Fred
When I was about eight or nine years old, my mother introduced me to her good friend, whom I only knew on a first name basis- Fred.
Fred used to own the automobile repair business next to the gas station, two blocks away from my house.
He was a wiry man in his late forties who never went anywhere without his black sunglasses. He always wore his salt and pepper hair slicked back, and was beginning to develop a slight beer belly. He had many admirable traits, but the thing I will remember the most about him was his kindness.
Back in the old days when I used to go grocery shopping with my mother, we would always go to local food store near the North Riverside Mall. And today seemed to be no different than any other day.
I clambered up in the shotgun seat of our old blue van, excited to be going somewhere alone with my mother. My mom calmly got in the van and started the motor, all the while chatting animatedly with me.
We got to the food store with no problems, and proceeded to shop for the next several hours. [NOTE: I was a kid back then, and was a handful to handle, so even a relatively easy task such as grocery shopping could take hours.] When we were finally done, we rolled our towering stacks of food to the blue van. After loading the food one by one into the van, my mother and I got in, ready to go home after a long day.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.
Nothing. No reassuring rumble of the engine.
She tried again, and I could see little panic seeping into her.
Nothing again.
After the third try, it was obvious there was something wrong with the engine, and that it would not start no matter how many times my mom turned the keys in the ignition.
She then went on full panic mode. Being young, I didn't understand what the big deal was then. But now, I understand. I mean, put yourself in my mom's shoes. Your only mode of transportation is dead. You are a woman with a young deaf child. It's dark. You don't have a cell phone. So, yeah. You get the idea.
Luckily for her (and me), my mother spotted a public telephone stand near the van. She rushed off to make a call only after commanding me to stay in the van with all of the doors locked and to, not by any means, to let anybody but her in.
The first call she made was to Fred. Not my father. Not to one of her girlfriends. Not to my grandparents.
Upon hearing the predicament we were in, Fred told us to stay put and added that he would be there as fast he could. As she made her way back to the van, the relief was apparent on my mother's face. After getting in the driver's seat, she decided to try starting the van one last time, not really expecting anything to happen.
And, of COURSE it started. Just then, Fred's truck turned into the parking lot. "Oh, my goodness!" my mother twittered and jumped out of the van to meet Fred. She explained what happened, and thanked him profusely for being nice enough to be willing to help us out.
"Don't worry about it at all," Fred said with a smile.
I saw Fred quite frequently after that night, due to the fact he lived three blocks away from me and he was good friends with my mother.
My mother and I would walk to his house, and he would talk to my mother for hours while making sure I wasn't left out. Not a lot adults did that for me then, and my nine year old self appreciated that a great deal. We would all sit outside, and Fred would often indulge in a game of Flick-An-Ant with me.
Then came a day that is forever imprinted in my memory.
I was sitting in my favorite corner, playing with my toy horses when the phone rang. I ignored it, continuing playing while my mother answered it.
A few minutes later, my mother approached me, her face red with tears rolling down her face. "Sarah.. Fred is dead. He had a heart attack."
I didn't know what to say. My mother remained standing there, sobbing quietly.
The reason I'm remembering all this now is because I passed Fred's house today while running. I took a different route home today and didn't even realize that it would take me past his house. I was so startled when I saw his house that I had to stop. All of the memories came flooding back.
Rest in peace, Fred. You were a good man.
Fred used to own the automobile repair business next to the gas station, two blocks away from my house.
He was a wiry man in his late forties who never went anywhere without his black sunglasses. He always wore his salt and pepper hair slicked back, and was beginning to develop a slight beer belly. He had many admirable traits, but the thing I will remember the most about him was his kindness.
Back in the old days when I used to go grocery shopping with my mother, we would always go to local food store near the North Riverside Mall. And today seemed to be no different than any other day.
I clambered up in the shotgun seat of our old blue van, excited to be going somewhere alone with my mother. My mom calmly got in the van and started the motor, all the while chatting animatedly with me.
We got to the food store with no problems, and proceeded to shop for the next several hours. [NOTE: I was a kid back then, and was a handful to handle, so even a relatively easy task such as grocery shopping could take hours.] When we were finally done, we rolled our towering stacks of food to the blue van. After loading the food one by one into the van, my mother and I got in, ready to go home after a long day.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.
Nothing. No reassuring rumble of the engine.
She tried again, and I could see little panic seeping into her.
Nothing again.
After the third try, it was obvious there was something wrong with the engine, and that it would not start no matter how many times my mom turned the keys in the ignition.
She then went on full panic mode. Being young, I didn't understand what the big deal was then. But now, I understand. I mean, put yourself in my mom's shoes. Your only mode of transportation is dead. You are a woman with a young deaf child. It's dark. You don't have a cell phone. So, yeah. You get the idea.
Luckily for her (and me), my mother spotted a public telephone stand near the van. She rushed off to make a call only after commanding me to stay in the van with all of the doors locked and to, not by any means, to let anybody but her in.
The first call she made was to Fred. Not my father. Not to one of her girlfriends. Not to my grandparents.
Upon hearing the predicament we were in, Fred told us to stay put and added that he would be there as fast he could. As she made her way back to the van, the relief was apparent on my mother's face. After getting in the driver's seat, she decided to try starting the van one last time, not really expecting anything to happen.
And, of COURSE it started. Just then, Fred's truck turned into the parking lot. "Oh, my goodness!" my mother twittered and jumped out of the van to meet Fred. She explained what happened, and thanked him profusely for being nice enough to be willing to help us out.
"Don't worry about it at all," Fred said with a smile.
I saw Fred quite frequently after that night, due to the fact he lived three blocks away from me and he was good friends with my mother.
My mother and I would walk to his house, and he would talk to my mother for hours while making sure I wasn't left out. Not a lot adults did that for me then, and my nine year old self appreciated that a great deal. We would all sit outside, and Fred would often indulge in a game of Flick-An-Ant with me.
Then came a day that is forever imprinted in my memory.
I was sitting in my favorite corner, playing with my toy horses when the phone rang. I ignored it, continuing playing while my mother answered it.
A few minutes later, my mother approached me, her face red with tears rolling down her face. "Sarah.. Fred is dead. He had a heart attack."
I didn't know what to say. My mother remained standing there, sobbing quietly.
The reason I'm remembering all this now is because I passed Fred's house today while running. I took a different route home today and didn't even realize that it would take me past his house. I was so startled when I saw his house that I had to stop. All of the memories came flooding back.
Rest in peace, Fred. You were a good man.