No. 57

Chas. In 1895 (Out of Hair)

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

December 4, 1939

Dear Stewart,

When your mother set eyes on me for the first time, wow, the way I looked to her. She made it known, always, the way I looked. This time not only was I dressed in pants but was damp. Under that railroad postal cap was a wad of matted hair.

Your mother said, “Oh, where did he find you?”

She turned to me, “Watch him now, he always has these schemes. He takes chances! He wins prizes! Now, let’s have a look at today’s catch of his. Can’t have this glob. We must bob your hair.”

Moving men were coming and going in and out of the mansion. As soon as your mother started talking to them, Charles somehow knew how to pivot and find a cigar, walking straight through what was starting to become the library and found a box of them on a billiard table. Your father must have been running the store or away on business.

Charles told me on the ride over that your father was a near best friend and he, more that your mother, would not reject me because of my neediness.

For once in a very long time, Charles said, today, with me, well, he was going his old shipmate a favor and that your father would maybe even owe Charles.

Charles, puffing on his cigar, interrupted your mother as she listed her demands, standards, and style for service, and insisted that I be hired.

Did I mention that I was still dressed as a railway postal clerk? Your mother circled around me one last time, landing again on my hair. She heard his appeal. They were both locked in a performance. I smiled wide. My adoration for her, for the two of them, began.

As I tried to fall asleep under such strange and beautiful high ceilings, I begged Jesus to show me, just how might I even have another out of here this very night, but how? It cannot work out, my being here.

How—sinking yet again into my old refrain—have I landed in this very same spot of having someone carry me, deciding on my place, parting my hair? And what is to become of me when they know I am Catholic?

— Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel