No. 70

Chas. in 1884 & The Morgans

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

December 19, 1939

Dear Stewart,

“Again, with the horses,” Mary said. Your mother said that his interest in animals of pure breed came from Hank, who had Morgans in Kanona.

She said, “Next year with Charles it will be this or that. He could not be good at anything, always leaving the project half-hearted. That was his problem—no heart." She said her husband was a good provider, for I could educate my sons, adding, "That’s the purest form of heritage.”

Did I mention before, Stewart, that your uncle Hank was the middle child? He removed himself from Bath at age 18 for Australia for gold. This was against his parents’ wishes as their father had just bought a new mill for Hank to run. After he came home from Australia, during the Civil War here, he was very sick, the story was that he was almost thrown overboard to save others from getting his sickness.

April 30, 1884

Dear M--, I hear Hank no longer a bachelor. Carrie can change her name and go “anew." It may suit them both to get out of Kanona and head west. Could use help. Want to get those Morgans. Val writes the saloon has expired license. Esther going out onto the porch now. Fine weather. We are in a good position just in time now Jared's wife with child coming, but I need him in field, so Esther must rise. —Yours, Chas.

When his family picked Hank up at the station, he had to be carried off the train. When his hat blew off, they saw that his hair had turned white. So, others in town knew and the word spread as fast as that hat was lost to the trees that he was near death.

Hank spoke little of his ups and downs in the grocery business in a gold-mining town, which would have been of keen interest to your father, as a merchant, so he asked questions, and they spoke in a different room from the ladies. This bothered your mother, who really did want to know all of it.

Here is what more I could make out from your mother's telling: Hank could not rescue the Bath mills for the 1873 panic, and he and his brother Val declared bankruptcy.

Hank took what equipment was left and restarted in Kanona, a place, he said, that would follow his quality and control, his rules for cleanliness with his cider, and moved into the saloon where Carrie Dawson was working. Carrie's brother-in-law, Orlando Martin, ran the place and Carrie was now trapped, like Hank, according to your mother, adding that it was good Hank waiting one full year of mourning after their mother’s death to take on Carrie.

Your mother said, “Well, he got one thing right.”

Then, after a pause, your mother sighed, “To think that Hank thought Kanona was ever a place where regulations, literacy, or any standards were the norm.

He actually believed that is where the best men got quality livestock and horses were bred well. But how would anyone make any money from it if you had to ship the horses in Kanona to Iowa, as Charles wanted to do, traumatizing the poor things.”

Strangely, and I don't know why, Stewart, but I began to like this change in the story of your elders. I was even more fascinated by the story of Carrie finding love with Hank. And the developing pitch to spread the Morgan breed, re-introducing it to Iowa and having an exciting time of it with Charles. Mary said that Charles could only place bets on it, the business not the horses, (Morgans were not racehorses, just plenty spirited) and here I was starting to see hope in a place like Kanona, too, and wanting the town--and Hank and Carrie--get a little glory.

I imagined it to be possible, a place where there were fewer visitors, no mounds of laundry, no yelling through the hallways, lists of chores, and distractions, and where there could be open fields, slow conversations, and an occasional lazy swing to pass time on, to talk to Charles on, however he liked, and even to confess there, back and forth, back and forth, with some rhythm.

Why, though, did Charles not mention this to me? Not even later, after we tried to get closer. I imagined, as I reread the letter, hunched over my small nightstand, that Charles was also probably too busy chopping wood, feeding his own animals, trying to get Esther to perk up, trying to encourage his wife to think of the children, and I imagined all these whisperings he said in the most patient, caring manner.

How he asked for his wife to be a mother. How he tried to give her a push. How he wanted her to just take on that assignment of doing her part to swing into action from his prompting.

About this time a problem started to develop between me and your mother, who wanted to know, “Why are you so intent on knowing more about Charles?”

Later, doing my chores, I could not stop thinking of Charles and his mission to help his wife. I tried to block out all the questions your mother asked me during that morning, but she had terrible restlessness in her lay-up, and her own mind scattered in restlessness, of course, wanting to see the newspapers, the mails, and take more pills, and how she suffered!

I loved your mother then and begged God for patience or relief but even more so for a better story than mine to tell her! Not the story I was living that day, with my chores, not the story of my childhood, not my early womanhood, and not her pushing to know more of my elders.

When the weather was bad, she began to pump life into * my * background, with details and peppering, would only get worse because she would not have visitors.

Your father was never around except to sleep or change clothes.

How wonderful it was, the simple lift when a man comes home! But mostly he was happy to just give me a list for the errands. And I would give him the list of items from his store to bring home. It was a good partnership with your father.

Your mother grew tedious easily and slept often, but when she wasn't sleeping, she was on edge.

One day I was so tired of her complaining that I left in the pouring rain to get her supplies for her needlework, which she tossed aside for they were damp when I handed them to her.

She was keen on asking me more questions about me, which I didn’t like, but I knew that she was the supplier of all things in my world and this included clues about Charles, I guess, which would allow me some uptick, and so, as if these appeared like occasional fruit flies, I batted away these peppering questions with a quick answer, eventually, unable to be dishonest, I would tell her, but it increased my discomfort, telling the truth to her.

She was beginning to enjoy this awkwardness. I remember how your mother used to interrupt you, Stewart, while you were practicing the piano.

I was giving her, I thought, all the normal signs that I wanted her to swing back around to Charles, that I was getting motion sickness on her style of back and forth.

I wanted to talk about the Horses in Kanona. But your mother clearly wanted to not go there, but to another space, and I worked for her, so I needed to respect that.

One day, when she insisted I tell her about my mother, I shut my eyes and told her I could not, believing that she understood at last that I might know a little of that pain she felt whenever I asked her about Kanona. When I opened my eyes again, too early for her, I saw her smiling. I shall never in my life forget seeing that.

Finally, I told her what limited portion I could, about my own family, as a bargaining chip, something I learned from Charles, so that I could pray for Charles, in detail, specifically, to help him, right at the right time, as he had helped me.

From that day on it would be my mission, daily, to try to grow closer to the man who saved me and to block access to things your mother out not to know. But I would be going into dangerous territory because now your mother saw my attachment.

She asked, “How did your family came to America? Who was with you, only your mother? That can’t be right. Perhaps you were so young, you can’t remember it correctly?”

Sometimes, she asked me these questions in front of the ladies who came over to the early meetings of the Daughters of the American Revolution, just getting formed, perhaps even the first one in Clinton, Iowa. And you'd think these women would have other things on their minds than the roots of your mother's servant! But somehow, I was part of the application and your mother said to me, as I was setting out the tray of sweets, in front of them all, “Oh, poor dear, did you ever find out where your mother could have gone?”

I grew to hate the meeting days of the Daughters of the American Revolution. As soon as the ladies would leave and the dishes were done, I'd climb up to my room and learn how to ride off in my head, but it would not take long for me just to pass out.

--Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel