No. 53

The Elders in 1856 & The Fair

Dear Stewart,

One of the last stories your uncle Charles shared with me and your mother, when she was healthy, was about the county fair.

In 1856 he was 12 years old. This is the age when the world turns up the heat and swirls and sweeps souls away, either by natural or familial disasters, deaths, or breaks, or simply by bad economic ventures, or moving away to a new town or an attachment to a new invention, together with hope and speed to leave one's parents... As Charles counted now that his brother Hank, who left against his parents’ wishes to go chase gold in Australia, was by 1856 gone now four years. And the assignments given to Charles would have probably been instead given to Hank, but so it was that Charles had to grow up more quickly now. He could sense it.

And as we sat there by the fire, hearing this telling, a chill ran through me, too.

The fire was not working, and I kept poking at it. For some reason your mother was telling me I didn't know what I was doing with it, the dampness in the bedding, but she was nearly lying down with her feet up on the ottoman and could not even see me. Anyway, I could tell by his words, how Charles wasn't looking at me earlier, how he didn't even greet me, come to think of it, and how he kept talking about shiny things, progressive things, a win, and some prize and, a ring. A month later, I looked back on this night, when we learned of his engagement to Mrs. Garlock.

But in 1856 the county fair was again a major highlight for Charles. Every year it was as it was for the rest of The Brother Family because their father was in charge of the Agricultural Society. But this year, Charles remembered well. This year Charles was asked to be on the lookout for Vroman Becker. Called away to deal with the horse races, his father told Charles to block Mr. Becker from going into the equipment arena until he accepted terms in a note from him. Charles believed that this note specified conditions, or they would suffer a fracture, but he knew that it was not his place to read the letter.

While Charles waited for Becker, he studied the fair-going men at this section, sweaty and strong. The men were fluid-like, and serious, oblivious to the running kids or oil spills on their clothes. Charles, like your father and you boys, went to every exhibition he could to discover the latest inventions and gadgetry.

When Becker drove into the field with his carriage, Charles flagged him down and gave him the note, prompting Becker to exit the buggy in a huff.

As he exited the carriage, Becker handed Charles the reins with an expectation to park the packet with wife and kids in the shade. Still in the buggy was Mary, a girl who sat with J.P.’s sister at school and who was crazy about her ribbons and charms. Charles thought Mary Becker was pretty but probably retarded.

When he got out of the buggy and started to tuck in his shirt, Mary reached for his hand as if Charles cared. He helped her down anyway. Just then J. P. ran onto the scene, knocking her and some of her play jewelry or trinkets down into the grass. Then, J. B. grabbed the purse and, holding it in the air, leapt about like a jester with hot socks and belled toes, only it was the sound of coins and jewelry bouncing in the purse that got his attention.

Charles didn’t care the stupid glittery stuff but took offense over lost money. So, the chase was on. When Charles reached for the purse, J. P. hurled it near the edge of the pond and took off. Charles was going to get wet for this girl. He collected what he could and paused when, as the sun hit the play glass and water, the boogers sparkled, with one of them giving out a sort of rainbow with its cut.

As Charles turned to the retarded girl, who was not idiotic one bit and was now, like some waif, already finding smaller ones Charles had missed. She was reaching between his legs such that, should he move, he might harm her or crush a charm. Mary Becker was now underneath him. Her bonnet had slipped off. Her golden hair had fallen out of her ribbons and, when she grabbed his thigh and hand to steady the opening of the bag, Charles could not stop myself from having to rightly correct the pacing of his breathing, feeling now her own panting close to her cheek, waiting to match the same pace and instruction, without words, the same calling.

Charles told us that he just sort of caved, as if his higher faculties separated, as a chip of wood falls off a log, as if placed in her bag and told to wait for Mary Becker to make her move.

With this telling, my back remained mostly to Charles. It was because I wanted to remain mostly poking the fire and begging for comfort.

Well, he took a couple of puffs on his cigar and concluded, "You know, it was the strangest feeling, for all at once, there with Miss Becker, I was both serious and sick."

Your mother said, "You always got sick when you had too many of her cookies."

I wanted to turn around and proclaim to my friend, "This exact feeling!! The crucible!! I know the same!! I am the same!!"

But remember, Dear Stewart, my boy! I started out as frozen and sick that night and I was still frozen, sick, but not serious. All I could do was poke at the fire for more heat, but would it come! Until finally your mother insisted I stop with my cake-making-out-of-ashes and go get more wood. But did she cared about me? Or was annoying now her, as I would later and forever more annoy her, and of course this moment I knew my fate. And it was in the woodshed where I realized that Charles did not care for me. Nothing was real but the sound of your mother's voice. And, in truth, I was and could never be, hereafter, the same.

—Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel