Crazy Harry
Friday, January 8, 2010

I learned how to play harmonica from a dude named "Crazy Harry." He was the mailman when I was growing up. During summer vacations I would sit out by the mailbox with my Hohner Special 20, key of C, and wait for him to make his rounds. He'd always stop, hang out and show me a few licks. I'm still trying to get good enough to play Whammer Jammer, as he would always request.

Crazy Harry talks in rhythmic jive and following his thought patterns can be like riding a roller coaster. Having lived all over the U.S. and served in the military he has something to say about pretty much everywhere. As a scholar of rock 'n' roll he is always handy with stream-of-consciousness wisdom. "Girls are like busses," he told me when I was a lovelorn teen. "When one lets you off, there's always another one around the corner to pick you up." Never afraid to raise hackles, Crazy Harry rants, raves, taunts and praises as he damn well pleases.

In addition to delivering the US Mail, Hman grows apples in orchards in Montana's Bitterroot Valley.

Every couple years some unfortunate ungulate gets in Crazy Harry's crosshairs and a little while later I'll get hunks of its dried flesh, seasoned and scrumptious, in the mail.

He just sent me a Ziploc full of jerkey from an elk blasted on the last day of hunting season up Bridger Creek in the Gallatin National Forest. Say what you will about Crazy Harry, that man shoots a delicious elk.

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