tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79210052024-03-17T12:07:45.266-05:00CITY OF DUSTThe lost and wondrous wreckage of America. The ceaseless road to nowhere. Yeah, that's my home.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.comBlogger278125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-41025838328102683392023-09-24T14:44:00.062-05:002024-02-26T10:09:57.172-06:00Beneath the Giant’s Head: Cabezón, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_01.jpg"><br />
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If you’re tooling around the Rio Puerco Valley northwest of Albuquerque, one feature will loom in the distance, possibly beckoning you to come closer (or even climb it), and that’s Cabezon Peak, a volcanic plug left after the erosion of a larger cinder cone. This feature was known as Wasema'a to the Jemez. To the Isletans it was Tchi'kuienad. The Navajo called it Tsenajin, or Black Peak. For them, it represented the head of a giant that had been killed on Mount Taylor, a sacred place, by the Twin Brothers, or War Gods. The lava at the base of the peak then was the giant's blood.<br />
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Tsenajin represented the eastern edge of the Navajo's tribal world until the Spanish began to move west of what they, in turn, called El Cabezón, or "The Big Head." The peak is about 2,000 ft. higher than the surrounding landscape and, in 1849, Lt. James Simpson of the U.S. Army traveled through and wrote about "the remarkable peak called Cerro de la Cabeza." It is still remarkable.<br />
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Today, just below Cabezon Peak, on the north bank of the Rio Puerco, are the sun-blasted remains of a small village. This is what’s left of Cabezón, New Mexico, settled, it's said, in 1826 by Juan Maestas, who came from Pagosa Springs, Colorado. It was one of four small Hispano agricultural settlements in the area, along with Guadalupe, San Luis, and Casa Salazar. But even before that, going back to the late 1700s, Hispano farmers here had grown corn and chile and harvested wild asparagus along the Rio Puerco.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_02.jpg"><br />
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<i>I was told this old adobe was once the Cabezón Bar and Dance Hall. It's hard to imagine now, but if you listen hard you might still hear the clack of boots against the floor.</i><br />
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Before it was Cabezón, the village was known as Rancho de la Posta, or La Posta. “The post” indicated a stage stop, and, indeed, La Posta was on a major stage route west of Santa Fe, and at the crossroads of a trail running between Zuni Pueblo and Jemez Pueblo and a Spanish trail from Albuqueque to Cuba. This confluence of trails makes sense given that Cabezon Peak was and remains an obvious landmark for travelers. However, the area was not permanently occupied until 1872, when the Navajo Reservation was created and skirmishes with settlers ended.<br />
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When a post office was applied for in 1879, Rancho de la Posta became Cabezón Station and then just Cabezón. The village thrived for many years, and by 1920 the population may have been as high as 250. There was a church, four stores, several dance halls, the aforementioned post office, some saloons, and dozens of homes. Restie Sandoval, born in Cabezón in 1929 and quoted in <i>Ghost Towns Alive</i> by Linda G. Harris, said, "We had no money, but we were content."<br />
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One of the villages’ showpieces was an eleven (or possibly fourteen, depending on who you ask)-room adobe residence occupied by Richard F. Heller and his family, just a few steps across the road from his store. The house also served as hotel, frequently providing lodging to weary travelers. It may yet shelter the occasional bird or rattlesnake, but guests arrive only rarely these days and none stay the night.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_03.jpg"><br />
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<i>A small section of the Heller family’s 11/14-room adobe home and hotel.</i><br />
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Richard Heller was perhaps Cabezón's most prominent citizen, arriving in 1888 and, with partner John Pflueger, buying the trading post that William Kanzenbach and Rudolph Haberland opened in 1874 and ran until they went deep into debt with their supplier, the Charles Ilfeld Company. Heller helped Cabezón flourish, in part because of trade with the Navajo. Heller and Pflueger were brokers for the wool the Navajo brought in, and some years they would take as many as 40 wagon loads to market in Albuquerque. Heller bought Plueger out in 1894, a deal that perhaps included the 10,000 sheep they owned together, and he remained among the village's leaders until his death, establishing a bit of an empire that would also include 2,000 cattle.<br />
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The store ruins that can be seen in Cabezón are not those of the original 1874 trading post, but are of a general store built by Heller in 1910 or 1911 that featured "fancy" turned posts on the front porch and a corrugated tin roof. You can still see the cut-outs in the awning, or “cotes,” for pigeons, which Heller was fond of keeping.<br />
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Heller’s family occupied the 11-to-14-room adobe house until shortly after his death in 1947. He'd been living in the village for almost 60 years. By that time, trade with the Navajo had ended and drought had come. For those that raised sheep and cattle, competition for grazing rights after the government purchased the adjacent Ojo del Espíritu Santo Grant in 1934 had driven many out of business. Also, in the early 1940s, four brush-and-stone dams on the Rio Puerco had broken during a flood, and with most men fighting in WWII or working elsewhere, there was no one to repair these dams, which had diverted water into irrigation ditches. Heller's widow kept the post office open for more than a year on her own, but then moved to Albuquerque. So, by 1950, Cabezón was largely vacant and left to begin a slow decline that has continued to this day.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_04.jpg"><br />
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<i>There are many iconic photos of Heller's general store in ghost town books, some shots even taken from the rustic porch. However, the years have not been kind to the building.</i><br />
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Another thing that Heller did was help get a church constructed in Cabezón. La Iglesia de San Jose was built in 1894, and in many ghost town books it appears abandoned and forlorn, as it was for decades. It had been used as a barn and vandals were once caught tearing up the floor in a hunt for treasure. But in the late-1970s, the church began to be restored. I've heard that Peter Fonda bankrolled the work immediately after directing the film <i>The Hired Hand</i> in the village, but that movie, which starred both Fonda and Warren Oates, was released in 1971. So that seems unlikely, to say the least. In any case, you can get a closer view of a much more intact Cabezón in that excellent Western.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_05.jpg"><br />
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<i>The San Jose Catholic Church was built in 1894.</i><br />
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The real story is that, in 1978, Father John Sauter from up the road in Cuba, New Mexico, wanted to restore the church before its 100th anniversary, which would occur in 1994. So local folks rounded up volunteers to fix the roof, received donated materials, and, over the years, basically did the job with no money at all. Five hundred people attended the centennial celebration. It's worth mentioning that, in addition to the treasure hunters, thieves were once caught trying to steal the church bell. The bell was then put in safe-keeping until it could safely resume its rightful place, which, as you might sorta be able to guess from the photo above, it has.<br />
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In his 1981 book, <i>New Mexico's Best Ghost Towns: A Practical Guide</i>, Philip Varney said that Cabezón was, in fact, New Mexico's best ghost town, featuring the most impressive mix of buildings, scenery, and desertion. He also championed Cabezón for the difficulty involved in just getting to the place. Forty-two years later, it’s still difficult to visit (more on that in a moment), and the lanscape is just as scenic. But does Cabezón remain the state’s best ghost town? Well, I'd say…probably not. Of course, Heller's store, the historic centerpiece of Cabezón, has mostly collapsed. A two-story building from <i>The Hired Hand</i> set which, while not historic, did lend ambiance, is totally gone. Most of the adobe homes are badly crumbled and fading fast. Only a few stones stand atop each other of what was the school. The church is actually in better shape than in 1981, but I suppose that just makes Cabezón feel slightly less deserted.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_06.jpg"><br />
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<i>With its many shelves and cubbies, this adobe was probably the post office.</i><br />
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Sure, much of Cabezón's decline is due to neglect and vandalism, but remote ghost towns don't typically have the tax base for neighborhood upkeep, and untended adobes will eventually return to Mother Nature. So I try to get while the getting is good and, as with most things in life, I don't expect permanence in ghost towns. In truth, I was lucky to “get” at all as the property in Cabezón is still owned and the village occupied by one resident who does not exactly desire visitors. In the 1960s, squatters moved into the empty homes and looted them and, as a result, the county comissioner would eventually authorize closing Cabezón. So let’s just say some strings were pulled to open gates, both metaphorical and literal, and make my trip possible. And that was a number of years ago now. Eight years, to be exact.<br />
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If you've been to the Cabezón area you might wonder where the timber was found for the buildings. I've read that the vigas were hauled from the forest surrounding Mt. Taylor, a distance of about 10 miles. I guess Mt. Taylor was the closest you could get to a Home Depot at the turn of the 20th century. The stones were gathered from the adjacent hills. I was also told that, much more recently, a woman and her child were in Cabezón and entered a structure when a viga fell, striking the mother and necessitating a trip by helicopter to the hospital. Thus on my visit I was explicitly asked not to enter any buildings. So that is why you see no interiors here.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_07.jpg"><br />
