No. 84

Minnie All Knowing

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

January 14, 1938

Dear Stewart,

From time to time your mother filled me in about what happened to your uncle Charles after his wife died. A month or two later, in January 1887, she said he was bumped from his location and moved to Dubuque to learn a new railway postal route. He worked with your mother's influence and the many friends in Bath, New York, to accept his three daughters for placement in the orphanage there. It did take some time, and the youngest girl had to live with the aunts in Bath until she was potty trained and followed rules and proved her bright mind, but all of his children were very bright. His oldest daughter was very quick and could memorize just like Charles. She was the one who became a teacher.

Back at the mansion I was trying to forget my attachment to this private matter that I was aware of now, as things with your uncle and I would become more free, in conversation and with humor or dance, etc. But I was living in compartments, aware that he never mentioned to me his life before he met me, before he rescued me, in 1895, and I knew I would have to tell him, one day, if we advanced, that I knew more than what he wanted to share, at the time.

This advantage, this knowing, started to feel like a deprivation, as I am sure you can understand in your mining ventures, almost as a cavity. When I shared moments with Charles, I was now above him, or acted like it, when in truth, I was short-sighted, narrow-visioned, and lowering myself to hang out with a snake, going in the back door, acting like no one could hear me say it plainly what I felt needed to be out in the open, for his freedom.

My last letter to you brought back a memory: your father's need for special treatment of his shoes, to cut out a hole for his enraged big toe. We made special socks for him and kept stockings in many colors for fun and practicality.

Do you remember, Stewart, that situation with your mother, when I was in the back of the house with my tools, carving out a hole for your father in a new pair of boots. And you came by with an apple, chewing in your gulp way, annoying me with your plan to ingest even the seeds, core and stem, saying you were going to plant a new garden in your budding manliness for Eve, when you find her.

“If you find her,” I teased.

I looked up at you, for you were getting so tall, and my hair fell over my eyes and I realized that I could not see well, for my bangs and the light, which you were now blocking. You told me I was doing it wrong. You took over.

As we were watching how you were going about the slicing of the leather, we overheard your parents talking about your academic situation. Your special situation with the papers that were left unwritten, but the football practices were never missed. Your father, soft-spoken, was hard to pick up, you know, what he was saying, if he was defending you and agreeing to try a new school. Your mother, taking the other side, was fierce and probably right, considering your wealth and standing now.

Your father had just returned from a long trip with new shoes, several pairs in fact, from Mexico or where the mines were. He was very tired, but we all saw how excited he was to have new shoes. Your mother was even more tired, though, tired of his being gone, and letting out the gas she had saved for his return.

I was with you, standing there next to you, listening to your parents talk about their problem child.

You had heard this before, and sometimes, Stewart, you needed to hear it! But this time, you held the knife and file, you cut the opening, struggling with thick leather, for this flare up to get out.

Then you threw down the tools, cut off my pending embrace, and walked out, but silently, making sure they would not hear the screen door slam.

Your parents wished you to mature. And with that episode, you did. It wasn’t long after that moment that your father died, and you were more than happy to go to boarding school. This is how I saw it, but now, remembering how I fitted Charles into his category, or rather, mine, I must write to you about my awareness that I got it wrong.

That day near the back porch, as I was still watching you walk out of the back yard, your father came by just then and inspected the shoes, telling me I was doing it wrong. He picked up the file and started to nag on it, scraping away the fibers to widen the hole.

To keep myself from crying, I cut off my shaking chin by gnawing on the remnant of your apple. I looked out the window, hoping to find you, but satisfied to see anything up and out as far I could, to the steeples, to the cross, to your new heights, to the clouds, praying!! God!! —Op’n wide the gates below—and determining you to get out, if not my knowing, then by my praying.

— Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel