No. 83

Chas. in 1886 in Fall

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

January 13, 1938

Dear Stewart,

The reading of letters from your uncle Charles stops short. A telegram. Esther dead. Buried on the grounds of the insane home in Independence.

With this ending your mother thought I would stop asking questions about your uncle's life before I met him, and his suffering with Esther.

 As your mother and I got more busy with the management of the mansion and her rise in social circles, I moved more forcefully, more systematically into the entryways, hallways, pantries, closets, and kitchen, improving in the arenas of temperature moderation, generally, and keeping the household fresh, airing out the rooms as much as I could, dusting when your family was out of the house, waiting for your coordinated exit so that I could run with Parloa style, with speed and routine. How I got a thrill throwing open the windows as soon as it was the right time.

First, however, I was learning to rise before the others, learning at what time I might take a full glass of water at what time before bed in order to wake me up at the right time well before others. If it wasn't terribly cold, I went to the porch and felt the wind so to harness it, as if instruction from the Holy Spirit. And I'd start with that side of the house, I mean, opening the windows there.

One day I was refreshing the house while you were all gone for some concert or game. This day I was surprised to see both you and your father come home early. You both complained of a headache and waddled almost sideways. But so many windows were open! You went straight to bed, and I rushed to close your windows, pulling the drapes, and providing a woman's touch. You hit the bed, and I covered you with an extra blanket.

I went to find your father, who was in the library on the sofa, reading a newspaper. His shoes were off. His big toe, which flared up in the most inconvenient times, was very swollen.

I swapped out the nice-looking shoes by his side for his favorite, loose-fitting ones, the one with a hole cut out on the side for that old war-wounded toe to rise as high as it wanted to and breathe.

Pushing in chairs, I quietly picked things up, closing more windows, trying to make things nice. He thanked me.

I whispered, "Sir, can I get you anything?" 

He shocked me and asked if I needed anything! I thought it was his kind way of saying "enough," and of course I said, "No, Sir," and left.

As I was sweeping in the kitchen, however, it pressed upon me: I did want something from your father.

Why did your parents not take in the children of your uncle Charles? I could only guess that Charles was not in favor of it, for your parents I'm certain did offer this, because they were so generous. Look how they took me in?

More so, I wanted to know if the letters from your uncle Charles stopped at this time because of Esther's death or if, perhaps, the next chapter was lost in another hat box or drawer. How I dreaded asking your mother Was there more? And even more so I was afraid to ask your father, for how would he know where your mother kept these sentimental things.

I returned to him with an intent on visiting, but only if his eyes would let me know if it was alright. To increase my confidence, I brought in some chicken broth, bread, and brandy.

There we sat by the fire.

"About Charles, Sir, well, I don't know how to ask.... You know we've been reading his old letters, from the '80s. I'm puzzled by the order of....I have lost track of…."

"Why not ask him?" your father asked.

I did not have an answer. I could never! But with this I froze, ashamed that I was interrupting him at a time when he was suffering, just for my indulgence to know, precisely, how Charles had suffered and how I might use it.

Your father asked for another blanket, and I found one straight away. I made the room as dark as I could and headed out on my tip toes.

He asked, "Where did he leave off?"

In no time I was on the floor next to your father. Told him that the last telegram, in the hat box, the last bit was that Esther was to be buried.

And your father was a true friend, telling me next that a few weeks before Esther died, Boy Henry sent by way of a neighbor a telegram to your parents: Charles was seriously ill. Neighbor thought it was typhoid fever.  Close to death. Your parents went to see Charles straight away. Found the home in a state of neglect.

It was during that brief stay when your father intercepted a telegram to Charles from Independence that Esther was dead. She died of Bright's disease and pneumonia. Arrangements would have to be made to split up the family so that he could keep his job. Things fell out of order: these details and arrangements, how information was composed, laid down, and painted. Well, it was sucked up into the air and out of my head, for I had a vision at this moment of Jesus telling me, “It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority."

Your father and I nodded in somber acknowledgement that these low events for Charles, with the loss of Esther, and his illness and what to do with the children, these minor keys all took place in November 1886. Winter was blowing in.  

Later I was told, by your mother, that Boy Henry was sent to live with Ether's family as they knew horse breeding, the livestock trades, and so could teach the boy, if he would be able to withstand the personalities of the teachers. A place for the girls had to be secured in one home, not a house but a home....

With the temperature in the house returning to normal, and the sick ones asleep, I slipped out to Sacred Heart, which was, at that time, only a mission church, but set up for a few of us in the neighborhood. The place was empty, except not empty, for our Lord was there. Kissed His body. Lit a candle. Knelt below Him. Prayed for Esther. Asked for forgiveness. Begged for a correction: make me no longer want to see Charles this way, my way, or that way, whatever according to my need for comfort, according to my need for a person, a home, a breath of fresh air, or a happy tune, something to fill a lack of supply or worse, to use him, sustain him up there, as one might maintain a hole in one’s life or fixate on a body, as if it was only a body.

I did not realize it was getting dark outside as I sat there by the light. I lost track of time.

—Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel