Everything that follows began as truth. Somewhere along the line someone guessed wrong, then told someone else that guess and then they guessed that guess wrong. I'm way down the food chain so it's no longer about fact or fiction, truth or tale, it's only about the telling.

I've found a story to tell and a few tales won't prevent it's telling. I'll have to add a few characters, spice up some story lines but I'll assume you're not picky about details. I'll add a disclaimer explaining that the mention of your name and facts ripped from pages of your scrapbook still doesn't mean I'm talking about you.

I am, at most, talking about an impression of you. A chance meeting, a weekend together, a found snapshot with a name on the back. Relax and enjoy the tale for what it is. Enjoy the life I've made for you and don't worry about how it does, or doesn't, reflect the life you think you may have.

Fred died on August 22nd 1989, one day after my fifteenth birthday. I was often at their house for August, celebrated most of my birthdays there, I could have been there when he died but I wasn't.

Fred died living his life. He was starting his day as every other, walking down his driveway towards the Atlantic Ocean, walking along the busy road, across the bridge and over to a green metal box where his mail was delivered. He did this every weekday morning of his entire adult life. He grew up in this seaside house which his family built. This was all he ever needed.

He collapsed before he got the mail that day, I'm not sure what killed him. I should know more details but I avoid them. I can't stand people's enjoyment of misery, their love of it's precise details. They need to be told, they need to enjoy others pain to relieve their own.

Fred collapsed and died on the land where he lived everyday of his life. His wife of 44 years, Leta, was home at the time. She rushed to him. He'd lost control of his bladder already. Leta worried about her dead husband's dignity. She returned home and brought a blanket to lay over Fred, hiding his soiled pants.

That morning was beautiful, the tide was out and the rocks and light brown beaches were exposed in salute of this day. The sun screamed out from across the inlet and the water sat calmly and listened for a change.

I walked over that ground today, the ground where Fred fell. I now sit on the beach across the street from the home his father built. We own it now and sold it today for $130,000. Leta left the home to my mother when she died. She stipulated that her second husband Jack could use it for as long as he wanted, after that it would go to my family. Jack moved out right after Leta's death. He cleared out everything he could claim was his, right down to the wiring for the sattelite hookup he had installed. The sattelite now sits on the roof, nothing more than a useless plastic reminder.