MAY 19, 2024 – (Cont.) Fred was a successful businessman (See 1/3/24 post) who exuded intelligence and whose wry humor was always close to the surface. He liked to joke that everyone in town knew that our neighborhood was the poorest in Anoka because “We all lived on Rice.” While battling the city of Maplewood for approval of his apartment development project, Fred gave us regular updates, and never failed to make fun of the name of the prestigious Minneapolis law firm he’d retained: Gray, Plant, Mooty & Mooty (its name at the time). “I keep asking them,” joked Fred, “when they’re going to water the plant.”
He could take a joke too, as I witnessed on his birthday—July 4—one year, when Ruth invited Mother, Dad, Jenny and me over for a little celebration. As we traipsed over to the Moores’ house, Mother and Jenny several paces ahead, Dad furtively revealed to me a “fake” firecracker that he’d purchased somewhere downtown.
“Ya light it, ya see,” he said, chuckling mischievously, “and it throws off some sparkles but it’s not a real firecracker. It doesn’t explode. When the cake is served I’ll surprise Fred with it.” I was surprised by Dad’s plan; certainly given that it entailed an indoor prank while we were guests at the nicest house on Rice Street[1].
In any event, we were greeted at the front door by the birthday boy himself and ushered into Moore’s dignified living room, freshened up with the latest furniture from Richard’s. Soon thereafter Ruth walked her latest baking achievement, alit with candles, into the room. Mother sprang to the piano and led us in a hearty rendition of Happy Birthday. Seated next to Dad facing the glass-top coffee table where Ruth had placed the cake, Fred took a big breath and let it out over the forest fire, turning every candle wick into a black smoking stub.
That was Dad’s self-designated cue. He already had the fire-cracker—about the size of an M-80—in his hand as he said to Fred, “And now for the real candle!” Dad put the fake stub of dynamite down on the coffee table and lit the fuse. Sparks flew as Ruth and Mother screamed. The stunt was over almost before it started, and Fred laughed spontaneously, just as Dad had anticipated. Ruth and Mother, I noticed, didn’t join in. Mother expressed her strong disapproval, which provided adequate cover for Ruth to register her own displeasure. “Now, Ray,” she said in the tone of third grade teacher, “I’m surprised at you.”
If Hubert Humphrey was known as the “Happy Warrior,” I suppose Fred Moore was the “Happy Conservative.” He was quite outspoken about his politics, but he could express his sentiments with a sardonic smile, at least, and without raising anyone’s blood pressure—most critically, his own. In contrast, even in like-minded company Dad inevitably betrayed disagreeable emotion whenever he plunged into political discussion.
In the 1964 campaign season, Fred stuck two GOLDWATER/MILLER signs in his yard—one on each side of the sideway from street to front steps. Dad liked the fact he could see Fred’s signs, even though as a public servant in a non-partisan post Dad was strict about refraining from any public display of partisanship; he would never post a political sign in our yard.
Fred had made a foray into politics and was elected to the school board and served for 16 years. With our neighbor up the street, school superintendent Morris Bye, Fred was a major force in consolidating the Anoka-Hennepin School District, at the time the largest in the state. He would later regret his work, however, and after leaving the board, as a citizen he lobbied his successors hard to return more control to the local schools. In the end contrary forces steamrollered over him, but he, Ruth, and my parents continued to dwell on the issue during their regular conversations. Whether begrudging acknowledgment of Fred’s contributions to the community or to placate Republican voters, the (mostly Democratic) school district authorities would one day name Anoka Junior High, “Fred Moore Junior High.” Decades later, though, Fred was demoted: the school building is now called, “Anoka Middle School for the Arts – Fred Moore Campus.”Whether begrudging acknowledgment of Fred’s contributions to the community or to placate Republican voters, the (mostly Democratic) school district authorities would one day name Anoka Junior High, “Fred Moore Junior High.” Decades later, though, Fred was demoted: the school building is now called, “Anoka Middle School for the Arts – Fred Moore Campus.”
At the outset of summer after my freshman year of high school, Fred hired me to mow the Moores’ sprawling lawn. It took me all afternoon, and he paid me by the hour. Soon he expanded my portfolio to shrub and hedge pruning, tidying up around the big evergreens, and edging along the long stretch of street curb out front, the sidewalk from the street to the front steps and the sidewalks that ran along the front of the house. It was my first major foray into landscaping, and I loved doing it.
For the rest of my summers until I graduated from college, I worked nearly full-time maintaining Moore’s grass and landscaping. Fred was very pleased with my work and rewarded me handsomely. While strolling the grounds to inspect the results of my latest efforts, he’d always engage me in conversation about school, music[2], my plans to become a lawyer, and of course . . . politics. He was a great conversationalist, and we enjoyed each other’s company. As had been the case when I was much younger, I’d also join Mother and Dad during evening visits with Ruth and Fred. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Despite Dad’s condemnation of all hooliganism generally and disruptive noise specifically, he did seem to have an affinity for fireworks and firecrackers. During our family road trip Down South during Christmas vacation my first year in school, he purchased a long string of small firecrackers at some souvenir shop in Georgia (at the time, they were against the law in Minnesota). Every Fourth of July after that, he’d “celebrate” by resting a firecracker on a stump—in the backyard or up at the cabin—then laying an empty metal coffee can face down over most of the firecracker, leaving only the fuse exposed. He’d then light it and dash to safety. Invariably, he’d laugh like a kid when the coffee can magnified the loud bang and made somersaults in the air. To stretch out his inventory for a few decades, he limited his Fourth of July blasts to . . . three.
[2] Fred’s nephew, Fred “Bud” Sewell, was an accomplished violinist; a graduate of Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, the elite conservatory where my sister Elsa would study a dozen years after Bud. Decades later my generation of Nilssons would become good friends of Fred and Gloria Sewell and their talented and accomplished children, dancer James (founder of the James Sewell Ballet), and cellist Laura. Fred (Sewell) would continue to freelance in the Twin Cities but followed his uncle’s example and became a successful businessman—and patron of the arts. The Sewells were frequent visitors of the Moores. I remember standing beside Elsa and looking out our living room window during one of those visits. James was on his skateboard, flying up and down in the street in front of our house and executing all sorts of amazing maneuvers. “That kid is good,” said Elsa, who was not easily impressed.