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<i>You can almost feel wagons full of wool moving slowly along the Rio Puerco, below Cabezon Peak.</i><br />
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Let’s wrap up our visit to Cabezón with a couple Wild West tales. The Puerco Valley has always been isolated, and so it was that, according to Ralph Looney’s <i>Haunted Highways</i>, in a turn possibly inspired by Jack D. Rittenhouse's rare, <i>Outlaw Days at Cabezon, New Mexico</i>, the village harbored a bandit now and then. In 1884, the Castillo brothers’ notorious band raided the cattle herd of the original owners of the trading post, Kanzenbach and Haberland. A man named Juan Romero tried to stop the rustlers and was shot dead. Kanzenbach organized a posse and a gun battle ensued. The thieves, however, escaped.<br />
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After another encounter and escape, the rustlers entered Amadao Lucero's store in Espanola to have dinner. Here the posse was lying in wait. Deputy Montano couldn't get a bead on Candido Castillo's head while the man ate because of a poorly-placed kerosene lamp, so he motioned for Lucero to move the obstacle. A moment later Candido leaned over to light his cigarette with the lamp just as Montano shot, hitting Candido in the side. The Deputy also shot Candido's brother, Manuel, but the two managed to get out the door, somehow melting into the night.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_08.jpg"><br />
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<i>The quiet cemetery of the San Jose Catholic Church.</i><br />
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In the morning, the posse followed the bloodstains, but they ended abruptly at the railroad tracks. The rumor then arose that the brothers, reportedly also members of the Penitente Brotherhood, had happened upon a Good Friday procession and were taken into hiding. Candido was said to be dead by Easter Sunday, but when his grave was opened the body had been removed.<br />
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Looney tells of a gruesome ax murder in Cabezón, as well. One day the postal inspector came to town because there was a small discrepancy in cash at the post office, which was run by Emiliano Sandoval. Nobody would say a word to the inspector until he found Juan Valdez at the edge of the village. Valdez said that Sandoval did it. After all, who could've pilfered the money more easily?<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_09.jpg"><br />
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<i>A crow’s eye view of the ghost town of Cabezón from atop Cabezon Peak.</i><br />
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The following night, Valdez was sleeping in his home, his two sons nearby, when several residents of Cabezón entered. When they left it’s said that Valdez had been beheaded. Sandoval County officials quickly arrested Emiliano Sandoval and two others, Albino Gurule and Antonio Gonzalez. Gonzalez, having an alibi, was soon freed. Sandoval and Gurule were kept in custody for a while, but eventually released. The crime was never solved as far as I can tell. Not that it’s uncommon for ghost towns to keep their secrets. On that note, I’m sure Cabezón has more to tell, but this is about all I’ve been able to uncover. If you have more to add, please leave a comment below!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cabezon/Cabezon_10.jpg"><br />
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Above is one last look at the landscape of the Rio Puerco drainage with Cabezon Peak looming in the distance. This Puerco, flowing through Rio Arriba, Sandoval, Bernalillo, Valencia, and Socorro Counties before meeting the Rio Grande, is sometimes called the Rio Puerco of the East. Yes, there is another Puerco in New Mexico. The second Puerco, usually called the Puerco River, flows through the northwestern part of the state and into northeastern Arizona, terrain which includes the Painted Desert. That is another spectacular southwestern landscape, but one for another day.<br />
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First, thanks to those who got me into Cabezón all those years ago. You know who you are! If you want to know more about life in the Rio Puerco Valley, I can't recommend Nasario García's memoir,
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hoe-Heaven-Hell-Boyhood-Mexico/dp/082635565X"><i>Hoe, Heaven, and Hell: My Boyhood in Rural New Mexico</i></a> highly enough. While Mr. García lived in Ojo del Padre, near Guadalupe, he provides a wonderful picture of the entire region, and Cabezón does get some brief mentions. One of the most recent sources for Cabezón history, and certainly among the best, is <a href="https://www.unmpress.com/9780826329080/ghost-towns-alive/"><i>Ghost Towns Alive: Trips to New Mexico's Past</i></a> by Linda G. Harris. But even that is 20 years old now. I also got a lot of the information from Philip Varney's <a href="https://www.unmpress.com/9780826310101/new-mexicos-best-ghost-towns/"><i>New Mexico's Best Ghost Towns: A Practical Guide</i></a> and Ralph Looney's <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Haunted-Highways-Ralph-Looney/dp/B000L5M5XO"><i>Haunted Highways</i></a>. Surprise, surprise. Both books also have excellent pictures of Cabezón from the days when more was standing. Days that will never come again! I should also mention Robert Julyan's <a href="https://www.unmpress.com/9780826316899/the-place-names-of-new-mexico/"><i>The Place Names of New Mexico</i></a>, which always has something interesting to offer. I have never seen Route 66 guru Jack D. Rittenhouse's <i>Outlaw Days at Cabezon, New Mexico</i> (limited to 150 copies), nor his more general history, <i>Cabezon: A New Mexico Ghost Town</i> (limited to 750 copies), so if you've got one of either lying around that you'd like to send my way, please do!<br />
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That's it! If you made it to the final words of this epic post, thank you very much! I have no idea where we're going next time. I'll have to figure it out. jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-24261623024376756052023-04-20T19:58:00.024-05:002023-04-24T18:16:45.393-05:00After the Floods: The San Jose Mission at San Acacia, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_1.jpg"><br />
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Let's take a trip to the San Jose Mission at San Acacia, 14 miles north of the town of Socorro, in sprawling Socorro County, which spans a chunk of the central part of New Mexico. San Acacia—originally (and sometimes still locally) known as San Acacio—was established around 1880 when the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway came through. In “The Place Names of New Mexico,” Robert Julyan notes that the name of the village may have come from San Acacio (aka Saint Acathius), a Roman soldier said to have been martyred with 10,000 other soldiers in the 2nd century A.D. In New Mexico, San Acacio can be found in the work of some <i>santeros</i> on a crucifix wearing the uniform of a Spanish soldier.<br />
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When the post office opened in 1881, the “o” had become an “a,” probably because the Spanish was misunderstood. (Note that "San" did not become "Santa.") As far as I know at this moment, the post office remains in operation, but on the west side of I-25, adjacent to the village of Alamillo. Incidentally, an alternative and, Julyan implies, less likely explanation for the name, is that it derives from the acacia bush. If you want to feel like you know the area, go ahead and refer to it as “San Acacio.” You may have some interesting converations!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_2.jpg"><br />
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<i>The mission church may still get some unofficial use.</i><br />
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After a flood in 1886 destroyed the church in nearby La Joyita, an adobe mission church with large vigas was soon built in San Acacia, which also sits close by the west bank of the Rio Grande. About 40 years later the historic flood of 1929 sent residents fleeing for their lives, destroying much of the village, and washing the church away. A section of the village dating from the early 1900s is said to have survived the flood and can be seen to the northeast of present-day San Acacia, but I haven’t gone hunting for that.<br />
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A few years after the 1929 flood, through the donations of the Crabtree family, who operated a lumber yard and hardware store, the mission church was rebuilt. That one was destroyed in a flood in 1937. So for the next ten years the people of San Acacia went to the church in Alamillo, a bit farther from the river and presumably generally drier. The current mission church was built after WWII and used officially until 1957. Based on what I’ve seen it may well be used unofficially to this day.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_3.jpg"><br />
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<i>A little artwork has been added to the adobe walls.</i><br />
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In all the years I’ve been visiting San Acacia and posting photos of the mission church (and its likeness in the nearby cemetery; see below) I’ve never heard from anyone that was there when it was having services. Until recently, that is! The recollection I received is so wonderful that I'm going to include it here in its entirety. Memories such as these are hard to find, and I'm always honored to receive another. Many thanks to Ed Baca for sharing his remembrance of a fiesta vespers service:<br />
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"I am indeed familiar with the San Jose Mission in San Acacia. My dad's job with the U.S. Geological Survey involved measuring the flow of the Rio Grande on a daily basis. One of his work sites was the gauging station just below the San Acacia dam. As a kid (I was born in 1945), I would often accompany him to San Acacia during my summer vacation. We would pass by that church on the way to the river. While he did his steam-gauging thing, I angled for channel cat at the river's edge.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_4.jpg"><br />
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<i>The church has now passed many falls without congregants.</i><br />
