My Friend, Fred

By David Drayer

I met Fred about five years ago, here at Watershed. He’d taken one of my workshops on writing. “I want to buy one of your books,” he said afterwards over a firm handshake. “Which one’s the best?”

“Well, they’re all very different so it’s hard to—”

“Just name one,” he said, in what I’d come to know as classic Fred: direct, frank, right to the point. 

Which is probably why I nearly got his name wrong. With my pen poised over the title page of A Noble Story, I asked, “Just make it out to Frank?”

He grinned. “If you make it out to Frank, I better get a discount. My name is Fred.”

By the time our paths crossed again a few months later, he’d bought, read, and posted reviews on all five of my books. I thanked him for the support. “My pleasure,” he said. “So, tell me—how do you do it? How do you write like that?”

“Ahh…?”

“We should have a drink together,” he said. “I want to pick your brain. What do you say?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of him. The idea of his “picking my brain” didn’t sound all that appealing, and with the age difference, what would we even talk about? But what the hell—it was just a drink.

We met at the Courthouse Grill. Or maybe it was Dirty Erma’s. Can’t quite remember. But that first meeting sparked four years of conversations that would stretch for hours, and a friendship I’ll never forget.

Scotch was our drink of choice. We’d meet at bars, restaurants, my apartment, or his house, letting the conversation flow. One night, out of nowhere, he asked, “If you could call anyone from any time period, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you ask them?”

“Ahh… that’s quite a question, Fred.”

“I know. That’s why I asked it.”

“I’d really have to think on that one.”

“Go ahead,” he said, leaning back with sip of Scotch. “Take your time. I want to hear yours before I tell you mine.”

Fred was one of the most curious people I’ve ever known. He approached learning like oxygen—a basic necessity. Whatever caught his attention, he threw himself into: pottery with his beloved wife Rita, writing, you name it. He became a skilled potter, a capable writer, a natural teacher. But he’d always say, “Nah, I’m just a dabbler in the arts. I’m a numbers guy. Theories and proofs, finding X and solving for Y. But I sure enjoy the artistic experience of creating something I can share with others.”

A lot of our conversations touched on what I came to recognize as his real gift: his ability to see potential in people and encourage them to pursue their dreams. Whether it was the neighbor kid down the road, an old friend, a new friend, one of his nine children or fifteen grandchildren, Fred had a knack for asking the right questions to help them move forward. What’s missing? What do you want? Is there anything I can do to help you get it?”

No wonder he had such love and respect for Watershed. He attended workshops, led workshops, served on the board, and volunteered his precision with numbers to managing finances and hunting for grants. He was optimistic, sure, but he never shied away from pointing out what could be handled better. And he didn’t just call out weaknesses—he helped find ways to strengthen them.

Other times, life would drop something heavy on the table. The progression of Rita’s Alzheimer’s. His own stage-four cancer. “If I’m going to die in three months to a year,” he said, “I have to get Rita to a place where she’ll have the care she needs.” Which meant selling the home they’d designed and built themselves—to pay for assisted living, for her care, and for the future Fred wouldn’t see. He grieved what was being taken from him while facing it head on, planning for what came after.

What always struck me was his refusal to surrender to despair, even as he stayed unflinchingly honest. He was pragmatic about mortality and illness, but he also remained hopeful. He kept asking questions, gathering data, grilling doctors, and considering treatment plans that wouldn’t sacrifice quality of life for the sake of mere survival.

Anyone who got to know Fred, knows what we lost. But they also know what he built, what he left behind, what he started in other people that will keep going. That’s his legacy.

I miss him. I miss the drinks and the conversations and the way he’d ask a question that would make me say, “Ahhh…?” But mostly I’m grateful he insisted on that first meeting, grateful he cared enough to ask how I did what I do, grateful he showed me what it looks like to face the unthinkable head on.

As we headed out that first night—or maybe it was the second—he said as he got into his car, “You know, David, I think this friendship has real potential.”

Yeah, Fred, I’d have to agree.