June 24, 1914

I love the filtered morning sunlight and the dancing shadows of the cottonwood leaves on the dirt road in front of my house. I take my strolls when few people are about in the early hours after sunrise. My bowler shades my eyes and my cane is unnecessary. In the evenings, the hat cloaks my gaze and the staff serves as a détente weapon. Living in a rough neighborhood, I pay attention to what was going on around me.

This morning I dreamt, walked, and gawked at the sparkling river. A voice shouted, “You stick out ‘ere, Governor.”

A bit shocked, I spun and observed a woman with disheveled hair and decayed black teeth smiling.

“Don’t get in a wax. I just want to talk to you.”

I waited.

“You’re a big shot, heh?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are going to put on airs like that Corina woman?”

“I hope not.” I felt a little guilty.

“I know ‘er.”

“Do you?” Some sarcasm must have crept into my voice.

“Careful you’re so sharp you may cut yourself. We lived on the same street in Christchurch. She was in ‘er teens. Sad about ‘er papa, just dying sudden like. ‘Er mum started working as a barmaid same as me. She sold makeup too. Then that Yank started coming by the pub nearly every day. We all carried on with men, but he liked ‘er. Soon they disappeared. You could ‘ave knocked me over with a feather when I saw Corina walking down Lincoln Avenue. She saw me and kept lookin’ forward hoyee-toyee like. “It’s ‘ard to forget ‘er grandpa was a factory hand and ‘er father made china. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. You tell ‘er I said that.”

“Why do you think I’ll be speaking with Corina?”

“You will. I know Maggie at the Cabin Hotel and ‘er girlfriend too. Women talk, but I can’t be chatting with you all day. I got work to do.” She stormed away with small, dusty road whiffs drifting from her boots.

Good Roads Day

June 25, 1914

Single women appear to be at a premium in Steamboat Springs. Shy clerks, sequestered schoolteachers, hidden telephone operators and the nighttime professionals all live in the shadows.  Men can live a double life of work and play. Gentlemen are granted hall passes to fool around. There appear to be no secrets in this community. Still, a strict structure keeps all in their place and if not, gossip or worse, shunning results.  I am an alien, an immigrant, but nonetheless, I have quickly made female friends. Perhaps acquaintances are a better term. Friendships take time.

Nellie and Madame Ollie constantly ask for favors. The Cockney barmaid wants me to give Corina her two pence worth. I grew up with women in my mother’s kitchen. Did they sense I was just a push over whether I like it or not?

Maggie kibitzes endlessly. She suggests a different spice, vegetable or just plain says her way is better. I put off her chaffs with schoolboy wit. I enjoy preparing food and I am good at it. When I announced I am volunteering my cooking for the city holiday, Good Roads Day she promptly stated, “Buy a shovel and move some rocks from the Fish Creek Road. I’m setting up the luncheon at the bath house. I’ve already arranged it with Mayor Novell.”

So, this morning, I waited with my new shovel, hopped into an automobile with several men and moved rocks from the road for miles until noon. We returned for the free lunch and it was no surprise that Maggie, Angela, and Corina were serving it.

Corina brushed her hair back gently with her left hand. “Hello Mr. Brandon, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“Indeed, the pleasure is mine. Sorry, I’m not sure how to address you.”

“Miss Engelhart is proper for today,” again the mischievous eyes and smile twinkled.

“The luncheon looks delicious, thank you.”

The three women beamed brightly, and Maggie added, “It’s our pleasure to volunteer.”

I sat on a bench, placed my plate on my lap and started eating. Soon all were served, and I had finished. Corina came over and sat next to me. She winked saying, “I hear you have a message for me.”

I was astonished and stammered, “I’m not sure what you mean, Miss Engelhart.”

“Of course, you do, Mr. Brandon. Think of that wild hair barmaid, Liz.”

“Is that her name?”

“She thinks I’m putting on airs?”

Lamenting, I responded presently, “You are putting me in a tough spot.”

“Does she think I eat peas and blueberries with a knife?”

“You could slab them,” I snorted and retorted irritated.

“Perhaps, it’s the devil to keep them level on the blade,” she snapped.

I chuckled and anger leapt into her eyes.

She hissed, “Tell ‘er I’ll receive ‘er, but I want ‘er to wash ‘er ‘air.”

“You’re dropping your aitches and I’m not going to tell her to wash her hair.”

Startled, she replied softly, “I worked so hard on elocution. Bloody hell, I slipped.” Then the roguish smile returned. “You’re right Julius; I’ll call on her myself.” She reached for my plate and utensils. With another wink she stood and said, “I hope to see you again soon,” and walked to help wash dishes.

I reflected, ‘She’s an intriguing beauty, and perhaps more than skin deep.’ I picked up my shovel and joined the crew to move more rocks. She was on my mind all afternoon.

(He was rather a little love, wasn’t he, reader? I thought too all afternoon of his kind, cool reserve dealing with my temper and perhaps, I could be very happy with him for a long time. His patience gave me a plan. This is Corina and I am sadly typing his diary and remembering him through my fingers. I guess that makes me the editor too. Julius was a bloke always in the moment. I understand why he wrote this journal and in time, you will too. May I dare say, I swear he had a photographic memory for conversations. CE)