Frank drank his coffee strong and black, and he liked bacon hot from the pan. He was indifferent when it came to fried eggs and couldn’t quite see the point of buttered toast.
I learned the menu well for Frank’s annual visit when I was the rector in Cooperstown, New York. In Cooperstown, we had what we called “the August people,” who head out from New York and Boston to escape the late summer heat beside our shimmering lake. Frank was one of them, coming every year for a day or two when August turns into September. Unlike those other August people, who spent the night between the fine linen sheets of the Otesaga Hotel, Frank bedded down on the couch in Saint Agnes Chapel.
Frank, you see, was a hobo.