No. 23

The Elders: 1795

Dear Sewart,

Valentine Brother, grandfather of Civil War Marine Charles Brother, offered his tavern to house and feed officers and men. They needed places to store their weapons and equipment, causing much commotion, complications, harm to their woodwork, and excitement. Any sudden burst of energy or appetites from the rough men, animated after refreshments or liberty, was hard on the women, half awake, bearing children, burying children, or bent over the stove in such an angle that they could only focus on their backs and not on the revolution, for what they were giving up—the risks they were taking.

            Valentine said yes to these opportunities in his committee meetings, steady in his heart of the outcome, but not so much with how to tell his pretty lady. How to share with her another idea? How to introduce his new friend?

After he found her throwing pots and pans in silence treatment. He told her of the deal or promise he made the night before, kissing the back of her damp neck. She reminded him of his ignorance of the human body.  So ambitious he was to elevate his children in even more dramatic degrees than his father had, to improve his lot—going from debt slave to tavern and postmaster—that now might Valentine forget about God’s will. God’s limits to one’s skeleton, muscles, and wits?

“Take, for example,” she said, “my being of child”.

He swung her around, overjoyed for a new topic. But in a few months, his intestinal system beat to quarters in his gut, confining him as a ball with gastrointestinal revolt and leaving her to open the tavern to the men who needed their hotel in the dead of the night, her saying, “Never you mind his agony.”

The day arrived when husband and wife were wailing in unison but in separate rooms. Valentine was passing a stone and his wife was giving birth. Mother-in-law was passing hysterics: Soldiers arriving. Rain flooding. God willing.

What this “wet goods” establishment needed was a woman’s touch. With that Captain Baer called “attention”. The men stood straight, chairs flying to the wall. A toast for baby Cornelia, now in the arms of her grandmother, weaving through the tables, rifles, and unlaced boots, scattered about the tavern. The men took turns kissing her forehead and all—each and everyone—drifted off on the floor into a recovery of body, soul, and wits.

— Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel