Frank[1]
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.
