This town was at the back of nowhere. It had an olympic-size swimming pool (I can't remember why) and nothing else to recommend it. Harry was carrying on in his usual ferocious manner. One of the high points of the day was driving into town for shopping or mail. Harry would stop along the way, get out of the car and load up a pile of stones. Then we would drive on. As we drove into the town proper, a very large dog would be waiting for us. It would rush up, jaws slavering, and make as if to attack the car. Harry would throw stones out the window at it, and curse, and the dog would bark and howl, and this went on for a block or two. Harry's stones always missed; he was a compassionate man. I soon realized that this was a daily game for Harry and the dog. But I was by no means the only audience. Half the town always showed up for these mock contests. Harry was much appreciated in Cuatla as a crazy gringo, a genuine original.

I'll always think of Harry at the moment of mock combat, throwing stones out, cursing, driving with one hand, managing not to kill anyone somehow, not even running over any chickens, and I was sitting beside him, taking it all in, as if I knew that a moment would come for me to tell it.

So happy birthday, Harry, thanks for the stuff you wrote on me to Timisoara, and I hope, Insh'allah, to see you again one of these days.