No. 28

The Elders in 1815 with DeZeng

Dear Stewart,

Major Frederick A. De Zeng ordered the surveying for Waterloo, Geneva, and Water Streets, and it was your ancestor who got the job. Knowing this now, Stewart, as you finish your boarding school exams, may inspire you, son. Your father especially liked this information and I’m sure he will write to you when he can, dear.

Henry Brother, the father of Civil War Marine Charles Brother, was so excited that he could not sleep. The next day the fifteen-year-old would go with his father up the creeks and rivers to haul their equipment for his first survey, hoping they could just keep going north to the big, great lake, which he had dreamed about ever since he saw his first map. Coloring the lake blue must have been the final stroke of the artists brush, he thought, as he fell asleep, in a wash of paint sinking in.

Loading up the gear before sunrise, Henry noticed that his father Valentine seemed more quiet than usual, but they left according to their schedule.

Finally, Valentine spoke up, “Son, do not embarrass me in front of Major De Zeng’s men. They curse, but you are not to slip into filth, drinking and spitting. Stay of the highest quality. Clean the measures and chains promptly, drying them thoroughly. If there is down time, then clean them again, improving your speed. Make sure the men see you working, inventorying, checking the math and calculating.” At the last part he poked his son’s forehead. He added, “This means being the first one up.”

When they set up camp, Henry used the trunk lid to lay out his equipment on top of the blue linen his mother had given him that morning, along with some unnecessary tears. The remnant matched her best coat collar and he thought it was odd that she would take such a fine sample to hold tools, which would need oil applied, no doubt spilling and staining it permanently. But as he set the chains down, he reasoned that the blue cloth would set his tool pouch apart from the others. When he cleaned his tools, he washed the fabric, too, its pockets and string fasteners, appropriately spaced, as if an artist had devised some remedy, lock, or switch, but still allowing the blue dye, somehow, to extend beyond its stitching, so that he didn’t mind touching when it was time to unwrap or air out the day’s labor.

—Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel