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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Thursday, January 26, 2006

The Not So Constant Gardener


“Life is good,” pondered Harry, as he set down his watering can. “What more could an ex-hero want?”

Yes, finally after many sleepless nights and heroic helpings of Dioxin, the cabbages were beginning to prosper. The carrots (Oh, sturdy carrots!) were never in danger, but now they stood particularly straight and tall beneath the crisp Christmas desert sun.

Yes, mused Harry, he felt much better about the world these days. He did miss his old friends, Konstantin and Yuri, not to mention Leonid. Mik, sadly, had sold himself to the vice of the paid printed word. But they had made their choices, at Harry’s insistence, Ron and Georges had reluctantly gone along with the grand scheme. Sometimes Harry felt he should talk to Bill, but always decided to gore that ox when he came to it.

A healthy slug slithered from the saffron. Harry did not even clench it with his powerful hairy toes, but gently lifted it to the saucer of beer. “An adversary deserves to die happily,” philosophized Harry. “Look at Kim, the least scrutable of the dictators, who had finally listened to Harry’s Reason, and made the final toast with a smile on his lips.

to be continued....

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