Everyone knew Harry Thompson. In the '60s and '70s when hippies, back-to-the-landers, and underground Weathermen on the lam settled in Vermont and needed some practical item, they showed up at Harry's. His house was chock-a-block with stuff and was surrounded by clapped-out cars and piles of "junk."
One day, the story goes, a woman showed up while Harry—ratty little dog under one arm—was cooking breakfast. Did he have a cast iron fry pan she could buy? He nodded, slipped the eggs out of the hot pan, and sold it to her for $1.
In another tale that still makes the rounds, a citified dealer came in search of antiques. A dish on the floor caught his eye, and he recognized it as Ming dynasty. No fool, that flatlander, he played it cool. How much for the old chair? he asked. $2. That chain saw? $7. And that food mill? $1.50. After a round of pricing homely goods, the visitor casually turned to the porcelain dish. And how much for that? he asked. $650 said Harry filling it with milk as his tuxedo cat sidled up.
That was Harry. We all loved him, and he taught us a lot, including just how much junk one person can accumulate and make useful to others.
And not to forget about Harry's brother, Dude, who spent his days sitting in the his rusted-out Cadillac, firing guns out the window.
Love it
Wonderful story, I love it.