APRIL 3, 2023 – (Cont.) Just inside the door I removed my shoes. After taking my jacket, Fred led me from the entryway, through the nicely appointed living room and into the dining room. Colorful Easter egg decorations hung from the broad arched entryway into the dining area. The large dining room table was so laden with treats, from end to end and side to side, that none of the table surface was visible. Dozens of festive bags filled with goodies competed for space with tray loads of cookies and cupcakes.
From the dining room, Fred led me into the kitchen, where more decorations projected bright cheer over huge bowls of snack bags and beverages waiting to be consumed. Off in a corner was an impressive fluffle of large, stuffed Easter bunnies to be handed out to the young guests.
None of the astonishing preparations was the least bit casual. The children who’d be attending—including our seven-year-old granddaughter—would be royally impressed. Much thought, effort and organization had been dedicated to the party, and I concluded that only by years of experience, could such an extravaganza be pulled off successfully. I surmised that Fred’s late wife had played a significant role in past productions, and doubtless in her memory, Fred was continuing a long-standing tradition.
“How many years have you been putting on this annual event?” I asked.
“Oh, this is the first time,” Fred answered. I was duly surprised, but it spoke volumes about Fred, and I realized that in our brief conversations on the street, I’d already learned enough about him not to be surprised by his generous spirit.
Two days later I’d learn the fuller story behind the event. Fred had hatched the idea some weeks ago and had called several moms in the neighborhood for a sanity check. “Am I crazy?” he asked, with a laugh. When the neighbor moms assured him he wasn’t, he recruited them to help produce the event. One woman served as the food director; another volunteered for communications; a third took charge of the egg hunt and prize procurements; Fred’s in-town daughter assumed responsibility for decorations. Fred himself served as finance director “And,” he laughed, “the rules committee . . . or simply, the Commish.”
In the quiet before the storm, Fred led me on a grand tour of his wonderful home, then offered me some specialty coffee to counter the chill of the gray, late March day. We repaired to the living room for an extended, rewarding conversation about a range of subjects of mutual interest. The more I learned about Fred, the more I regretted that we hadn’t gotten acquainted decades ago. As 37-year residents of the neighborhood, Beth and I have become the “older-timers,” but Fred has us beat by a decade. When I told him that he was an irreplaceable asset of the neighborhood and wouldn’t be allowed to move, he reassured me with his response: “They’ll have to haul me outta here!”
At 4:30 I pulled myself away from the conversation. Despite the winter storm looming in the morrow’s forecast, there was a spring to my step for the two-block walk home. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
