In memory of the dear, and delightful, Fred Bruno

Posted 1/24/18

My good friend Fred Bruno died yesterday.

I was introduced to Fred many years ago by a mutual friend. The friend told me about a group known as the “Fathers of Daughters,” who met for …

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In memory of the dear, and delightful, Fred Bruno

Posted

My good friend Fred Bruno died yesterday.

I was introduced to Fred many years ago by a mutual friend. The friend told me about a group known as the “Fathers of Daughters,” who met for lunch every Friday at Aidan’s.

Fred Bruno

I’m normally fairly outgoing but, when I first meet people, I try to stay in the background for a little while until I get a sense of what they’re like. I was sitting enjoying everyone’s conversation — the Fathers of Daughters can be a formidable group —- when Fred leaned forward, held his hand up to the friend who introduced us, and said like the former judge he was, “That’s enough, Ray. I want to hear what this guy in the fancy shirt has to say.” I don’t remember what the conversation was about, but I must have passed the test because I’ve had the good fortune to eat lunch with Fred every Friday since then and it has been a great learning and life experience.

Fred was a bright man, eloquent, “sharp as a tack” as they say, gregarious, generous, and a lover of a good joke. And, yes, Fred was immensely proud of his daughters.

Fred was born in Bristol in 1929. As part of the Opening Day ceremonies for the Mt. Hope Bridge later that same year, the span was opened to pedestrians. Fred was fond of telling the story that his mother pushed him in his stroller — he was seven months old — across the bridge.

Around 10 years ago, there was a bit of discussion in the letters section of The Phoenix about who was and who wasn’t a “True Bristolian.” I thought at the time that, if there was one guy in town for whom there was no doubt, it was Fred Bruno.

He was born in Bristol, rode across the Mt. Hope Bridge in a stroller the day it opened, went to school here, lived here, got his law degree, and came back home to practice.

It also seemed that Fred knew everyone in town, past and present. When Fred would learn about a waitress in Aidan’s who was new on the job, he would immediately ask where she and her family were from. If either were from Bristol, he would provide a detailed picture of her family tree, cherished family friends, important neighbors, etc., and then would ask for the particulars of the leaves and branches of which he’d lost track. 

About 10 percent of the time, he would conclude that they were related, on his mother’s side, fifth cousins twice removed, or some such. If I hadn’t seen it done so many times, I wouldn’t have believed it was possible. He was simply amazing.

I greatly enjoyed listening to Fred’s stories about life in Bristol long ago. When a large house on Union Street sold this past year, Fred asked me if I knew that it had been an orphanage. He told a few stories about girls with whom he’d gone to school whose families had run into hard times, either through the unexpected death of a parent or the loss of a father’s job. The girls would go live at the orphanage for a while until the family got back on its feet. He marveled that there was “a wealthy woman in town” who, before the big dances at the end of Junior and Senior years of high school, would make sure that every girl living in that house had a new dress to wear to the dance.

I don’t walk by without thinking of those stories. I suppose I always will.

I have many stories to tell about Fred, but space and time are both limited so I’ll leave off with two. The first is a little off-color and I hope everyone will forgive me. The other is one I hope provides food for thought.

Fred prided himself on new words he’d learned and would often use his vocabulary to great comic effect. He’d rattle along on the topic of the day and then veer completely off course and slip in a good juicy insult when least expected, particularly when the subject involved politicians.

We were at lunch one nice fall day, assessing the prospects of various political candidates, when someone asked Fred for his thoughts on the matter. Fred replied, "I suppose he’d have a chance to be elected if he wasn’t a gilt-edged, Moroccan-bound, 24-carat, iron-clad a-hole.”

Fred would continue charging forward with the rest of his thoughts while everyone else at the table would hold up their hands, making a "T" like a basketball coach calling for a timeout. We’d say “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Fred. Time out. Let’s roll that one back.” He delighted in walking us through the words one by one and telling us that he learned the expression from a professor in law school and that it gave him great pleasure to bring it out for a good airing whenever the occasion seemed appropriate.

The last Fred story I’ll share is one I like to reflect on from time to time. About 10 years ago, I drove my daughters to school every day. Depending on the lights, I could rely on being home by 7:45 a.m.

Around the same time, the man who drove the town recycling truck on our route was also quite regular. I could depend on him rolling up at 8:05 a.m. sharp, every Friday. This gave me 20 minutes after I got home to gather up all the soda cans, water bottles, etc. from my teenage daughters’ rooms and put them out to the curb.

One morning, I turned onto our street and saw that the recycling truck had come early. I was surprised but didn’t think too much more of it. An hour or two later, however, I was on the phone with a client and I looked out the window in time to see the recycling truck pulling up to the house. I hung up quickly and ran out to meet him.

I said, “You didn’t make a special trip back, did you?” The driver replied, “I was running early this morning and, when I didn’t see your bins out, I knew I had crossed you up, so I came back.”

When I told Fred the story at lunch a few hours later, he thought for a moment and said, “You must have shared a good laugh together recently.” As it turns out, the recycling guy and I had indeed shared a good laugh. A roaring good laugh at the foot of our driveway, just a few weeks before.

I think sometimes about the lifetime’s worth of wisdom that allowed Fred to make that observation, as well as his masterful understanding of people. I think also about the subtle point he was trying to make about how we should all treat each other. I hope someday I’ll know half of what he seemed to come by so easily.

Rest in peace, my good friend. You will be missed.

Steven J. Serenska

18 High St.

Bristol

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