No. 87

Turning Home in 1896

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

January 23, 1938

Dear Stewart,

After watching the birth of the foal in that Kanona stable, in May of 1896, your mother complained about the dampness. We were all in need of freshness.

As we departed for our hotel rooms, I was planning (in my head) to drop off your mother and turn back to the stables to see more of Carrie, but by the time your mother was situated in her room, which took some doing and then some undoing, I could only plan exhaustion to make its next move, which was lights out.

Later, I woke up with a jolt, not knowing the time or place, as it is when you fall asleep in the light and wake up in darkness. I could not find a match. I could hear your mother calling out for me. I could but barely find the door and praise the dim light above me, casting its mean shadow in the hallway of that dang hotel. Some men were talking at a door, negotiating about some advantage, which I did not want to overhear. I dare not look back at them to see if they were following me and show them my fear, thus compromising more our position: yours, mine, and your mother's, mostly, for I didn't expect Charles to be with us much longer. With that loss, we would lose that protection. He was to split off on the return trip. This was for the transportation of the horses back to Iowa. But before we were set to leave, Charles did promise me some dancing. Did I already miss the dance? What time was it?

When I arrived at your mother's room, I went to her bedside and found her trying to get up. Her migraine was much worse, she said. I asked her how many DeWitt pills she had taken. Did she mix any of it with brandy?

I could not get a straight answer, because she was suffering so very much! I found a bowl for her to vomit and she got down to it. I set up the pillows for how she wanted to sit. Then I moved them again, and again, looking down at her, which she never liked. So, I got short, and looked at her that way, which was straight and level and from that angle, what I saw there, I could not unsee.

She began with some phrase that sounded like a sentence with no object, that felt like a continuation, and since I was asleep in the other room all this time, I wondered if I was supposed to be not asleep but tracking her thoughts all this time, and I could only try to step in it, jump in with it now, the way one breaks into a line of dancers, with some adrenaline, but keen on the pacing. She said, “After all I’ve done for you, Wilhelmina, honestly, they will tell you all about the horses tomorrow. Why would you even care about such a thing? Why, you don't even ride.”

When she fell in deep slumber, I got off the filthy rug by her bed. I stood and cracked my back. I pulled the rosary up from under my collar. I paced the floor with Our Lady. And I looked out the window.

The sun was moving into the valley; I looked back at your mother with her mouth open. Next, something took hold of me, and I determined to get her up again but only so that she might relieve herself. I wanted to see the color. And I certainly had my answer for her headaches. I began forcing down on her much water, which she rightly called too thick. I made sure she got back to bed. Promised I would find better water. Then, with my pitcher, I went out to see the horses.

I found Charles, Henry, and Carrie, in the stables, whispering comfort in the sweetest phrases to the proud mamma. I, too, was sharing in this joy for this new Morgan, who would be shared with a happy customer, who would serve and please people without fatigue, who knew naturally how to pace itself for the long march. A fine horse.

I stayed myself back from the theatre, however, seeing enough from the small door frame, which actually served as a picture frame, which made me think of the manger scene, which I see now on my table here beside me as I write to you, Stewart. How what I saw there was no different, perhaps, than what the shepherds saw as they approached the baby Jesus. Not that the horses were Divine, God forbid you think that! Oh no. But the kindred awe and humility of those who participated in the birth of the baby Morgan. My vague recollection of scripture, somewhere they said, "And it was exactly as they had been told," and that was the assurance. That was our satisfaction. How Carrie must have been preparing the Boy Henry to accept this gift, which she promised.

The sun was now pouring through the cracks in the barn. Charles got up to leave. I pulled back, knowing I wasn't supposed to be there. He spotted me. Leaned over, not touching me (his hands were unsanitary) and offered a kiss. I took it. He lifted his hands as he passed by, saying that if he was not so dressed up fancy like, then he would entertain me further along that theme.

As the water was pumping, and he washed his hands, I heard Carrie call out to him a question, which he could not hear. I found him and told him that Carrie needed him. He passed me by without drying his hands or any a word to me and returned to business. I turned back to watch them.

I knew at this very turn, this very moment, and I turned back to watch them, as it could not last much longer, my watching, my addiction of observation, my interest in their work, my interest in Charles, my love for him, because that generosity and all their equipment and resources, their cleverness, their education and confidence contrasted with mine.