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"As a student at Hilton Mt. Carmel School in Socorro, I served Mass as an altar boy at San Miguel Catholic Church. The spiritual needs of the mission churches in the Socorro area were served under the auspices of the Pastor at San Miguel. Besides the occasional funeral of a community member, small missions like San Jose only had one major service during the year, and that was on its namesake's feast day, i.e., its fiestas.<br />
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"Around 1957 or so, I, along with another altar boy, and the San Miguel organist and two choir members, accompanied Father James McNiff to San Acacia to celebrate the San Jose fiesta vespers service. The mayordomos and the community's faithful had lighted the path to the church with luminarias. The organist, my aunt Helen Baca, cranked up the old pump organ at the back of the church. The two choir members sang traditional Spanish hymns to an overflowing congregation of current and former residents who sang along with them.<br />
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"The memory of this occasion warms my heart to this day. I know that you know that this unique aspect of New Mexico's Hispanic culture is slowly vanishing, and it is sad. But, thanks to efforts of people to preserve the story of a once-vital place, all will not be totally forgotten."<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_5.jpg"><br />
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<i>A likeness of the mission church marks a grave in the cemetery.</i><br />
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A short hike from the moody cemetery, which features grave markers representing both the San Jose Mission and the mission church at Alamillo, and right beside the Rio Grande, is a feature known as Black Butte, where the New Mexico meridian intersects the principal baseline. Placed here in 1855 by John W. Garretson, a U.S. government surveyor, this is also known as the “initial point,” on which land surveys for New Mexico and southwest Colorado are based. The rocky surroundings of the "initial point" are said to be the preferred home of more than a few rattlensakes, as well.<br />
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This area was also where the Piro Indians lived. Juan de Oñate, the Spanish conquistador, encountered them in 1598 as he came north with his expedition. The Piro would scatter during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 and never return to their former home, but evidence of their Puebloan culture can still be found along the Rio Grande.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_6.jpg"><br />
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<i>If you could read any of the markings on this monument, you'd find "initial point" among them.</i><br />
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Finally, I would be remiss in not mentioning Acacia Riding Adventures, which runs horseback trips out of the old San Acacia schoolhouse, right across from the church. That sounds like a fantastic way to explore this section of Socorro County, and just a lot of fun in general. You can find more info at their <a href="http://acaciaridingadventures.com/">WEBSITE</a>.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_7.jpg"><br />
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<i>This grave is marked by a representation of the mission church at Alamillo, which was built in 1928.</i><br />
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I grabbed some information for this post from Paul Harden’s excellent <a href="https://www.socorronm.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Mission-Churches-in-Socorro-County-Part-II.pdf">“Mission Churches - Part 2: The Mission Churches in Socorro County."</a> (There’s a <a href="https://www.socorronm.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Mission-Churches-in-Socorro-County-Part-I.pdf">Part 1</a>, as well!) You can find a little more about the intricacies of the New Mexico meridian and baseline at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Mexico_meridian">WIKIPEDIA</a>.<br/>
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Alright, that’s all I’ve got for this, the THIRD new blog post since…well, October of last year. But that’s better than the last couple years combined! Thanks again to Ed Baca for his generosity in allowing me to share his story far and wide. I think maybe we’ll go to Cabezón, in the Rio Puerco Valley, next time!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/San_Acacia/San_Acacia_8.jpg"><br />jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-5798170158980497422023-03-03T21:30:00.022-06:002023-03-08T17:51:46.396-06:00It Was Supposed To Be In New Mexico: Camp Nichols, Oklahoma<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_1.jpg"><br />
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During the years of the Civil War, with most able-bodied men sent off to the fray, traversing the Santa Fe Trail became even more treacherous than usual. Without the armed accompaniment that travelers had come to rely on, Native American tribes found it easier to attack settlers and traders moving along the trail, including those on the Cimarron Cut-off, or Dry Route, as it was also called. This alternate route sliced through what is now the western edge of the Oklahoma Panhandle as it entered New Mexico Territory, and while worryingly dry it often was, it was attractive since it cut 100 miles and 10 days off the Mountain Route. At most times it was also considered safer, avoiding the difficult Raton Pass and its steep 7,835' of elevation. But as attacks persisted along the Cimarron Cut-off throughout 1861 and 1862, the military tried to gain control. Among those in the field was Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Carson, also known as Kit, who was sent out to suppress raids by the Comanche and Kiowa, in particular.<br />
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Following a reasonably quiet winter of 1863, that spring found the Apache, Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, and Pawnee assembled along the Arkansas River in numbers so large that the trail was actually closed to travel. The following year, in the spring of 1864, both the Cimarron Cut-off and the Mountain Route were back under steady attack. The military had completely lost control by June, and settlers and wagon trains alike were under fierce assault as the tribes tried in earnest to drive them from the land. In the Dry Cimarron Valley, along what is now the Oklahoma-New Mexico border, stone forts were built on mesas with settlers running to them, rifles in hand, whenever a Native American was seen.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_2.jpg"><br />
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<i>Wagon ruts are still visible on the Cimarron Cut-off.</i><br />
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Raids continued into the summer of 1864, and in the second week of August, Comanche killed five men at Lower Cimarron Springs. On the 19th of that month, near one of the Cimarron springs, an entire caravan was wiped out, with ten men lost and 130 mules stolen. Two days later, 10 trains were attacked near the Middle Cimarron Crossing, and over 100 oxen were scattered.<br />
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Late that November, in response to the continued raids, Kit Carson’s regiment went to the panhandle of Texas to attack a Kiowa village in the vicinity of Adobe Walls, the ruins of a trading post once operated by William Bent. Some Comanche and Plains Apache joined the Kiowa for a counter-attack, and with a force of 3,000 warriors drove the 372 federal troops back into the shell of the old trading post. But the regiment had a mountain howitzer, and by that evening the warriors had retreated and the village had been burned. This event would enter western legend as the First Battle of Adobe Walls, one of the largest battles to ever occur on the Great Plains. The brutality continued a few days later when, on November 29, 1864, Colonel John Chivington’s Colorado Volunteers massacred 300 men, women, and children living in a Cheyenne and Arapaho village at Sand Creek in southeastern Colorado.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_3.jpg"><br />
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<i>All that marks Camp Nichols are piles of stones.</i><br />
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However, with the ending of the Civil War on April 9, 1865, soldiers were again available to escort travelers over the Santa Fe Trail, and forts began to be constructed to provide supplies and further protection. Fort Dodge was established in April and Fort Aubrey in September. In between, in May 1865, a short-lived stockaded fortification was constructed near Cedar Springs on the Dry Cimarron. This was Camp Nichols, which may have taken its name from Captain Charles P. Nichols of the First California Cavalry.<br />
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Camp Nichols was supposed to be in New Mexico Territory, but ended up in what was then mapped as "Public Land" or "Public Land Strip," three miles northwest of present-day Wheeless, Oklahoma. This area, which was home to the nomadic tribes of the Great Plains, was later referred to as "No Man's Land," and wouldn't become Oklahoma Territory until May 2, 1890.<br />
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Little remains of the camp now, which was built by Carson at the order of the Military Command of the New Mexico Territory. Intended to be roughly at the halfway point between Fort Union in New Mexico Territory and the Cimarron Crossing of the Arkansas River, not far from Fort Dodge, Kansas, the camp’s sole purpose was to protect travelers from Kiowa and Comanche raids on what had become the most dangerous part of the Cimarron Cut-off.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_4.jpg"><br />
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<i>The remains of what may have been lodging for a soldier.</i><br />
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Carson, however, liked the high ground at a location beside South Carrizo Creek, about four and a half miles east of the boundary of New Mexico Territory. Here was built a commissary, two-room hospital, kitchen, and officers' quarters, all dug into the ground and enclosed with rock. These would be the only manmade structures ever built along the Cimarron Cut-off during its active years. Two mountain howitzers stood at the edge of the camp. It was garrisoned by three companies from Fort Union who escorted travelers to Fort Dodge on the Arkansas River or Fort Larned, which was also in Kansas, offered shelter, and generally patrolled the trail.<br />
