Harry: a Portrait

Harry was a science teacher in an inner-city Chicago elementary school. He lived near us in Lombard, Illinois. His wife was also a teacher, and of the two of them, Anna was the more conversational: a warm, friendly lady in her late fifties.  Harry was older, close to seventy or maybe older than that.  They had grown children. Harry was very quiet and seemed very reserved… until the day that he met my father.

When Dad and his wife were visiting, we took them to church. At coffee hour after the service, Harry asked our son if he’d like to see the tarantula he had brought home from his classroom.  So we all went over there—our family, my dad and Evie.

Harry was a man of many surprises. He had been to a science teacher’s conference and had brought home a garage full of gee-whiz wild and wacky science toys:  a matchbook with flash paper that incinerated instantly and cleanly, and two identical looking black rubber balls: one bounced as high as the ceiling, the other fell with a dull thud and did not bounce a millimeter.

The tarantula was a fabulous attraction—David let it walk all over his arms. Harry had a big snake as well, and we got a picture of Harry with the snake draped around his neck.

Dad, who was a chemist and who was also the kind of person who could talk with anybody, learned that Harry was born in Delano, California, which was not far from Dad’s childhood home in Bakersfield. Dad also learned that they had both worked on the glass lens for the Mt. Palomar Observatory, at different stages of completion.

Once Harry realized that he had made contact with a fellow scientist, the words and gestures gushed forth. His story emerged: he was the clever son of Japanese immigrants. His mother spoke virtually no English.  Harry entertained himself by hanging around in the dusty train yards and got to know the hobo community.

While he was talking about his adventures with them, I spotted some spearmint growing by his garage and asked him if I could have a plant or two. He quickly pulled one up by the roots and told us a hobo had showed him how to cook a rabbit he’d caught, dipping a mint plant in melted butter and basting the rabbit with it. (Naturally Harry brandished the mint plant exactly as the hobo had shown him).

Harry also told about the job he had when he was a young teenager. When he suddenly began walking around like a big shot with a lot of money, his mother became suspicious, as any mother would. She found something on his dresser and confronted him: four metal identification bracelets, with Harry’s name on each one.

As it turned out, Harry’s job was as a spotter on a nitroglycerine truck. The truck carried the very explosive substance to construction sites in the mountains that ringed the central valley. Harry sat on the floor of the truck, next to a lever. If he spotted an impending accident, his job was to pull the lever so that the nitroglycerine would flow out over the pavement harmlessly. The name tags were for each arm and each leg, just in case he didn’t open the lever in time.

Naturally, his mother made him quit his job.

Harry was a wonderful neighbor. He and his wife introduced me to sushi, and were great friends to our kids. For awhile they were the only Asian grownups our kids knew. They helped us surprise our son one Christmas with a small honey-colored rabbit.  Bunny spent several days at their house before we brought him home on Christmas Eve. (No mint involved, don't worry!)

Harry was a dedicated teacher. His school was in some of the meanest streets of Chicago.  He made his classroom lively with animals, plants, experiments and displays. He shared every fabulous science topic he ran across. Most school nights he stayed at his school until seven at night, sometimes later. The kids would stay after school for “tutoring,” which Harry gladly did, but he said that the real reason they wanted to stay was that there was no parent home until evening to let them in, and Harry didn’t want the kids walking home when it wasn’t safe for them to do so.

He had always talked lovingly about his students. Something changed for him, though. He told us very sadly—almost in tears-- that one of the little girls in his class had deliberately poisoned his classroom fish tank. “I don’t understand how someone could do that,” he said. “It broke my heart.” That was his last year of teaching. He and Anna moved to the west coast when they both retired. Chicago lost a wonderful teacher, and the children lost a gentle advocate.
© J M-K 2010