At Christmas time, poinsettias for everyone who mattered

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Fred Bruce, who will be 88 on Jan. 2, doesn’t remember when he started the tradition of bringing poinsettias to the graves of all the people who have meant something to him in his life. Not just family and close friends, but long-ago friends, school friends, work friends, men and women who shared, maybe, for just a short while, some part of his life. “I’ve been doing this since,” he pauses and shakes his head. “God, I can’t remember.” And yet, he remembers names, dates, chronologies, and family histories of people he hasn’t seen in half a century. “Eleanor was the best waitress. We worked together at Howard Johnson’s when I was 21. Her only son, Carl, was murdered in 1969. I watched him grow up. He was a fine, young man. He had small children. He was driving a cab for extra money.”

Every year, he puts poinsettias on the murdered man’s grave. “Shirley was a Gold Star mother,” he says about a woman he met when he lived in senior housing in Cohasset.” “On Sundays, when I was doing my laundry she’d come down to sit and talk.” She helped him fold his clothes. Now he stands at her grave and talks to her. “He was a judge in Malden.”

“He was a World War II vet and has no living relatives.”

“He liked to hunt.”

The names and the stories go on and on. “It just seems like people forget,” Fred says. “I made up my mind that as long as I live, I won’t forget.” Which is why every November, sometimes before, he drives to New Hampshire (“No taxes. I’m Scottish, you know”) to the Dollar Tree where he buys 100 poinsettias (“120 this year” ) for one dollar each. “See? They have five flowers on each stem.” Then he adds a bow (“I make them myself. I had my own florist business, Carousel Flowers in Chelsea. I did it out of my house with just three regular refrigerators.”) And then he drives to the 20 cemeteries where his relatives and friends are buried. He parks his car, grabs his cane, walks to the headstone he wants, places his poinsettias on the grave, then stands for a moment, remembering.

He travels as far north as Wells, Maine, (“That’s where the owners of the Valerie’s Restaurant in Ogunquit are buried. They used to make Caesar salad right at the table.”); and as far south as the Massachusetts National Cemetery in Bourne where Dennis LeFort, one of his best friends, is buried (“He was a Frenchman”). It takes him a week to make the flower arrangements, (“I make each bow myself”) and a week to deliver them. He says he doesn’t mind. “It’s nice to remember all the good people I’ve known.”

The day we drive to Everett, his poinsettias are already on all of the graves. He finished early this year, Dec. 1. “Which cemetery do you want to go to so I can see your work?” I ask him, thinking he’ll choose someplace close to where he lives in Quincy. But he chooses Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett because that’s where most of his family is buried and where he will be buried. His stone is already engraved, he tells me.

Fred was diagnosed with cancer this year. But he insists he’s in great shape for the shape he’s in. The cancer is gone (“That’s what they say”), and after some hard months, he has his strength back. Most of it, at least. This day he says, with a shrug and a smile, “If this is my last Christmas, I’m gonna enjoy it.” Then he eases himself into my car, propping his cane between his knees.

He tells me stories as I drive. At the cemetery, he tells me more stories. He points to his brothers’ graves. One is a World War II veteran. The other a veteran of Korea. “There were six of us,” he says. “Boy, girl, boy, girl. Boy, girl. I’m the only one left.” There’s snow on the ground and the snow has buried his poinsettias. He walks slowly with his cane and points to where the flowers should be. I dig and find five red flowers in one spot, and five more in another.

Next we head to his parents’ grave. “My dad was 56 when he died. My mom died 29 years ago on Sept. 8. I come here every Saturday morning after I go to the Market Basket. I cruise by and say hello to my brothers and sister. I say, “I’m here, Bob! I’m here Mel and Ruth and John!” That’s what he does at Christmas. He stops and says, “I’m here!” He stands at the graves of all the people who were important in his life and says, “Merry Christmas. I’ll never forget you.” And, with a tip of his hat, “I’ll see you one of these days.”