FRED, THE  BICYCLE  MAN

Most everyone who lived in or around the city knew of Fred.  But few had gotten to know him personally as I had, so I was sad when I learned that he had died in an accident with a car.   It was gratifying to see the articles about him in the newspaper, and to know that he was being recognized, though belatedly, for his years of faithful service in gathering cans and bottles from the roadsides.  Fred's diligence was a message to those who knew him, and to the many passers-by on the streets and highways who never knew him.  He could never have guessed that he would have received such recognition for the contribution he made during his lifetime.

My first meeting with Fred was at an evening get-together for Bible study at the Baptist Church.  I had seen him several times with his bicycle along various roads picking up cans and bottles, but I hadn't known his name.  Often he would be miles from the city, sometimes in rain or snow.  Always he wore a yellow slicker.

The weekly evening meetings were organized primarily for those who were on the outskirts of society.  Most of those attending had served time in various institutions. I recall that one was a veteran who appeared to be suffering from severe anxiety.  Most had their own living accommodations.  Some didn't, they just lived wherever they could find a space.  There would be coffee and donuts provided by the church and some participants would bring their girl friends.  It was one of the few welcoming environments available, for most were perceived as outcasts or marginalized.  Besides, it was always warm in the church basement.

Our dear friend, John, whom my wife and I had come to know through prison ministry, had been in charge of the program.  He needed relief and asked if I would take over, so I agreed.  On the first evening, John introduced me to the group, and there was a discussion on a chapter from the Book of Proverbs.  No theology, just practical talking about life situations.

Fred wasn't there for the first few sessions.  Perhaps he hadn't heard of the delicious donuts.  But when he did come, he had to bring his bicycle down the steps into the church basement.  We had to help him, for it wasn't easy.  There were garbage bags hung from each handlebar filled with his treasures of the day, plus a toolbox containing whatever he might need in case of trouble with his bike.  He never took off his yellow slicker even though he had several layers of clothing underneath.

We had continued with the Book of Proverbs.  One particular evening, the chapter had a verse that I knew would spark a discussion, perhaps even a heated debate or disagreement.  "He that spareth the rod, spoileth the child," really hit a nerve. I found fault with the statement myself, so there was no reluctance in the responses.  There were accounts of grievous childhood abuse and unnecessary and sometimes deliberate cruelty in the juvenile institutions, more stories than there was time for, and all about pain.  No wonder these guys had been in trouble!

Fred began to come regularly and he liked to stay after to talk, and he would talk in a steady stream.  Once in a while I would get in a question, just so I could get a picture of his life's story.  He had no relatives that he had ever heard of, so in his early childhood he had lived in foster homes.  When he was old enough to earn his keep, he went to live with a farm family.  In pre-World War II times, just making a living was the primary concern and no one even thought of labor laws.

When Fred was old enough to earn wages, he was able to buy a pick-up truck.  The highlight of the week then, would be to go into town on a Saturday night, just to get roaring drunk.  Like so many, rich or poor alike, alcohol helped to kill the pain.  At least for a while.  Then he crashed his truck, and a passenger was killed.  He never told me how much time he served, but this was an important crossroads in his life.  He became a teetotaler, and he did it on his own, without the help of AA. He would not have fit in there.

One story that Fred told me spoke of pain and rejection.  A member of the family, on whose farm he had worked for so long, died.  When he appeared at the funeral home to pay his respects, he was denied admission because of his appearance.  He did not have the verbal skills to describe how he felt at the time, but he certainly knew that it hurt. It still did.

A social worker must have decided that Fred was not doing very well on the farm, and helped to locate him in the city.  He told me how, before coming to the city, he had been living in an old trailer, even in the winter.  With a pension, he could afford to live in the city, but just barely.  When I knew him, he was living with other seniors in a group home about a block from our house, so I frequently got to see him, for the evenings at the Baptist church had been discontinued.

Fred had known work all his life, so for him being idle was unacceptable.  After moving to the city, he learned that he could earn some money from recycleables.  He needed some extra money for himself, so he began his daily journeys by the side of the roads.  So it was for years that he had become a familiar sight, making the roadsides more presentable and earning a few pennies for himself.

I had often stopped to chat with Fred while we were neighbors, but then we sold our house and we were moving.  The last time when he came by our house, I greeted him with, " Hi Fred, so you're still sober?" I shall always remember his answer, "Yeah, but I don't know why!"

We had moved to California and would not see Fred again.  A kind friend has been sending us newspaper clippings.  One of the headlined articles told how Fred died. On a dark, rainy night, a car hit him while he was on his way home.  In another clipping, a columnist told how widely Fred was recognized for his years of faithfully cleaning trash from the roadsides.  I wonder if anyone had ever told him that.

The headlined article stated that Fred had not been wearing that yellow slicker.  I have wondered why.  Perhaps it just fell apart.  I am saddened to know that he is gone, but then, I have thought about how Fred might have fared if he had become too old to go out on the road, as he had done for years.  Eventually, he might have needed to be in a nursing home.  I just cannot imagine him in such an unfamiliar and circumscribed environment.

It was only fitting that a reporter and columnist should recognize that Fred had made his contribution and that he had become something of a community institution.  He had sought no recognition, for he might not have known what recognition was.  He had done what he needed to do with dedication and perseverance and he had made a difference.  And he had licked the demon drink, all on his own!  He knew the meaning of isolation, loneliness and hard labor, even in his childhood.  All was done without family for support.  Life had been more difficult for him than any of us could imagine.  Still, he knew who he was.  He had established his own identity and through it all, he had found a meaning in his own way.  Fred has added meaning to my life and to others in the community, just in doing what was there for him to do, one day at a time.