harryhero

Harry Hero is a collaborative family writing project. He began as typing practice for author #6 in the mid-seventies. Authors M, 1, 4, 5, 7, spontaneously and sarcastically contributed until Harry took on a life and momentum of his own. He was reborn as a Christmas project in the early nineties and again as a web project in the new millennium. Once more Harry has risen from near tragic and certain literary deaths to live again as blog practice. Bulwer-Lytton judges take note.

About Me

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It seems I have suffered and survived a few insults and injuries to my cranium, thus my memory does not lend itself to one seamless life I could call my own. Instead, my life seems to be one dim episode after another documented by a random and rather odd conglomeration of assorted biographers who, for some bizarre reason, seem compelled to document my trials as if I were a remarkable hero. Heroism can take many forms. Perhaps it is finding fresh strawberries in November for the Manhattan socialite's crepes as she breaks her fast. Perhaps it is found in a multitude of skills, lucky breaks and death defying feats. It may be true that piloting my faithful rig, Betsy, through the Canadian Rockies is not for the weak of spirit, mind or body; I claim no special talents other than devoted love and endless hope. Love of a good truck, a good cup coffee and a good adventure. Hope of self-actualization and...Sophie? If you desire a chronological –not necessarily logical- plotline begin reading at the January 26 2006 post - The Not So Constant Gardener - and follow subsequent postings to present day.

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Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Betsy circa 1976


“She was a beauty. No one could deny that. Her sleek form rose tall and majestic among her kind and she was long and slim and sensuous on the snake like roads that wound through the empty reaches of mountain hinterland. The glint of sun on her chrome was near to blinding. Yet all those who knew her would seek that sight for she was beauty itself.” Harry sighed.

He missed the times they had shared together and longed for the worn, yet solid feel of her mahogany wheel; the smell of burning rubber as he challenged the hairpin curves, and defied the steep slopes and their parallel chicken shoots. These things had been his and hers; and now the times they had tooled the turns of the tortuous tracks could only be seen through misty tears that welled in his baby blues. They had trailed no-one and now she was ...she was...where was she?

The sun broke over the peaks where darkness hid then scurried from its last refuge. The sharp wink of the first ray found its way to the heart of a lonely lady and did not comfort her. Nor did it, her miserable man in the moors many miles missing, moaning.

“Snap out of it!” the doctor planted his palm firm and fast on our hero’s tear stained face. “It’s just a dumb old truck!”
Harry found no time to gasp, the smoldering gun was his answer.
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