How right and true your mother was about Carrie! In how “well-shaped” things turned out with Miss Carrie Dawson. I was not jealous, Stewart, not at all, but was so very satisfied that we came all this way for to see the things timed out so well and they turned out so very well. The reunion, the graduation, the packing, etc. Me not losing my maps. Even your mother's dresses were not that wrinkled as they had every right to be. And I was able to witness Carrie's craft and spirit all in this dramatic time.

Next, I remembered your mother. Back to ordinary time. I picked up the water pitcher and got up to leave. I had seen enough, perhaps had taken a final kiss, and my face fell, of course it fell. Moving around would help, I thought. Getting water would help. Had to get water. I had to get the best water. I had to get near living water, and I had to live. Had to make a living.

But I could not turn. I was stuck. I remained there too long, looking into the empty vessel in my hands.

I did not mind the housework, the bending over, and the errands. It was my giving way with the scrambling of my head with her one day up and one day despair; to the left and to the right, wishing with her for an audience and holding in the secrets and discreet lip-biting on demand as we exit any stage of extroversion, party, or display. And the post-concert reviews. My clipping the newspapers for her scrapbook, for the archive. It was my following, my obedience, and my comfort, which was all I could think about. Stewart! Stewart! All I could think about was my comfort.

And somehow, I managed to cast off a prayer that by my own application and merit, if I but hold in me that memory of what cooperation looked like. It looked exactly as the Lord promised it would look like. Close to the animals. Close to the lamb. It was in that moment with Carrie and her work with the horses. The affection and respect of her from the horses. Henry's relaxation. What was naturally a loving accommodation of each one’s disposition and way of contributing and free flowing generosity, Carrie was the same charity and bliss in private as she was on the porch as she was and ever would be in her letters.

As I was thinking about returning to Clinton, having as my most loyal companion, that thorn in my flesh, I could not stop a new and improved set of tears, which I determined, if found out, would have to be branded as tears of joy for the birth, for as I grieved for my return to the old mansion, which was now only a year old but tiresome to me, I grieved for your family, because I knew I was cracking up, and I knew I would be fired, because it was going to come out, what she had over me, what I had done, and what I had failed to do.

How mortified I was when Carrie came by me right then and there, of course it was. It was time for her to wash her hands.

When she saw my expression, Stewart, well, there is no other way to say it but it was, the paradox and paradise of Jesus Christ my Lord within one Miss Carrie Dawson: humiliation and peace at the same time.

Carrie saw what I knew she had to have seen from the start, for her purity, my lack of it. Nevertheless, after her hands were clean, she returned to me and leaned against the post. She handed me a handkerchief. I blew my nose.

I said, “The birth of the babe gives us all so much hope!”

“I had nothing to do with that business.”

When I looked at her, she saw that I was perplexed. She smiled. And I was humiliated again, but with more grace again, for I wanted never to leave her.

She asked me, “Have you been the one who is writing all those letters to me for her, as she dictates what to say? Does she tell you what to say?”

The letters! “Why, yes, I guess you can tell from my stumbling.”

“Your handwriting and grammar is improving very much. Would you like for me to send home with you some textbooks? We can arrange for more formal correspondence, now that I'm losing Henry as a pupil, I should make room for another.”

And here it was, for me, a great turning in my life. I would never have to leave her. Henry may have won his Morgans, but I was going home alive and in one piece.

Elated, but sober in my understanding for what the Lord had given me, and in my determination to get to confession as soon as possible, I was now in new company. My cheeks were dry. My vision cleared of gunk. My thorn not so spiky.

I pumped hard for the most clear water for your mother and me. I was not ever going to love her if I was not going to love her now. I was born for loving her. I was born to take care of her. I was not scattered.

When I started to walk out of the stables and return to your mother, I looked up and noticed feet overhanging in the loft. Thinking it might be you, I set down my pitcher and climbed up to see. You were asleep but I had no trouble waking you up. When I did, your flask dropped near me, and I picked it up to see how empty it was. And now I was going to get you water and watered, using that portion meant for your mother, but I could get more now. I could always get more.

Do you remember any of this, my son? What I want to know is if you saw the birth. Were you in the barn to see the horses or was there another attraction there for you? Also, if you knew that I would never tell about this or the other times, then why, thereafter, did you treat me so badly? Whatever it was, I forgot about it and never mind that all now. I must know that you are done with that business. Stewart, I want you to have nothing with that business.

--Miss Minnie

Copyright 2025 Christine Friesel