Eric Franz Credit: Courtesy Son. Brother. Stepson. Uncle. Friend. Neighbor. And so much more. Eric Philip Franz — EPF — was a riddle, a little charm, and a mixture of spice and nice. He was funny. Sarcastic. Kind. Practical. Generous. Sometimes exasperating. Always quick to make you laugh . And deeply, deeply caring. Eric was a giver. He had a remarkable instinct for knowing what someone needed and figuring out how to make it happen. Maybe it was bringing a portable A/C when someone was too hot, an extra pair of socks when someone was cold, taking someone to the airport, finding a hotel when a flight was canceled, making food, sharing a song, sending a ridiculous YouTube video, or simply showing up. If he couldn’t reach someone by phone, he might get in the car and go find them. He took care of people — and he did it without making a big production of it. It was simply what you did when someone you loved needed you. He especially treasured caring for his mom. Giving her love, time and care meant everything to him. Eric was also a curious mind. He loved learning and wasn’t content to just know that something was true — he wanted to understand why. His education began in Vermont and took him to the University of Vermont, where he earned a bachelor’s degree with a double major in French and political science. He went on to earn a master of arts in Teaching English as a Second Language/Teaching English as a Foreign Language from Saint Michael’s College and continued graduate-level study at Temple University’s Tokyo campus in second-language acquisition, research and statistics. Languages became one of the threads running through his life. Eric was fluent in French and took on Japanese as well. His curiosity about language eventually led him to Japan, where he spent years living and working in Tokyo, teaching English and French at Showa Women’s University. He didn’t just teach — he helped develop courses, served on the university’s entrance examination committee, and helped design, write, administer and analyze its English examinations. He later worked as an English-language test developer, writing and editing questions for a nationwide standardized English test. And he became an author and editor, too — coauthoring educational textbooks and contributing to a 12-month NHK radio English-language program. He was, in his own quiet way, a teacher. A writer. A researcher. A problem solver. His curiosity eventually carried him into the emerging world of the internet, where he worked in web content, marketing research, analytics, website usability and business intelligence. He seemed to have an unusual ability to keep absorbing new things, changing direction and figuring them out. There was always another subject to explore, another skill to pick up, another rabbit hole to disappear down. And then there was Eric the kid — the mischievous one. The one who helped create the stories that families tell over and over because they’re too good ever to let go. There was Rick’s Candy — his infamous briefcase enterprise at school. Playing trucks in the middle of the night when we couldn’t sleep, with a “pickup” meeting spot in the upstairs bathroom. Waving stuffed animals at people passing by on long road trips. Pretending to be a PBS radio show host, using the button that turned the car seats down in the Rambler as a mic. Playing cops on our bikes with cap guns. Badminton until way past dark and then catching fireflies. Being “cute” so we wouldn’t get spanked. Being pulled and tossed over on a sled behind his snowmobile. Building ski jumps in the front and back fields and pretending to be downhill racers on cross-country skis. Building forts out of snow mounds. Eating all the cereal when Mom occasionally bought the sweet kind. Singing Beatles songs and recording them for Christmas presents. Riding our bikes all the way from Westford to the Essex Center pool. Swimming in the pond on the Milton-Westford Road and discovering the drop-off that made holding onto Eric seem like an excellent survival strategy. There were so many. And there will be more. Because Eric’s life was not one story — it was thousands of little stories, moments that seemed ordinary at the time but became the things we would remember forever. That is how people stay with us. Eric is inside all of us now. He will remain around us— in our stories, our habits, our music, our food, our laughter, our memories, and in the unexpected moments when something happens and we know exactly what he would have said. We can see him daily and as often as we wish. Many of us will understand how to do this. And when we wonder what Eric would do or say right now, there is one thing we can be sure of: He would make sure we were okay. Then, in classic Eric fashion, he would probably tell us to buck it up. “Don’t fret.” He would want us to keep going — listen to music, make good food, connect with people, look at the world — and even our own backyard — a little differently. He would want us to take care of one another. Because that is what he did. And Eric loved golf. He loved the game, the challenge, the quiet stretches of a course, and — of course — the opportunity to spend time with people. Whether he was playing a great round or simply enjoying the day, golf was one of those things that made Eric happy. Since Eric left us, stories have been coming from everywhere. Old friends. New friends. Neighbors. Family. People who knew him for decades and people whose lives he touched in quieter ways. The stories have something in common. They all come back to the same things: Eric showed up. Eric cared. Eric made people laugh. Eric helped. Eric loved. And the people who loved him would have done anything for him, just as he would have done for them. There is heartbreak in losing someone who mattered this much. But there are also silver linings everywhere — in the people who come together, in the memories that suddenly surface, in the stories that make us laugh through the tears, and in the realization of just how many lives Eric touched. We will carry him forward — with dignity, with love, with kindness, with practicality, and, of course, with sarcasm and humor sprinkled in. A recipe Eric and Mom would probably give five stars. And then there are the conversations. The long ones. The ridiculous ones. The important ones. The ones that somehow lasted hours and still ended with Eric saying: “Great to catch up.” And the answer: “I am a great listener.” And always: “I LOVE YOU.” “Love you too.” With a little sarcasm. Mushy. Not exactly Eric’s wheelhouse. But he said it. And he meant it. So do we. We love you, Eric. Don’t fret. We’ve got it from here. The post Obituary: Eric Philip Franz, 1968-2026 appeared first on Seven Days. ...read more read less