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In fact, following a biweekly schedule, troops from Fort Union also escorted wagon trains east to Camp Nichols, at which point Kit Carson’s soldiers would take them onward. When heading west, Carson’s troops would take the trains from Fort Dodge to Camp Nichols and then hand them off to the men from Fort Union. <br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_5.jpg"><br />
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<i>This photo was taken from approximately the spot where a map indicates Kit Carson, who was in declining health and would be dead within three years, pitched his tent. It's facing the ruins of quarters occupied by Lieutenant Henderson and Lieutenant Richard Russell, who lived here for a time with his new bride, Marian Sloan Russell. You can read about Russell's experiences in her book, "Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell."</i><br />
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The dimensions of Camp Nichols have been given as 200' x 200' or 200' x 300', the latter of which would have to include some of the structures outside the square boundaries of the fortified camp itself, such as the officer's quarters and the kitchen. But however you look at it, Camp Nichols was not very big, and was never a true fort. It didn't last long either. In mid-October 1865, the Apaches, Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa signed the Little Arkansas treaties and, in exchange for peace, were given a large reservation in the Texas Panhandle. The Texans themselves would refuse to honor this agreement and a new treaty would eventually be required.<br />
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But in November 1865, a mere seven months after they’d established Camp Nichols, the 300 California and New Mexico troops stationed there abandoned it and marched back to New Mexico Territory. Local tribes destroyed the camp over the winter, and the site has been unoccupied ever since. In 1966, it was placed on the National Register of Historic Places, but most days is visited only by the wind and perhaps a few cows.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Nichols/CampNichols_6.jpg"><br />
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<i>It takes a little imagination to reconstruct Camp Nichols.</i><br />
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A big thank you to the Cimarron Heritage Museum based out of Boise City, Oklahoma, who offer a wonderful tour of this part of the Santa Fe Trail. They provided access to this location, which is on private property, and a number of other rare Santa Fe Trail gems. They do it every June, so if you're interested, get connected with them <a href="https://chcmuseumok.com/">HERE</a>.<br />
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The museum also collected some excellent historical information, including a hand-drawn map, for a handout on the site, which is otherwise spread across numerous sources. Another resource was <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Window-past-Historic-places-Oklahoma/dp/0941498433">“Window on the Past: Historical Sites in Oklahoma”</a> by Kent Ruth, which reported the size of Camp Nichols, possibly incorrectly, as 200' x 300'. However, the most scholarly account, and one which adds the most historical context, was found on page 127 of “History of the Cimarron Indians.” This obscure volume was unearthed at the <a href="https://nationalcowboymuseum.org//">National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum</a> in Oklahoma City, which has an incredible western history archive. I thank them for their assistance (and for being willing to take a copy of my own book for the archive!). I highly recommend a visit to the museum itself, but you’ll need an appointment to see the archive.<br />
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Other useful Camp Nichols references include The Encyclopedia of Oklahoma History and Culture (for both <a href="https://www.okhistory.org/publications/enc/entry?entry=CA027">the camp</a> and <a href="https://www.okhistory.org/publications/enc/entry.php?entry=NO001">No Man's Land</a>), <a href="https://www.hmdb.org/m.asp?m=39798">The Historical Marker Database</a> (only it wasn't really a fort), <a href="http://www.santafetrailresearch.com/spacepix/camp-nichols.html">Santa Fe Trail Research</a> and, of course, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camp_Nichols">Wikipedia</a>.<br />
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Whew. That was a long one! So I'm going to leave it at that for now, except to say that I took all the photos with Fujichrome Sensia 100 35mm color slide film that expired in December 2004. Weird, huh?
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-60232773907290536292022-10-10T20:44:00.005-05:002022-10-10T20:48:40.315-05:00Take the Flat Way Home: Tollgate Canyon, NM<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Tollgate/Stone_Cabin.jpg"><br />
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<i>A crumbling stone cabin is now all that welcomes you to Tollgate Canyon.</i><br />
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If you’re reading this it means I've managed to successfully upload the first post of new content on City of Dust since January 2018. Wow. It feels like that was a million years ago. Professionally, personally, geographically…<i>globally</i>. Everything is different. Some of that explains my long absence from this blog. However, I hope this marks the return of the long-form (or longish-form, in this case) pieces that I eventually compiled in <a href="https://cityofdust.bigcartel.com/product/abandoned-new-mexico-ghost-towns-endangered-architecture-and-hidden-history-signed">“Abandoned New Mexico: Ghost Towns, Endangered Architecture, and Hidden History,”</a> the publication of which also pulled me away from the blog. But I ain’t complaining! It’s good to be at least attempting a comeback, and we shall see how things go!<br />
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I’ve written a number of times about the Belen Cutoff, the rail line built across east-central New Mexico by the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway as a way to avoid the steep grade over Raton Pass. Completed in 1906, the Belen Cutoff provided a much flatter way to get trains through the state and is still being used today. It’s the main reason villages like <a href="https://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2011/12/life-and-death-by-railroad-yeso-new.html">YESO</a>, <a href="https://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2012/01/whiskey-and-devil-taiban-new-mexico.html">TAIBAN</a>, <a href="https://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/12/paying-visit-to-williams-negra-nm.html">NEGRA</a>, <a href="https://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2016/05/the-ruins-by-rails-ricardo-new-mexico.html">RICARDO</a>, and many others came to exist. Or at least persisted, if only until the trains came to need diesel instead of water in the 1950s.<br />
<br />But the railroad wasn’t the first entity that was often unhappy to be going over Raton Pass, with its difficult ascent and dangerously unpredictable weather. In the 1800s, those traveling the Santa Fe Trail between New Mexico Territory and eastern Colorado by horse, mule, wagon, or foot frequently wished for something less arduous, as well; the Mountain Route of the famed trail went right over the Pass. And so it came to be that Tollgate Canyon was established which, unlike the Belen Cutoff, is now largely forgotten and rarely used by anybody other than local travelers.<br />
<br /><align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Tollgate/Folsom_Supply.jpg"><br />
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<i>The Folsom Supply Co. building in Folsom, New Mexico.</i><br />
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Somewhere around 1870, Bazil “Baz” Metcalf, after traveling the Santa Fe Trail in an ox-drawn wagon from Missouri several years prior, was hired to work on the Cross L Ranch, then recently established by the Hall Brothers on the Dry Cimarron River. Baz got to thinking that creating a route for wagon freight and travelers along the nearby Santa Fe Trail that avoided Raton Pass would be helpful and possibly quite lucrative. In fact, a short canyon that headed south out of Emory Gap, New Mexico, and into the Dry Cimarron Valley provided a perfect place to build a toll road. Even the military could use this road to move between Fort Union in New Mexico Territory through the new settlement of Granada, Colorado, and into Bent’s Fort.<br />
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The road was completed in 1873, and Metcalf installed everything he thought might be useful, which included a store, a saloon, and a chain across the road that stretched between two boulders. If you were traveling by buggy, Metcalf charged 35 cents. A two-horse team ran 40 cents, while a four-horse wagon cost 75. There was a fee for cattle, too, which were sent north to feed the military posts and mining camps. Metcalf’s brother, John, minded the tollgate and watched Baz’s ranch when Baz was trading in the territory.<br />
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Native American raids were always a possibility, and in 1874, a year after Baz opened the road, Comanche and Kiowa attackers killed 17 settlers in the Dry Cimarron Valley. The Metcalf brothers survived that incident, and Baz escaped injury during another brush in 1876.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Tollgate/Folsom_Museum.jpg"><br />
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<i>Built in 1896, the Doherty Mercantile now operates as the Folsom Museum, within which treasures await.</i><br />
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For 12 years, from 1873 to 1885, Tollgate Canyon operated as an important conduit for goods and people, largely creating the Fort Union-Granada Road. But in 1885, Metcalf decided to move to the Texas panhandle, where he would fence-in over 30 miles demarcating the northern boundary of the XIT Ranch. He used 5,200+ cedar posts to do it. At over 3,000,000 acres, the XIT would then become the largest fenced ranch in the world. Baz sold his toll road to Mike Devoy, but the clock was ticking on its usefulness, and with the arrival of the Colorado and Southern Railroad in 1888, Tollgate Canyon’s prominence disappeared in the blink of an eye.<br />
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The road that led through Tollgate Canyon is now NM Highway 551, just northeast of Folsom, in northwestern Union County, and the place where Baz collected his tolls is about two miles northwest of the intersection with NM Highway 456. All that indicates the location is a state historical marker and the crumbling stone cabin shown at the top of this post.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Tollgate/Chicken_Coop.jpg"><br />
