November 1, 1948 – July 17, 2008.
Harry was a rascal. Before I started working at the Caravan, people kept asking if I’d met Harry yet. When we did first chat on the phone, he asked who the hell I was, and why he hadn’t heard of me before.
From then on, when people came to the Farm who knew me, it always surprised him that people actually knew who the hell I was.
Harry loved to talk about making things in theatre. And beauty was always the one of the main goals. Different fabrics he particularly liked, the action of them, all kinds different ropes and knots, how to rig up a prop to work just so. He knew who was a good actor, and who seemed like they knew what they were doing, and ultimately what made a good show.
He was rude, and funny, and charming and affectionate. He tried to help find me a place to live and work and was always supportive. He would sometime disappear for hours at a time in his truck and frustrate you to no end, but the best was when he took you with him. You found yourself in the passenger seat, scanning a map of backroads of BC, how the best way to get from one place to another wasn’t always the way that you thought.