Harry Rodenhizer, who died Wednesday, was the kind of man of which there are too few, certainly in Durham anyway.

He didn’t mince words, play the political-correctness game or jump on the sensitivity bus that picked up most people in public life 25 years ago. He was refreshingly candid. My favorite Harry Rodenhizer moment came during his 1991-93 mayoral tenure. Asked about all the shootings then taking place at the city’s phone booths, his response was (and this is paraphrased), “As long as it’s drug dealers killing drug dealers, I don’t mind.” Well, you can imagine how the PC crowd howled. It was classic Harry.

His opponents were quick to call him a racist, as they do with every plain-spoken politician with any common sense in Durham. Even the story of his death today in The Herald-Sun trotted out that old slander. Few remember that urban renewal, when it was happening, had black support in Durham. I know this because I compiled every news story on the building of NC 147 and the urban-renewal efforts of the early ’60s in anticipation of a series on the subject when I was at the paper. The unfortunate sale to the benighted Paxton Media Group, however, put a stop to that. Only later, due to politics, did the issue take on the trappings of the Durham Holocaust.

But my most memorable run-in with Harry came without my even knowing, at least for 15 years. Back in 1982 I was renting a house on Trinity Avenue across from what we then called the “tot lot.” I had just sold my house in Alabama and had some good down-payment money burning a hole in my pocket. I was attending grad school at Duke and the house (it was yellow then but is now blue) was perfect for the needs of my growing family. Plus, it was within walking distance to the bus stop on East Campus. I contacted the property management folks who handled the rental and told them I wanted to buy the house. They contacted the owner but he told them that his CPA recommended that he not sell it.

Years later, at a Boy Scout Camporee at Camp Durant in Carthage, N.C., I ran into the owner of the house and told him the story. He said, “You know who my CPA was? Harry Rodenhizer.” I never let Harry hear the end of that one.

I also remember one time when my family was eating at the Pizza Palace at its old location near Ninth Street I praised the Italian dressing that was used on my salad. About five minutes later Harry came out with a big bag of the dressing mix to take home. It was a gift. No payment expected. That dressing lasted me about three years.

The PC-lefty crowd never took to Harry, but they seem to enjoy one of his biggest legacies: Durham Bulls Athletic Park. His political courage, along with Chuck Grubb’s, bucked the sentiment at the time. Both sacrificed their political offices for that amenity. Those who howled the loudest are among the biggest fans of the park today. Without it, there would be no revival of American Tobacco site and no budding downtown renaissance.

My wife and I ate at the new location of Pizza Palace just last week. As I was paying up I asked about Harry and was told that he was not doing well and that the prognosis was not good. I was prepared for the story about his death, but it didn’t make it any easier.