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<i>An old chicken coop in Capulin, New Mexico, near Folsom and not far from Tollgate Canyon.</i><br />
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However, you can see the ragged trunk that once held the tolls at the Folsom Museum. In fact, the best online history of Tollgate Canyon--and the one from which I got most of this information--was posted by the Folsom Museum <a href="https://www.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1763552313685224&id=132071466833325">RIGHT HERE</a>. Check it out for more photos, too. You can also see Tollgate Canyon during the museum’s yearly Dry Cimarron River History Tour, which occurs in May and is how I came to visit it myself. For more info on all that, I highly recommend becoming a regular visitor to the Folsom Museum’s <a href="http://www.folsomvillage.com/folsommuseum/">WEBSITE</a>.<br />
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And there’s the first post in nearly five years! I’ve already got the next one drafted, but I’ll keep quiet as to more specifics so as not to jinx myself. Thanks to everyone that’s supported my endeavors, and I hope ya’ll have been hanging in there as best you can!jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-73179417442411831752020-10-10T16:13:00.016-05:002020-10-11T15:27:03.640-05:00AVAILABLE NOW! Abandoned New Mexico: Ghost Towns, Endangered Architcture, and Hidden History<p>Alright, following a two-month delay due to Covid-19 and an initial pre-order run to get my process down, I'm very pleased to FINALLY make "Abandoned New Mexico: Ghost Towns, Endangered Architecture, and Hidden History" available to everybody. Yes, that means there is now a <a href="https://cityofdust.bigcartel.com/" target="_blank">City of Dust web store</a>! There you can order a signed copy of the book directly from me, as well as find a book bundle, signed prints, and one-of-a-kind framed photographs. If you're near Albuquerque, <a href="https://www.visitalbuquerque.org/listing/treasure-house-books-%26-gifts/163/" target="_blank">Treasure House Books & Gifts</a> in Old Town and <a href="https://organicbooks.net/" target="_blank">Organic Books</a> in Nob Hill have copies. We're working on getting the book into more independent shops throughout the state soon, and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Abandoned-New-Mexico-Endangered-Architecture/dp/1634992342" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abandoned-new-mexico-john-m-mulhouse/1136294863" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> are both shipping it now, as well. I'll happily send copies overseas, but postage is expensive (and the book weighs just over a pound!), so it might be worth checking Amazon in your country first...if it operates there.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM_2/Abandoned_NM_front.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="400" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM/Abandoned_NM_front.jpg" /></a></div>The book clocks in at 40,000+ words and 160 pages, and contains 150 photographs. It's broken into eight sections, which include: <p></p><div style="text-align: left;">The Albuquerque Railyards</div><div style="text-align: left;">Central New Mexic </div><div style="text-align: left;">U.S. Highway 6 </div><div style="text-align: left;">The Eastern Plains</div><div style="text-align: left;">Route 66</div><div style="text-align: left;">Southwestern New Mexico</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Old New Mexico State Penitentiary</div><div style="text-align: left;">Northeastern New Mexico</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The initial response has been wonderful and I'm very grateful to everyone that has already bought a copy and/or helped spread the word. There has been a <a href="https://cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM_2/ABQ_Mag.jpg" target="_blank">fun Q & A</a> in Albuquerque The Magazine, <a href="https://cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM_2/NM_Mag_Review.jpg">nice review</a> in New Mexico Magazine, and a <a href="https://cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM_2/ABQ_Journal_Venue.jpg" target="_blank">lovely spread</a> in the Albuquerque Journal's weekly "Venue" supplement.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">All that said, please get in touch if you have any questions or would like to order the book via another means (i.e., Venmo, PayPal, Zelle, cash, check, trade...I take 'em all).</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Also, as the City of Dust blog has been dormant for the two years I've been working on this book (and moving across state lines a couple times, as well), I really, truly hope to resume posting here shortly. 2020 hasn't been kind to plans of almost any type or description, but fingers crossed!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">And with that...please stay tuned!<br /></div>jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-44399884071052776332020-02-29T18:00:00.001-06:002020-04-10T22:25:33.536-05:00Abandoned New Mexico: Ghost Towns, Endangered Architecture, and Hidden History<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM/Abandoned_NM_front.jpg"><br />
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Well, it's been just over two years since the last City of Dust blog post. In that time I've moved from New Mexico to northern Nevada, started a new job, and then started another new job. That's all taken a lot of time, but none of it is really why there hasn't been anything new here since January 8, 2018. What's really demanded my creative attention over the last two years is a book project, now officially titled, "Abandoned New Mexico: Ghost Towns, Endangered Architecture, and Hidden History." Coming in at over 40,000 words and with 150 photos (both color and b&w), this project has not let up since the idea first reared its head in late 2017. But I didn't want to mention the book until I was certain it would actually be published. Jinxing myself and all that.<br />
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So, finally, I can say that this thing is indeed coming out. The publication date is <strike>June 29, 2020</strike> August 29, 2020 (yup, delayed due to Covid-19) and preorders are already available at <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abandoned-new-mexico-john-m-mulhouse/1136294863?ean=9781634992343">BARNES & NOBLE</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Abandoned-New-Mexico-Endangered-Architecture/dp/1634992342/">AMAZON</a>. I will also be selling copies myself when the time comes--signed if you'd like--and maybe with some bundles and other goodies offered.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Abandoned_NM/Abandoned_NM_back.jpg"><br />
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Anyway, I'll be saying more about all this shortly, but for right now I should mention that the book is titled "Abandoned New Mexico" to align with Fonthill Media's current series on ghost towns and derelict buildings called "Abandoned Union." However, the subtitle is much more accurate as while I include true ghost towns, such as Acme/Frazier and Riley/Santa Rita, there are also populated places, including House and Monticello, and historic structures both owned (Melvin Mills Mansion) and operational (St. James Hotel). In the end, I threw in pretty much everything and the kitchen sink, too.<br />
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So with that, please stay tuned and I hope to start posting regularly again here soon. I've certainly got plenty of fresh material on hand. But life demands a lot of attention these days, so we'll still have to take it as it comes for now.<br />
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Thanks to everyone for their continued interest in City of Dust over the last...nearly 16 years! Even though I wasn't posting I never stopped getting fantastic comments and wonderful recollections from many, many people. Again, thank you! jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-50039031487377985312018-01-08T17:33:00.000-06:002020-02-29T22:09:46.727-06:00Music on the Wind: Guadalupe, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Guadalupe/Cordova_01.jpg"><br />
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Since the <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2017/10/nasario-remembers-rio-puerco.html">previous post</a> was a special one on the Río Puerco Valley featuring the recollections of historian and folklorist Nasario García, it only seems appropriate to stay beside the banks of the Puerco and explore the history of Guadalupe, New Mexico, where Mr. García spent his boyhood. This vast, empty landscape, punctuated by mesas, canyons, and volcanic plugs, is one of my favorite areas in the entire state to explore.<br />
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The remains of the village of Guadalupe—also known as Ojo del Padre—are south of San Luis on Country Road 279, which intersects Highway 550 north of San Ysidro. It is remote, requiring a drive of many miles down dirt roads in varying states of maintenance to find it. So much the better then! The village was named for the Virgin of Guadalupe, while the earlier moniker, Ojo del Padre (“spring of the Father”), referred to a nearby water source. Oddly enough, when a post office was opened in 1898 the name used was “Miller,” but no one can remember why. That name lasted until 1905, when the post office became Ojo del Padre.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Guadalupe/Cordova_02.jpg"><br />
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The first thing that one notices upon rounding the corner into Guadalupe, aside from majestic Cabezon Peak looming in the distance, is the wonderful two-story adobe building listing precariously on the side of the road. Built around 1905, this was the home and store of Juan Córdova and it’s often said there was a dance hall behind it. However, Nasario García refers to the lower floor of this ruin as not only a store, but the dancehall itself when the occasion called for it, with Mr. Córdova’s family living upstairs. It’s hard to argue with someone that was there, so perhaps this big adobe, which once had an impressive balcony, served all purposes. However, everyone agrees that the dances at Juan Córdova’s were major events. In the 1920’s, 350 people lived in the immediate area, mostly farming and raising livestock, and these dances, which began at sundown, could go on until four in the morning. Jose Tafoya would play the accordion while his brother Luis handled the guitar.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Guadalupe/House_01.jpg"><br />
