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It isn’t often that someone would purposely pay tribute to a man most thought of as “just an alcoholic.” But that is precisely what I have chosen to do.
Harry Slagle lived in a non-pretentious place called Slagle’s Happy Acres, identified by a small wooden sign hung nearby. It was little more than an old, pale green, single-room, cinder-block building, which sat off the gravel road a couple hundred yards or so from the old wooden Doby’s Bridge.
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