EDWARD DAY: Warm Humor, Frozen
Shoes
Edward
Day did not just extinguish fires. He extinguished
grouchiness.
At Engine Company 28 and Ladder 11 on the Lower East
Side, where Mr. Day, 45, was a firefighter, he kept a
sharp eye out for grumpy colleagues. They got the Day
treatment: smiley face stickers slapped on their
helmets.
Whenever he stayed at his mother's house in Newport,
R.I., he would make the bed when he was ready to leave
and then drop a dollar on it with a note, "For the maid."
His mother liked to give what she called the last
Christmas party of the year, held well into January. Mr.
Day had a ritual at the parties: he collected all the
bottle caps from exhausted beer bottles and deposited
them throughout the house in her plants.
His wife, Bridgitte, was a fervent Clint Eastwood fan,
so he would sign his cards to her, "Clint Eastwood."
"He was always ready to make you laugh," said Tim Day,
his brother, "whether he knew you for 20 years or 20
minutes."
The first time Eddy Day met Tim's wife, Essie, he
asked if she wanted a glass of wine. Sure, she said. He
brought it out and handed it to her. "Excuse me," he
said, and bent over and slipped off her shoes. As she
watched, mystified, he marched into the kitchen and put
them in the freezer.
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