"A Visit With Fred"

“What kind of bullshit is this, anyway!?” the voice shouts through my cell ear-piece. “What the hell you want to talk with me for!?”
My friend, Joe, warned me about this guy. When he heard I was creating a project about elders, Joe suggested a few people I could speak with. His former landlord, Mr. Fred Kasica, was number one on his list.
I’m nervous, this the first time I’m speaking with Freddie. But I was briefed about his “way,” so his little post-shouting chuckles clue me in a bit and relax me…somewhat.
“Well, you can come over here. But, I’m tellin’ ya…What’s your name again!?”
“I’m not sure I wanna tell you now,” I joke with him.
“I’m just tellin’ ya that if this is a crock of shit, I’m going to boot you in the ass and have the door hit your ass again on the way out. 7:00 too early for ya?” he asks.
“What’s wrong with 6:30?”
“Oh, so you’re a wise guy, are ya?” he chuckles.
We settle on a 6:45 Saturday morning start time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Easthampton neighborhood where Fred lives is stark and dreary. Many of the buildings were constructed in the early 1900’s to house and serve the region’s mill workers. Today, the area looks particularly drab; many of the houses are painted a pale green. Joe calls it “hopeless green.”

“What the hell was that?!” The front door opens and a warm yellow light leaks out into the chilly gray morning. I see a small man with a round face and a head topped with lots of thick white hair. He’s about 5’5”, on the thin side, and sports a red, black and white plaid shirt, a pair blue jeans and work boots. “You call that a knock, Harry?” Freddie flashes a toothless grin and extends his hand to me. His handshake is warm and strong. “By the way, d’you just call me before?” he asks as he pulls me into his home.
I explain that I tried him earlier to see if he wanted coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, but that no one answered. “I thought I had the wrong number,” I tell him.
“I was in the bathroom for cryin’ out loud. Whadduya guys have cameras or something? It’s funny how people always call me when I go in there,” he laughs. “I think maybe I should just start taking the phone in the toilet with me,” he slaps his thigh, chuckling at his own joke. I’m glad I decided to throw in an extra video tape.

Freddie leads me into a clean and organized, light wood-paneled kitchen. A full Wonder Bread sits on the counter next to the Toastmaster. A dark, wood-paneled den with a large television is off to the side; newspapers and magazines are piled neatly on a brown cloth couch. “It’s not much, but I like it. Been here for, whew, 38 years now. Hard to believe, you know?” He tells me he lives alone on one side of the two apartment house which he owns. His wife, Mary, died 11 years ago and he says he’s not thinking about replacing her.
After setting up, I plant myself on a tall stool in front of a little breakfast counter. Fred sits across from me, two feet of Formica between us, and watches as I fold a paper on my pad and click on the camera over my left shoulder – he taps a pencil nervously. I look at his eyes though his large frame glasses. They’re clear and curious, alternating between staring at me, then at the red camera light.

“So this guy says to me,” Fred breaks the silence, ‘Why don’t you make the bread and I’ll go over and sell it.’ He said, ‘Make as many loaves as you can.’ He said, ‘I’ll sell ‘em all!’ And I ask the guy, ‘How many of ‘em you think I can make? You know what my bread-making machine is?’ After a pause, Fred quietly holds up his hands and flashes a big grin, waiting for me to answer his question. I shrug.
“My hands, Harry!”

Joe told me about the famous “FredBread,” which, apparently, is the best bread known to mankind. For the next ten minutes Fred tells me how he makes his special bread with lots of eggs and sugar. “It’s pretty good warm with a pat of that fresh butter meltin’ on top. Ooo-wee.” He pauses, smiles and leans forward, whispering. “You know, Harry. If you’re good, I might just offer you a slice,” he laughs. I hope he does.

As we sip some freshly brewed coffee, I blend in my questions and ask Fred to talk with me about his proudest accomplishments.
“What do you mean, proud of?” Fred looks at me. “I’m proud of the way I lived. Everything. There’s not anything that I’m proud of the most. I just figure I take things as they go, as they roll along and, to me, I just appreciate even gettin’ to live 'til 77, you know? I mean, for all the things I did…the way I lived. Whoa!” he laughs hard and slaps one hand on the counter while using the other to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The sunnovabitchin’ things I did when I was younger. Christ, I could float a battleship back then. I drank with boat hands. Got into a lot of trouble, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Were you in the Navy? The Marines?” I ask.
Fred tilts his head and stops moving – an unusual state for him.
“The Navy!! Of course, the Navy!” he snaps back.
“I mean, you just said something about drinking with boat hands, and I…”
Fred stares at me then leans forward, almost tipping his stool.
“With both hands, Harry!! What the fuck are you talkin’ about!?”
I need to quickly soak in Fred’s unique dialect if the next hour is to come close to making any sense.
“You had to get the elbows up,” Fred demonstrates by raising his arms. “You didn’t get calluses on one elbow only, you got ‘em on both. You had to keep lifting both hands up. Oh my, I got into a lot of mischief back then,” he smiles. “Still, I did a lot of things I’m proud of doing though, everything that I did, you know. Like I was really an outdoorsman. I used to fish. I still like to hunt. Back in them Depression days or, you know, back in the 30’s and 40’s and all that, I used to trap. I did everything. I mean, well…to me I take things as they come. I love to do things. I love to be outside.
“What did you do for work?” I ask.
“Well, all kinds of things,” he leans back and sips some coffee. “I was a machine operator, most of the time. But, I loved to paint houses or anything like that. I did a lot. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, but not a master of any of ‘em. I did a little bit of electrical work, a little bit of plumbing. I did everything. Like even when I was a lot younger there, of course, I did a lot of things for my mother, like even putting tiles down on the floor, or any of that.
Fred spills a bit of coffee on the counter and wipes it quickly with a paper towel as he continues.
“When I used to paint houses, you know these old panes that they used to have em’ here like that, in the windows? Well, I used to put the ladder right in the middle. And I’d paint with one hand, finish that side. And then I’d use my other hand, paint this side,” he explains as he turns his body. “Never had to move the ladder – not one time, Harry. You know, a lot of guys can paint, but can paint with only one hand. And I could paint with either hand.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Freddie, I’m going ask you to imagine something for a second.” I pause and smile. “Some of these questions… You’re going to give me that boot in the ass, I think.”
“Well, maybe. You never know, you never know,” he laughs hard.