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Yet just a short time later, in the early 1930’s, Guadalupe, like so many parts of the country, was hit by staggering drought. A full half of the cattle died. Then, around 1938, the log-and-brush dam which had captured water from the Río Puerco for local irrigation gave way. The government said rebuilding was too expensive a project for federal assistance and the communities along the Puerco were too impoverished to do it themselves. Then throw in the lasting effects of the Great Depression and the lure of employment in larger cities and Guadalupe didn’t really stand a chance. The school, the post office, and Córdova’s store all closed in 1958 as the last family left.<br />
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While a lowered water table and generally challenging landscape have kept people from returning to Guadalupe, you may find a couple folks hanging around. In fact, at least two structures are maintained and lived-in, one being the old schoolhouse. It’s not wise to go roaming around on private property out here, but if you see anyone nearby it’s worth introducing yourself and stating your business. Guadalupe’s few present-day residents are friendly and you’ll usually be given permission to take all the photos you want of the ruins on either side of the road, which include other old adobe homes slowly melting back into the landscape.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Guadalupe/House_02.jpg"><br />
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And that’s most of what I know about the history of Guadalupe. You can find a chapter on Guadalupe in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Towns-Alive-Trips-Mexicos/dp/082632908X">“Ghost Towns Alive: Trips to New Mexico’s Past,”</a> by Linda Harris and another tidbit or two in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">"The Place Names of New Mexico"</a> by Robert Julyan. But I would highly recommend October 2017’s City of Dust post, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2017/10/nasario-remembers-rio-puerco.html">“Nasario García Remembers the Río Puerco,”</a> for some wonderful firsthand accounts. If you want to get deeper into the Río Puerco Valley, Mr. García’s book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hoe-Heaven-Hell-Boyhood-Mexico/dp/082635565X">““Hoe, Heaven, and Hell: My Boyhood in Rural New Mexico,”</a> cannot be recommended highly enough.<br />
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Speaking of getting deeper into the Río Puerco Valley, that always sounds like a good thing to do and so next time we’ll visit Guadalupe’s movie star neighbor, Cabezón, which sits just below the volcanic plug from which it got its name.<br />
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Until then, Happy New(ish) Year!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Guadalupe/Cabezon.jpg">
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-2043750351609807882017-10-08T19:29:00.000-05:002020-02-29T22:11:01.545-06:00Nasario García Remembers the Río Puerco<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Ruins_2.jpg"><br />
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Over the past few years the Río Puerco Valley has become one of my favorite places in New Mexico. About an hour northwest of Albuquerque, with majestic Cabezon Peak always in sight and miles of the Continental Divide Trail close at hand, here you'll find the villages of San Luis, Cabezón, Guadalupe, and Casa Salazar, some of which are essentially ghost towns. No, there aren’t many people around the Puerco Valley anymore and not a lot of its history has been recorded.<br />
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However, one person who has done more than any other to ensure that the Río Puerco Valley is not forgotten is historian and folklorist Nasario García. Raised on the banks of the Puerco, Nasario is the subject of a brand new documentary, “Nasario Remembers the Río Puerco,” and following are four of his stories that do not appear in the film, each recollection inspired by photographs from the area.<br />
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I’m very proud to feature these stories here and I want to thank Director and Producer Shebana Coelho for making this happen, as well as Nasario García himself, of course. The broadcast premier of “Nasario Remembers the Río Puerco” will be this Thursday, October 12, 2017, at 7PM on New Mexico PBS/KNME Channel 5. I’ve seen the movie and it’s truly wonderful. I highly recommend it to all. For more information, visit <a href="http://www.nasarioremembers.com/">Nasario Remembers</a>.<br />
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Now, without further ado, City of Dust presents Nasario García and New Mexico’s Río Puerco Valley:<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Lovato_1.jpg"><br />
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<b>Sal Lovato General Store. Cabezón, New Mexico.</b><br />
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“This store was owned by the Salomón Lovato family. He is one of the contributors to my book, ‘<i>Recuerdos de los Vijeitos</i>.’ You can see where they had different merchandise: canned goods, dried goods and so forth.<br />
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“The kind of merchandise they had in these stores was foodstuff that you could not grow, that you could not raise from the land. Here you came and bought, say, lard, even though that wasn't always the case because there was lard from the <i>matanzas</i>. Baking powder, sugar, salt, and some canned goods started coming into existence, as well as dry cereal such as oatmeal. Also, any number of other things—flour, for example. When corn began to become scarce, people would come in the Lovato Store and buy sacks of flour. Those sacks were very important because once the flour was gone the sacks were used to make blouses for the women, blouses for the young girls. In many cases, a young girl would show up at a dance with a rose on the back of her blouse that came from the flour sack. Nobody really looked at you as being odd. That was the <i>moda</i>—fashionable—among many of the families.<br />
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“I imagine the store was especially busy on weekends. Of course, a lot of Navajos came from the reservation on weekends. Probably the high point of trading was during the lambing season through the sheering of sheep, which was in May and June. The selling of cattle—those who had cattle—occurred in late September or in October, perhaps even early November. People would make money selling their cattle, selling their sheep. Naturally, that's when they would come to buy a lot of merchandise. But it didn't matter the time of year because many merchants sold on credit. People would pay their bills, say, once or twice a year, whenever they sold their sheep, their wool, their cattle.”<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Lovato_2.jpg"><br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Ruins_1.jpg"><br />
<br />
<b>View from Enchanted Mesa Looking Toward Cabezon Peak and Nasario’s Grandpa’s Corral.</b><br />
<br />
“The Enchanted Mesa was right across the Río Puerco from where we lived. That’s the mesa that my paternal grandmother would tell us never to visit because, if we did, we were likely to be turned into goats. My grandmother referred to it as <i>La Mesa Encantada</i>. Many years later, after I left the valley, archaeologists discovered that it was a Chaco Canyon outlier. Now it’s called the Guadalupe Ruins.<br />
<br />
“In the evenings, while we were shucking corn, Grandma Lale—her nickname—would tell us stories with the Enchanted Mesa in sight—stories that had to do with the local culture, the local folklore, such as the white donkey, a rarity among donkeys. As she and my Grandpa Lolo, as we called him, told us, they were coming from the <i>placita</i> at night, perhaps after a dance, when suddenly a white donkey appeared and kept pestering the female horse—<i>la yegua</i>—and my grandmother says, as she's telling the story, ‘Look there, I wonder where it came from.’ My grandpa said, ‘I don't know. I know all the donkeys in the valley and I've never seen a white donkey.’ The donkey kept pestering and pestering. ‘Furthermore,’ says my grandpa, ‘there are no white donkeys around.’ My grandmother says, ‘But I am glad this one's here, because a white donkey means good luck. It doesn't mean evil like a black donkey.’<br />
<br />
“She would weave these stories, and, in the meantime, we are on pins and needles wondering what's going to happen next. At the end of the story, my grandmother asked my grandfather, ‘Now, truly, what do you think about this white donkey?’ They said they’d turned their heads and the donkey was gone. They never saw it leave. It was stories like this that she liked to share with us grandchildren. She had many, many others.”<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Mesa.jpg"><br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Cordova_1.jpg"><br />
<br />
<b>Córdova’s Dancehall. Guadalupe, New Mexico.</b><br />
<br />
“This two-story house was in my village of Guadalupe—Ojo del Padre. The bottom floor was used as a dancehall. This is the only two-story house in the entire Río Puerco Valley that I know of. In fact, today there's probably only a handful left in villages like mine throughout all of New Mexico. This house was built around 1905 by the Juan Córdova family. He was a local merchant. He and his family lived upstairs and downstairs was a store that was periodically turned into a dancehall. There was competition from time to time between this dancehall and the Romero Dancehall. A cousin of mine and I, we were small. I was about seven and my cousin about nine years old. We were supposed to spray water on the dirt floors after every dance because of the dust. Of course, as the men drank more and more and people had more fun, we started bringing in buckets and dousing the floors. By the time the dance was over, these people couldn't move because of all the mud that we had created. My cousin Juan and I had a lot of fun.”<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Cordova_2.jpg"><br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Schoolhouse_1.jpg"><br />
Photo: Shebana Coelho<br />
<br />
<b>One-Room Schoolhouse. Guadalupe, New Mexico.</b><br />
<br />
