I've had many friends during the sixty-four years of taking up my apportioned space on this earth. But there was just something about my friend Harry that makes my memory of him stand out like an underlined paragraph in a favorite book. And exactly what gave such special distinction to my memory of him is still somewhat a mystery to me.

Harry was not a humble man. Recount any adventure or accomplishment that crowned your life and you could count on Harry to out-do you by a verbal soliloquy that started a millisecond after your last word. And most of the time, you found yourself listening intently as again you realized that indeed Harry had been there - well at least near there - most of the time.

Harry was a proud man. His demeanor constantly reflected a sense of pride. He could have worn well the robes of nobility, like a true aristocrat, a country gentleman. When a stranger would introduce himself and ask Harry his name, Harry, with a lifted chin, would invariably spell it out, "R-a-d-c-l-i -f-f-e". Every mention of his father was an accolade of honor. If Harry had lived as a Jew in the first century, his name, no doubt, would have been Harry-ben.. plus his father's name. Unlike most of us, Harry never seemed to remember a time when he was a commoner.

Harry stood tall. In his presence you invariably felt somewhat diminished. Regardless of what situation he was facing, he never seemed to tilt at circumstantial winds. He was almost Stoic. And I never once saw Harry in a hurry. We could be late for a fishing trip planned days in advance, one whose time for departure was deliberate and exact down to the minute (on my part!), but Harry would want to sit a spell and think about the whole situation. Harry didn't know what speeding meant. I'm convinced that Harry's truck got two hours to the mile.

Harry had the hands of a giant, but they had the grace of an artist when he set them to work on wood. Wood was to Harry what stone is to a sculptor. I surmise that everyone to whom he showed the gun stocks he had made from plain, rough pieces of wood took it at first as I did: probably an exaggeration. Who in hell could be expected to believe that what looked like the polished surface of a Stradivarius violin could possible have come from those hands. But they did. Harry was an artist, second to none. And wood was his medium.

Harry was a romantic at heart. He loved old things which spoke of days past, days of more simple times. He would reminisce like a man much more advanced in age than he. I always felt that my life would eternally be lacking because I had never fly fished on the Cranberry. I swear I sometimes think that that stream of water must have issued out of some Elysian Fields or run through the Garden of Eden. Old brass lanterns and lamps dotted every room in his apartment. And may God save me from anything like another Harry introduction to a serving of ramps, those God-awful tasting things which Harry would bring back from West-By-God-West Virginia.

Most of the time Harry was too serious to be characterized as someone with a hearty sense of humor. But Harry and I spent many hours "re-laughing" experiences which involved just Harry and me.

Like the time when my brother came to Florida to visit me. He, Harry and I went out on a party fishing boat. We got there plenty early and stowed our gear on the boat. When finally the large boat rumbled out from its mooring, I told my brother, "Finally, we are on our way." We had gone only about seventy-five yards when we heard the engines reverse and felt the boat going back to the pier. I turned to my brother and said, "Oh, well. I guess some darn tourist is late and now we've got to go back and get him." We walked to the stern section of the boat and peered out to see who was delaying our trip. And there was Harry standing on the pier! He had walked over to a little shop near the launch to get a pack of cigarettes and the boat had left without him. I could hardly stand up because of convulsion of laughter.

I miss Harry. The "fish that got away" stories now told are bush league compared to the ones Harry recounted and recounted and recounted. I miss that phone call: "Hey, Bill, let's go have lunch and 'chunk a few oysters." And I miss tales of the Cranberry.

And I cry a little when I remember those last few hours before Harry passed over. He was barely conscious. I had left the room for a few minutes. When I came back in I gave Harry a salute (as I was accustomed to do). He raised that big hand and got it half way up to his face before it fell.

I seldom go fishing when I don't think of him. (My mother-in-law called us Tom and Huck.) Before he got so weak those last days, Harry told me that he knew that he was in the process of dying. I tried to lighten up that conversation a little (I don't handle sorrow very well!). I said, "Well, Harry if you pass over before I do you must promise me one thing: when I am out there fishing, I'm going to shift my eyes up and wait for you to give me direction exactly where to make the next cast to find the big one." Harry agreed.

I smiled and thought of Harry the very next time I went fishing. I had fished in Florida for over three years and had never caught a Red fish. But the first trip after Harry's death, I caught a big one, a keeper--plus about three more. I miss Harry very much. Harry was my friend.