Article by Orville Wright
Local History – October 2003 – Colorado Central Magazine
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, Salida had at least two brothels. Both were conveniently located close to the train depot to provide the weary traveling man easy access to the services offered. The lesser known enterprise supposedly operated out of the Victoria Hotel and catered mainly to the independent hooker who worked the streets, bars, and train depot waiting room.
The other brothel was an established business, owned by Laura Evans. The parlor house was located on the South side of Front Street between “F” and “G” Streets, in a building now occupied by the Shrine Club. The row of small apartments directly across the street was known as “the Cribs,” and served as an extension to the main business.
Laura Evans’s place was one of the last old-time brothels remaining in Colorado when she was forced to close her doors in 1950. But numerous historians have written about this aspect of Colorado’s history, so I won’t attempt to restate what others have eloquently penned. Suffice it to say that Miss Laura has her unique place in the history of Colorado.
But we hope to present Laura Evans in a slightly different light than others have.
My wife’s father, Glen Ayers, moved to Salida as a young boy during the time when Laura’s place was in its heyday. Like many youngsters in a single-parent family of that era, Glen had to leave school and go to work when he was about 10 years old — and one of his jobs was delivering groceries. Laura Evans patronized the grocery store that employed Glen, except she called him “Slim Jim.”
A unique friendship developed between Laura and the young delivery boy. They were two people from different generations and walks of life, brought together by a simple stroke of chance. But their friendship endured until Miss Laura’s death more than forty years later.
[Laura Evans rolling her own. Colorado Historical Society.]
Many times when Glen delivered groceries to Miss Laura, there was, in addition to the usual tip for him, extra money and a request from Miss Laura to take groceries to another address. Whenever Laura heard of a family in need, she anonymously saw to it that they had food — and she also promised “Slim Jim” that she would skin him alive if he ever revealed who provided those groceries.
Because Salida was a small town, it was easy for Mr. Ayers to keep in contact with Miss Laura, and over the years, their circle of friendship grew to include Glen’s wife, Svea, and eventually their two young daughters, Diann and Mary Ann.
My future wife and her sister came to know Miss Laura in their own way — not as a brothel Madam or the boisterous, rowdy, coarse-talking female of legend, but as an interesting senior citizen who was a friend of their parents.
While growing up in Salida, I never learned much about Laura Evans. I knew there was a red light district in town, and I knew enough to stay away from Front Street. I also heard my parents talk about the women from the “parlor house” who had helped as nurses during the 1918 flu epidemic (and I knew that some of my relatives had died of the flu). Other than that, however, Laura Evans was not a topic of conversation in my presence.
IT WAS ONLY AFTER I got married that I learned more about her. (I still get raised eyebrows and quite a bit of conversational mileage when I mention that my wife spent some time in a cat house before we were married.) But my wife is the one who really remembers Laura Evans, so I’ll let her tell the story:
How I loved it when we would go to visit Laura. Her room was full of fascinating things that weren’t common in ordinary homes. She had several animal skins to sit on and pet, and their teeth and eyes completely fascinated me. The lamps in Laura’s room had shades with strings of beads that made fun, tinkly sounds when you ran your hands around them.
Both my parents smoked, but their cigarettes came out of a package. Laura rolled her own cigarettes and put them into a long cigarette holder before she lit them.
Laura wore long, satin dresses, and a green plastic eye shade. Her parlor house had a big ballroom, with mirrors all around the walls. She had a big grand piano, and cages of live parrots (I understand the parrots had quite a vocabulary).
After her business closed, the ballroom became Laura’s card room, and the cribs were rented out to the train and engine crews who had lay-overs in Salida. Laura called them her “rails” and looked forward to a good game of Pan most evenings.
One night when we went to visit Laura, she was really excited. She had just gotten a new washing machine. It was the latest thing, made by the Bendix Company, and Laura called it “Mrs. Ben-a-dix”.
[Working girls in parlor house. Colorado Historical Society.]
One time Laura got pneumonia and refused to go to the hospital, but Dr. Howard Smith checked on her daily. She was on penicillin but could never swallow pills; so my father went to her place every evening to check on her and crush up “that spencerian” (her pronunciation of penicillin).
ANOTHER TIME, Laura got a kidney infection, and Dr. Smith prescribed a medication that turned her urine blue. Laura’s comment was: “It’s not good for much of anything else, so just turn it into an inkwell!”
Several historians have written about Miss Laura’s doll collection, which was rather extensive, and some of the dolls were reputed to be quite valuable. It is said that admirers of Miss Laura contributed to the collection as a token of their appreciation for services received. Miss Laura displayed her dolls on her four-poster bed, and one of the centerpieces of the collection was a china doll named Mae West.
Miss Laura thought my sister, Mary Ann, was the most beautiful child she had ever seen and often chastised my folks for not naming her “Princess Pat.” That was what Laura always called her. During one of our visits, “Princess Pat” and I were sitting on Laura’s bed playing with Mae West, when we noticed that the lower part of one of the doll’s legs was missing. My sister asked what had happened to it, and Laura told her, “It’s in a drawer somewhere, but she doesn’t need it, since she’s not going to walk anywhere, anyway.”
Later that evening, Miss Laura told “Princess Pat” to take Mae West home with her. Years later, a prominent Denver lawyer/historian, now deceased, speculated about what happened to Mae West in his writings about Laura Evans. Existence of the doll was well known, but after Miss Laura’s death, it couldn’t be located.
In her later years, Laura gave up her staff of employees, but kept one man to tend the furnace and do minor upkeep on a part-time basis. My mother fixed a meal for Laura every evening, and I helped my dad deliver it.
I don’t remember when Laura was admitted to the hospital — or why — but I do remember feeling like something was missing at dinner time when we didn’t get to go see Laura. My last memory of Laura Evans is at Stewart’s Mortuary. My father took me there the afternoon of her funeral. Her hair had very little gray in it, and she was wearing a pink satin dress (but no green eye shade).
For me, it was a great honor to have known Laura Evans.
[Younger Laura Evans on burro. Colorado Historical Society.]
THAT CONCLUDES my wife’s account of her family’s relationship with Miss Laura. Laura Evans was once one of the best known madams in Colorado, but to those who knew her best, she was a good friend with a heart of gold.
There was another woman, also reputed to be an ex-Madam, who lived in Salida for a number of years. Her professional name was Belgian Clara — although her first name was actually Henrietta. By coincidence, she lived in a small house across the street from the Ayers family. I met the lady on several occasions before she passed away, and she could accurately be described as “aristocratic” in both bearing and appearance.
Several reference works about Laura Evans are available at most public libraries, and a small booklet, Six Racy Madams of Colorado, by Caroline Bancroft, also gives a pretty good sketch of Miss Laura, and is available at local bookstores.
Diann Jo Ayers Wright is a Salida native. She is also a certified Histologic Technician by training, a mother of two grown children, and a retired veterinary assistant who now enjoys teaching water aerobics several days a week.
She lives in Broomfield with her husband of 44+ years, Orville Wright, who grew up in Salida and is now a retired Colorado State Patrol Captain.
[Tapestry probably from Laura Evans whorehouse.]
