I like this guy. And I think I understand
what happened to him; an idea got hold of Freddy
and wouldn’t let him go.

Freddy lives in Fairfield, Iowa, population 9,509.
His idea: locate all the poets in town and
publish a book of their poetry.

What makes Freddy special is that he rose up and
did the thing. The book exists. In all its homemade glory, it exists.

When Kristin laid Freddy’s book on my desk, I smiled.
This Enduring Gift: A Flowering of Fairfield Poetry – 76 Poets Who
Found Common Ground In One Small, Prairie Town is a necklace
made from macaroni spray-painted gold, that most cherished of all
jewelry on earth. Just ask any mother of a 5 year-old.

Believe it or not, the poetry is mostly good.

Sappho was a Greek poetess who died 570 years before
the magi followed their star to Bethlehem. A photo of her face
carved in marble looks out from the shadows of the book’s cover
as her most famous quote whispers,
“Someone, I tell you, will remember us.”

By all that is holy and good, the book exists – 76 poets – 796 pages.
Freddy is my favorite brand of crazy. 

Did you listen to Homesick,
the Kings of Convenience song
three pages back? 
Methinks Freddy will never have
the sad experience of
that second stanza: