Henry Pfafflin lived alone, and he was a bit odd, but he was loved by many.

He was a familiar sight to his neighbors in Sunset Heights. Faded yellow/tan adobe covered his brick house, which towered above the street on the corner of Prospect and Los Angeles. Henry’s dogs, a ferocious pack, barked and growled and snapped at passersby. They looked sort of like wolves. Sometimes, Henry would be in the yard lifting weights with his legs. His sister, Mary Lou, said he had hip surgery several years ago. One time I yelled at him to keep his dogs quiet, and he yelled back. But we saw each other in passing frequently, and became friendly.

Mary Lou was at Henry’s house Saturday because at some point over the past few days, Henry slipped away. She said he was found in his hot tub, and he likely passed out and drowned. She said he had several blackouts over the past four or five years, but he wouldn't go to a doctor to find out why he was having them.

I went over there because I got a message from someone asking if I knew what happened. I didn’t – the message was my first notice -- but early Saturday morning an unkempt, somewhat wild-eyed man knocked on my door and asked if he could use the phone. He had slept in the park in front of my apartment. From what little I could hear of his conversation, he had left his cell phone at someone’s house the night before. I got the impression he got into a tiff, or more, and stumbled in a haze until he fell asleep on the grass of Caruso Park. It was strange that he had a blanket, which as I write is still in a crumple in the corner of the park.

I didn’t want to add to the family’s burden, but I didn’t want to withhold potentially important information, especially since I didn’t know what had happened yet.

So there I was standing in the faded living room of the faded yellow/tan adobe-covered brick house talking to Mary Lou, who held back tears as she talked of her brother. She was convinced his death was natural. We talked about Henry, and also of superficial issues, and politics – the kind of conversation people have when they are dealing with a crisis, but are not swallowed by it.

Henry was probably having a good laugh about all this, Mary Lou said.

She had a notepad with names of Henry’s friends. He wanted a blues player at his funeral. I remembered him playing harmonica in Mundy Park, and riffing a chant.

One passion was his fight against Asarco. Henry was almost always there when people gathered to write, speak and sing against the smelter reopening. You probably saw him at a City Council meeting, or on television, or at the park. He walked with a limp, and while his face tightened at the mention of Asarco, he also could have a sense of grim humor about the deal, and he had a wide smile for his friends.

I didn’t know him well, but Henry was one of the guys who made this neighborhood what it is. It was comforting to go for a walk and see him sitting out with his dogs; when he passed in his green truck we’d exchange a wave. He was an anchor, a presence who was here as long as most can remember, and a guy who was loved by many.

Funeral preparations are pending. I’ll let you know when I know.