Dear Editor: I met a very nice lady at the dog park today whose dog was named Harry. I told her the following story about Harry at the Pioneer Bar. I’m sure many residents will remember Harry.
‘‘During one period of my life, I made it a habit to stop at the Pioneer Bar when it opened on winter mornings, five days a week. Harry Sulser, the owner, was always there with a handful of regulars, shooting the bull, stretching the truth now and then, and exchanging the latest fishing reports and weather forecasts. For decades, the Pioneer Bar was one of Sitka’s gathering places, where you could catch up on the news before the workday began.
‘‘To say Harry was a character would be an understatement. At times he could be cantankerous; at other times he was pleasant and good-natured. No matter his mood, everyone knew that if you truly needed help, Harry would be there.
‘‘When I was in my early teens, I sold Harry at least 50 pounds of yelloweye after nearly every halibut trip. He always paid me a little more than I asked because the fillets were so fresh – firm, white and ready for his customers.
‘‘The coffee pot sat at the end of the bar near the restrooms. Beside it was a coffee can with a slot cut into the lid for donations. I’ve often wondered why Harry needed donations for coffee when the bar seemed to be doing just fine. I suspect it was more a matter of principle than money.
‘‘One morning I walked past the first booth where Harry and several of the regulars were seated.
‘“Good morning,” I said with a smile.
‘“What the hell are you so chipper about, kid?” Harry shot back with a grin, raising his eyebrows the way he always did.
‘“Just happy to see your smiling face, Harry,” I replied.
‘‘That got a laugh from everyone at the table.
‘‘I had just poured myself a cup of coffee when Harry yelled across the bar, “I didn’t hear any money drop in the can, kid!”
‘“You can’t hear dollar bills drop from over there,” I answered.
‘“You lying little sh—t,” he laughed.
‘‘That was just another morning at the P-Bar.
‘‘I often stayed until Harry left, unless the cigarette smoke finally drove me out. Many mornings, when we walked outside, Tripod – the town’s well-known three-legged dog – would be lying on the landing just beyond the door.
‘‘For reasons I never fully understood, the sight of Tripod irritated Harry. Maybe it was the dog hair that had to be swept up, or maybe Harry was simply frustrated that Tripod was too quick for him to ever land the playful kick he aimed at the dog’s rear end. Whatever the reason, Harry would grumble, cuss, and make another futile attempt as Tripod calmly stayed one step ahead.
‘‘Then one morning, to my surprise, Harry arrived on crutches. Diabetes had taken one of his legs below the knee.
‘‘I stayed longer than usual that day, waiting until Harry was ready to leave. When he stood up, I hurried ahead and opened the door for him.
‘‘There sat Tripod, looking up at us, his tail gently wagging.
‘‘I knew Harry couldn’t kick at the dog while balancing on crutches, but I watched him slowly raise the end of one crutch toward Tripod. Halfway through the motion, he stopped.
‘‘Then he smiled and quietly said, “Hiya, partner.”
‘‘Two simple words.
‘‘I’ve never forgotten them.
‘‘And I’m pretty sure they surprised Tripod, too.’’
George Eliason, Sitka