“This was the one-room schoolhouse where I started school. There were about 25 kids from grades one to eight. There were two windows that faced the mesa, but no windows towards the back. That’s where the blackboard was and where the teacher’s desk sat. And towards the middle of the school there was a potbelly stove that the boys had to keep feeding wood into in the winter to keep the room warm. That was our responsibility. The girls had to keep the little barrel of water full. It was wrapped in burlap with a dipper—<i>jumate</i>—hanging from a nail. We all used the same dipper to drink water. We didn’t even wipe it clean the way priests do today when drinking wine from a chalice.<br />
<br />
“When I started school here, one teacher taught all the grades and she would line up the boys in one row and the girls in another before entering. There were other times when she would start with the bigger kids. They would walk in first and then the little kids. But most of the time she would line up the younger kids—the first, second and third graders—first, and the older kids were at the back of the room. We had desks that seated two students, usually two boys or two girls.<br />
<br />
“The older kids a lot of times would teach the younger how to read, how to do math. So the older kids where helpful. They became teachers. It was very much a communal educational setup. And, believe it or not, we learned. We learned because we learned from one another. Of course, we were supposed to be learning English, but most of us spoke Spanish. When we would read in English we did so with a Spanish accent. We had a book about a dog named Spot. I remember students reading, including myself: “Rrrrrrrrun Espot, rrrrrrrrun.” Because we would pronounce the initial “r” like you would in Spanish and the “s” as in “<i>escribir</i>” —to write. Thus “Rrrrrrun Espot, rrrrrun.”<br />
<br />
“And some of the adobes, as you can see, are still here. The school was called, appropriately, “La Mesa School” because of Black Mesa east of the school.”<br />
<br />
And so some of the adobes do indeed remain in the Río Puerco Valley, if barely, while many are already gone. Of those shown here, the ruins of the one-room schoolhouse were captured by Shebana Coelho, who was kind enough to allow me to include her shots. Somehow I missed those particular adobe and stone walls myself…for now. Sal Lovato's General Store and Juan Córdova's Dancehall were photographed by me, as were the three views from Enchanted Mesa.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Puerco/Schoolhouse_2.jpg">
Photo: Shebana Coelho
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-55758496743169005762017-04-02T23:00:00.001-05:002020-02-29T22:11:46.770-06:00Life is Too Short to be Afraid: Ciudad Juárez, Mexico Pt. II<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Toros.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Ven a los toros</i> - Come to the bulls.)<br />
<br />
Blood spills out on the streets<br />
And bodies are missing for weeks<br />
Both sides keeping a close eye<br />
Watching the bullets fly here<br />
On the crystal frontier – Calexico “Crystal Frontier”<br />
<br />
While my <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2017/02/life-is-too-short-to-be-afraid-ciudad.html">first day</a> in Ciudad Juárez started with a stroll through the pocked neighborhoods around the International Bridge, followed by a history lesson on the city and Mexico itself, the second began as countless others in Juárez surely have: with a Bloody Mary. But getting to that Bloody Mary required a walk past the 112-year-old bullring, <i>Plaza de Toros Alberto Balderas</i>, the oldest building in the city. A newer but even more famous bullring, <i>Plaza Monumental</i>, was torn down in 2006 to make way for a Walmart. Is it better for a bull to die in a ring or end up as a frozen patty in a warehouse chain?<br />
<br />
I won’t answer that question, but I will mention that during the years of greatest violence in Juárez the <i>Plaza de Toros Alberto Balderas</i> remained shuttered, only opening again in 2012. As we were walking past we noticed a couple workers out front of the <i>Plaza de Toros</i> and my tour guide, <a href="http://elchuqueno.com">Rich Wright</a>, asked if we could poke our heads inside. I can’t deny that crouching under the empty stands to peer across the dirt arena at the bull pen door was evocative, but Ernest Hemingway could probably articulate it better than me.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Bullring.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Plaza de Toros Alberto Balderas.)</i><br />
<br />
Leaving the bullring, we walked a short distance to an unmarked, entirely non-descript building at the corner of <i>Madero</i> and <i>Dieciseis</i>. Opening the door was like stepping into another world, possibly from 1921, when the <i>El Recreo</i> opened. All carved, dark wood and hushed shade, <i>El Recreo</i>, the <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/the-second-oldest-bar-in-juarez/">second-oldest bar</a> in Juárez, after the <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2017/02/life-is-too-short-to-be-afraid-ciudad.html">previously-described</a> <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/the-oldest-bar-in-the-paso-del-norte/"><i>Buen Tiempo</i></a>, is the kind of place you don’t see much anymore, complete with bartender in suit and bow tie.<br />
<br />
While the Bloody Mary was delicious, it’s the sotol that may raise an eyebrow at <i>El Recreo</i>. Currently gaining a reputation as the mysterious cousin of tequila and mescal, sotol is made from the plant of the same name, sometimes known as desert spoon, and comes mostly from the state of Chihuahua. Sotol is not an agave, as is often thought, but a member of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dasylirion_wheeleri">asparagus family</a>. The drink is also hard to find; in a city as big as Juárez you will only encounter it in a couple venues. I believe the brand <i>El Recreo</i> serves is <i>El Oro de Coyame</i> and the taste is rough, with plenty of gravitas, the effect perhaps not unlike inhaling campfire smoke that can numb your tongue.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Recreo.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>El Recreo.</i>)<br />
<br />
Back out in the glare of midday it was time to put something in our stomachs. <i>Burritos El Negro</i> was recommended by a passerby and turned out to sport a jarring, baseball cap-wearing mascot not far removed from the age of minstrelsy. The restaurant is located in what was once a bustling tourist area, but the tourists stopped coming when the bullets started flying. While the bullets began to slow in 2011, the tourists have not returned. This near-absence of tourism is part of why you can get a massive, phenomenally tasty chile relleno burrito for about a dollar at <i>Burritos El Negro</i>. Follow a Bloody Mary and bit of sotol with two of them and you may regret it.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Burritos.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Burritos El Negro</i> and its unfortunate mascot.)<br />
<br />
As we walked down a crowded street after lunch, the noisy bustling heightened by the crunch of a truck driving into the back of a packed bus, a man brushed past me and, in a stage whisper, trilled, “<i>Gggrrriinnnggooo</i>,” not condescendingly, but apparently amused. I mentioned this to Rich, who told me, “We’re like unicorns down here.” Indeed, in two days in Ciudad Juárez I didn’t see another American that looked much like me, not even one hunting for a cheap dentist or discount pharmaceuticals.<br />
<br />
I, however, was a tourist, and as such needed a souvenir. What better than a statue of Santa Muerte, or Our Lady of the Holy Death--who is essentially the grim reaper, sickle and all--from the <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2017/02/life-is-too-short-to-be-afraid-ciudad.html"><i>Mercado Cuahtemoc</i></a>?<align left="left"><img align="left" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Muerte.JPG"> Said to currently be attracting more devotees than any other religious figure, Santa Muerte began to gain in popularity as drug violence escalated in Mexico and has found a loyal following among narco-traffickers. Not comfortable praying to the Virgin Mary for your cocaine shipment to arrive safely across the border? Make an offering to Santa Muerte. But Santa Muerte is also for those who feel too dirty and down-and-out to appeal to the usual saints. Or maybe you just want to ask for something that an archangel might frown upon. In fact, the Catholic Church frequently tries to remind people that it considers Santa Muerte blasphemous.<br />
<br />
While I wasn't planning to ask much of Santa Muerte, I did want to cover my bases. You can buy statues in various colors depending on what you’re praying for, but I got a tri-colored one. White, gold, and red should, I believe, provide me with health, wealth, and love. Also, while a gringo like me wouldn’t necessarily know that Santa Muerte should come with additional “magic,” Rich luckily did, and made sure I got it. The vendor then proceeded to coat my statue in what appeared to be baby powder before liberally spraying it with something that smelled a little like floral air freshener. The strange, sickly-sweet concoction eventually leaked through two plastic bags and into my backpack, which I found surprisingly disturbing. But I’d been instructed not to release Santa Muerte for 24 hours to ensure the “magic” was properly absorbed, so I didn’t dare transfer Holy Death to a leak-free bag.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Bottles.JPG"><br />
<br />
(Magic + Coca Cola.)<br />
<br />
With Santa Muerte in tow we walked through an oddly delightful ramshackle alley devoted to Don Quixote, the walls of the buildings covered in graffiti portraying scenes from the 17th century tragi-comedy. Our last stop was <i>El Club 15</i>, named for the number of people that can fit inside. Like <i>El Recreo</i>, it was dark and cool, sold sotol, and featured a well-dressed bartender. The bartender’s name, Chuy, was constantly being called by patrons wanting to have their drinks freshened. Yet, instead of the ornately carved wood of <i>El Recreo</i>, the entirety of the walls and ceiling of <i>El Club 15</i> were covered in dozens of vintage pin-up photos, bare-breasted women from forgotten eras smiling coyly from nearly every surface. A television in the corner played Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompeii film. Cognitive dissonance, or was Juárez becoming a little bit of everything?<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Alley.JPG"><br />
<br />
(Not scenes from Don Quixote.)<br />
<br />
