Roses For The Dead

This Saturday, our 10 year reunion takes place. The Class of 98 will get together and reminise about the old times, we'll have a few laughs, share some stories and get people we haven't seen for a while up to speed on our exploits since we said goodbye to our secondary schooling lives. Of course, everyone attending is anticipating a good night. There will be something missing however, something that will be in the back of our minds as we kick back and enjoy ourselves, something that will make the whole event seem incomplete.


Alfie wont be there.


Alfred Charles Frichot was one of a kind. He was the strange kid from the bush who, rumor has it, came out of the womb sporting a goatee. Alfred may have had his eccentricities, but beneath it all was a huge heart that was solid gold. If something was wrong, Alfie would make sure you were ok. If you were down, he'd make you smile. If you needed something, Alfie would try his best to see you got it. When he got his license, he'd only be too happy to give his mates a lift in his wagon, of which he was so proud. The thing about Alfie was, he was everybodys mate. It was rare you'd find someone who didn't have kind word about Alf, he was the sort of guy who could just get along with anyone. He was friendly (almost to a fault), outgoing, fun loving and full of a genuine love of life.
I first met Alfie in 1992, as most of us attending the event this Saturday did. We were all wide eyed, somewhat scared grade 6 students attending orientation day at ACC. We huddled together in our school groups when we arrived on that first morning, except for this strange, olive skinned kid with the 5 o'clock shadow. We were split into what would be our classes for year 7 and sure enough, there he was. First session of the morning was English. We were asked to tell everyone our name and give some of our interests. After the first dozen or so people had given their stock standard responses (football, basketball, music, computers etc.) the olive skinned boy was asked what his name was, and what were his interests. He replied with a confidence the other 20 or so other people together couldn't muster "My name is Alfed Frichot and I like reptiles." Perhaps it seems like an unremarkable thing to say, however the way Alfie moved when he said it, lithly wiggling his shoulders up and down in the same pattern as you would expect a snake that was being stalked through the grass to make, made this person seem genuine. Anyone could have said they went out and caught snakes and lizards and been lieing. Not Alfred, he was who he was, take it or leave it. He wasn't about to be judged by a bunch of town kids, if they didn't like who he was, bad luck for them.
Over the years Alfie would amuse us, shock us and most of all, touch our lives in ways that we never thought imaginable at the time. Whether it was shaving half his hair off, leaving one side bald whilst sporting a mighty 90's undercut on the other, or presenting the girl he was smitten with with a bunch of flowers in the hallway, or performing one of his acoustic guitar sets at lunchtime in the library, or taking a group of people to McDonalds at lunchtime or after school after he got his car. That was Alfred, he was always himself, and we wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
As you can see, my blogspace is called Shot Down Before My Prime. Blogs are a self absorbed thing really. Those of us who have blogs think that our opinions matter so much that we have to share them with the world. Alfred wouldn't have had a blog, or facebook or myspace or perhaps even a computer. He was a simple guy, who had simple pleasures. And he truly was shot down before his prime. Alfred had the world at his feet when he was tragically killed in the farm accident in 2004. He was working on a dairy farm, being the country boy he always was. He was engaged to be married. He had something most of us would kill for, the life he actually wanted to lead. And foe him to be struck down in such a freak accident at such a young age shook everyone who knew him to the core. We always just thought Alfie would be there. That we could ring him up and have a chat and of course a few laughs. He should be there with us on Saturday night, having a few beverages and swapping stories. And he will be, not in person of course, but in our hearts and minds, and in spirit. It will be bittersweet in a way, but Alfie will be watching from heaven, a halo over the tattered old black hat that had the beer bottles around the brim, angel wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades of his flannel shirt, running amok as only Alfred could.

We'll miss you this Saturday night Alfred.