Dispatches from the County VI: Fred (the Hermit)

I have a strong sense Fred* spends much of his time alone, pandemic lockdown or no.

Fred is one of those ageless folks. If pressed I’d say he’s in his fifties, but I could honestly be off by ten years. He lives just up the road. The two very rundown red barns that sit beside one another belong to him, I believe. The rundown little house behind the barns is where he resides. I don’t think Fred has much for money. He has duct tape wound round his shoes, though that could as much be Fred being Fred as anything. What I do know is like me he lost his mother a few years back. I know this because he told me, in one of our many very short chats held across a country road, each of us out on our solo walks.

“Fred” I’ll call out when I see him and not just because of our shared loss or because he’s about the only person I ever run into out there in the dead of winter, but also because I’m quite fond of this odd neighbour of mine. “Fred!” To which he’ll pause and squint at me from across the road - all two lanes of it - smile and say, “Dan, is it? No wait. Roger?” He hasn’t once gotten it right, hasn’t once even come up with a name beginning with J. My wife and I both find this terribly funny, and Fred, well, he’s always glad for the chat with whatever my name is.

Fred who is alone and is certifiably strange, also has a kindness to him and best of all, what I am most fond about strange Fred is the fact he seems so comfortable in himself and with his lot. He is not in agony over his solitude or the state of his shoes.

Then the other day I have the house to myself. This happens about once every five months of lockdown or so. My wife having taken the kids out and giving me some time. I’m working at the dining room table and a bit concerned when I see out the glass doors that lead to the deck, a figure coming in my direction up the inlet our property horseshoes round. When the kids came home later I asked what they think the big creature might have been that I saw on our frozen pond. No, I said it wasn’t a muskrat or a beaver, both of which we have seen. No it was Fred, on skates, hockey stick in his one hand. At first I thought he was coming to find me, which I would have found more forward and strange than I’d have liked. Coming right up to my property uninvited like that. But that wasn’t his intention, I don’t believe. It was just Fred being Fred. He didn’t even look my way. Wasn’t even aware of me looking, or the cottage I was in. Fred was just going for a skate. And off he went, back up to where the inlet opened out. Shooshing his way round the frozen lake. As you do. With your hockey stick. When you’re Fred.

*Not his real name