Time got away. I heard many of his affairs have gone forever unsettled. There is a step-daughter out there with whom he had not spoken in many years.
A memorial dinner, held at my in-laws' this past weekend, was attended by many of the usual group that had for many years listened and sometimes groaned to Harry's many anecdotes and bon mots. It took place around the same tables where the late guest of honor had for many nights held court. My wife and I were unable to attend as we were celebrating our 3rd anniversary in St. Augustine.
I will greatly miss chatting with that most unusual, sometimes infuriating and embarrassing, but always fascinating septuagenarian. May you have found Peace, sir.
I met Harry around 11 years ago. A regular at my in-laws' house for their monthly Saturday night dinners, Harry tended to dominate with his boisterousness and sheer loudness. Not unrelated to that was his love for wine; he always arrived clutching a glass jug of Gallo red. Each night he would talk old time movies and opera, two of his passions. He was the widower of a French woman, with whom he owned and ran a hotel on Broadway in West Palm Beach decades earlier. As the wine flowed, his French flowed like the very music he loved. It was consistently entertaining to be around him. He was always the last to leave for the evening, and getting him to leave was no easy task. He never seemed to take a breath, never got tired. With his energy and knowledge, I always thought he should've hosted a radio show.
Harry also liked arsenals. When not waxing cinematic, he would rattle off calibers with sometimes alarming encyclopedic knowledge. I regrettably never got to see his collection but I heard it was vast, comprehensive. In fact, he was a licensed dealer, right out of his home. The article stated that his garage was filled with ammunition but the fire never got near it. I wonder what will become of all those weapons. Likely, the state/law enforcement will seize them and be that much better armed with all sorts of Desert Eagles and glocks.
I have spoken of Harry several times here since I began this blog. One entry was entirely devoted to the night I had to drive him home in his own car. A case of retrieving the keys from someone who had a few dozen too many. When I got to his house I had my one and only peek inside, seeing a table covered with the kind of wide umbrella you usually see outside on a pool deck. It looked pretty cluttered in there. My wife and I had spoken of intervening, helping him organize his place. Time got away. I heard many of his affairs have gone forever unsettled. There is a step-daughter out there with whom he had not spoken in many years.
A memorial dinner, held at my in-laws' this past weekend, was attended by many of the usual group that had for many years listened and sometimes groaned to Harry's many anecdotes and bon mots. It took place around the same tables where the late guest of honor had for many nights held court. My wife and I were unable to attend as we were celebrating our 3rd anniversary in St. Augustine.
I will greatly miss chatting with that most unusual, sometimes infuriating and embarrassing, but always fascinating septuagenarian. May you have found Peace, sir.
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