You see, Live at Pompeii was the first VHS tape I ever watched on a VCR, and I wondered what the thirteen-year-old me would think if he’d known that decades later there’d be that same shaggy Nick Mason pounding those same massive drums. But this time that boy was watching "Careful With that Axe, Eugene" in a tiny bar in a city that a handful of years earlier had been dubbed the Murder Capital of the World, surrounded by mid-twentieth century porn, pressed in on all sides by friendly locals speaking a language he couldn't understand very well, while sipping a Jack and Coke, now had in honor of the <i>late</i> Lemmy Kilmister. He might be kind of confused as to just what sort of path had led here, but I’m fairly certain he’d think Ciudad Juárez, a city trying hard to rebuild itself after some very dark times, was well worth exploring in 2017.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_2/Club.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>El Club 15</i> and its trio of vices.)<br />
<br />
Again, many thanks to Rich Wright, who showed me Juárez as I never could’ve seen it otherwise, even if given many years of roaming the streets on my own. I can’t recommend taking one of his walking tours highly enough. More information on those can be found right <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/juarez-walking-tour/">HERE</a>.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-47177900881978431332017-02-26T22:32:00.001-06:002020-02-29T22:12:12.722-06:00Life is Too Short to be Afraid: Ciudad Juárez, Mexico Pt. I<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Bench_1.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>La vida es muy corta para tener miedo</i> - Life is too short to be afraid.)<br />
<br />
Juárez, I had a dream today<br />
The children danced, as the guitars played<br />
And all the violence up and slipped away<br />
Goodnight, Juárez, Goodnight - Tom Russell "Goodnight Juárez"<br />
<br />
Tom Russell recorded Goodnight Juárez in the fall of 2010, and by the end of that year <a href="http://www.cnsnews.com/news/article/more-civilians-killed-last-year-one-mexican-border-town-all-afghanistan">3,111</a> people would be murdered in a city of about 1.4 million. Ciudad Juárez was already coming to be widely known as the Murder Capital of the World and tourism from the north, for many decades so lively, if admittedly often bacchanalian, had effectively ceased in the few years since cartel activity had begun to spike in 2007.<br />
<br />
However, 2010 would represent the bloody peak of brutality and, by 2015, there were just over <a href="http://www.elpasotimes.com/story/news/world/juarez/2016/01/04/homicides-jurez-2015-drop-07-levels/78280942/">300</a> homicides. While it can’t be said that the violence has up and slipped away--and 2016 did see an uptick in killings--Ciudad Juárez is not the place it was several years ago. Yet most of the world hasn’t heard that, or at least doesn’t believe it, which makes Juárez an utterly fascinating, enchanting, and still, at times, sobering city to visit now.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Shrapnel.JPG"><br />
<br />
(Groceries - The Shrapnel.)<br />
<br />
This story starts when, while visiting El Paso in 2013, I ran into a man setting the old clock in San Jacinto Plaza. He told me that he’d given walking tours of Juárez for years and was thinking it was finally safe enough to resume them. On a subsequent visit I tried to see if the tours were being offered and, sure enough, there was a <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/juarez-walking-tour/">webpage</a> touting guided trips to downtown Juárez. “Entertaining! Educational! Fun!” the ad read. And, in the biggest, boldest letters: “SAFE!” That was more than good enough for me. Sadly, it would take another couple years to get myself back again to actually take a tour, but in that time Juárez’s reputation for violence seemed to change almost not at all, even as the death toll continued to decrease.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, Rich Wright, who has been running these tours, was not the man I met in the plaza. But he’s been going to Juárez his entire life, including during the years of greatest bloodshed, and, with a mutual acquaintance or two in the Minneapolis music scene of the ‘90’s, I couldn’t have asked for anyone more <i>simpatico</i>. Did I mention my Spanish is hardly serviceable?<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Taqueria.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Taqueria el Tropíco.</i>)<br />
<br />
We paid our 50 cents to cross the Paso del Norte International Bridge and off we went, stopping to note a spray-painted marker on a train bridge below. This was for Sergio Adrian Hernandez Guereca, a 15-year-old shot there by the U.S. Border Patrol in 2010. A <a href="http://www.npr.org/2017/02/21/515625917/supreme-court-to-decide-if-mexican-nationals-may-sue-for-border-shooting">case</a> to decide whether his family can sue is now at the U.S. Supreme Court, and the scrawled “Sergio” was an immediate reminder that battles do continue to rage, even if in 2017 some of the fiercest may be fought in hushed courtrooms and the shadowed halls of government.<br />
<br />
Once in Juárez, our first stop was Ignacio Mariscal Street, long known as the infamous red-light district, <i>La Mariscal</i>. Rich pointed to an open plaza temporarily filled with brightly-colored amusement park equipment and recalled it lined with ancient bars, a scene now hard to imagine. The demolition is part of a widespread government effort to destroy the haunts of the cartels and generally clean things up, a process which has seen many historic babies going out with the druggy bathwater.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Carnival.JPG"><br />
<br />
(Amusement of a less traditional sort at <i>La Mariscal</i>.)<br />
<br />
Stunning murals covered many of the walls surrounding the plaza, but just before noon on a Friday the amusements were quiet and the plaza itself deserted. So we crossed the walkway to a neighborhood that had not yet been subject to razing or revitalization, which pleased me greatly as among the abandoned buildings was the former home of a brothel called White Lake. It was immortalized in Cormac McCarthy’s <a href="http://www.cormacmccarthy.com/works/cities-of-the-plain/">“Cities of the Plain,”</a> if moved to a somewhat fictionalized location in the city. Nearby a man lay in a crumbling, concrete doorway sleeping, only his feet protruding into the gathering daylight.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/WhiteLake.JPG"><br />
<br />
(Former location of White Lake brothel.)<br />
<br />
The next stop was the <a href="http://www.muref.org/"><i>Museo de la Revolución en la Frontera</i></a>, a wonderful museum housed in the grand old customs building. Tracing the turbulent history of Mexico through the early years of the 20th century, it depicts the frequently harrowing tales of men of great and sometimes dubious intent such as Porfirio Díaz, Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata, and Pascual Oruzco, many of which were photographed in the very same building that now describes their legacy.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Museum_1.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Museo de la Revolución en la Frontera.</i>)<br />
<br />
While much has changed in Juárez, some things have not, and just past noon we found ourselves in <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/the-oldest-bar-in-the-paso-del-norte/"><i>Buen Tiempo</i></a> on Vicente Guerrero, a bar operating continuously since the early 1920’s and thus now the oldest in Juárez, if only barely. With lime-colored walls and <i>No Fumar</i> signs that were hardly being taken as even a remote suggestion, the tequila came in chipped votive candle holders with little crosses on the bottoms and the Indio was cold. People I didn’t know asked me questions I couldn’t always understand and earnestly shook my hand. It all seemed right and proper. From there we headed to <i>Mercado Cuahtemoc</i> and then upstairs for a less liquid lunch. The chips and salsa verde were delicious, as were the chile relleno burritos. At this point, since entering the <i>Buen Tiempo</i>, we probably hadn’t spent 15 Yankee dollars between the two of us.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/BuenTiempo.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>El Buen Tiempo</i>, the oldest bar in Juárez.)<br />
<br />
The afternoon ended with the obligatory stop at the Kentucky Club, said to be the place where the margarita was invented. Once the haunt of the likes of Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, and Steve McQueen, the Kentucky Club bills itself as <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/clint-lanier-and-derek-hembree/exploring-the-world-famou_b_8916624.html">world famous</a> and is sometimes referred to as the oldest bar in Juárez. However, it seems that much that is reportedly true about the Kentucky Club may not be quite so and, in fact, the current building is not the original circa-1920 bar. That one was on Dieciseis, over by the train tracks, and not as close to the border. The margarita was good, no doubt about that, but I was perhaps more impressed by the $2.25 price tag.<br />
<br />
After giving away whatever coins we had left to people gathered around the bridge, we paid our four pesos to get back to America with plans to return the following day for a “less-structured” tour, part of a lucrative syndication package City of Dust has worked out with <a href="http://elchuqueno.com/"><i>El Chuqueño,</i></a> Rich Wright’s excellent blog on El Paso, its environs, and desert living in general. Details of that second trip across the border will be coming up next.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Juarez_1/Dogs.JPG"><br />
<br />
(<i>Los perros de Juárez.</i>)<br />jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-24105397797865271212016-12-11T17:48:00.004-06:002020-03-03T22:16:45.512-06:00A Little Piece of Quiet: Lingo, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/GroceryStore_1.jpg"><br />
<br />
I might as well stop pretending that I’m going to post more regularly and admit that, modern life being what it is, time is always tight, and seemingly ever-increasingly so. However, one way to get new posts written is to take to my sick bed and thus find myself confined to the small space between the bedroom and kitchen table. As such is the case today, let us leave the hustle and bustle of modernity behind once again and step back into the past, this time to visit Lingo, New Mexico.<br />
<br />
The little village of Lingo, which can still claim at least one family as residents, is on the eastern edge of New Mexico, just five miles from Texas. It’s a tiny dot on the map at the western extremity of the staggeringly vast Llano Estacado/Staked Plain plateau. As such, it sits among some other places we’ve visited in the region, such as <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/10/a-lively-and-energetic-place-pep-new.html">Pep</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/10/in-shadow-of-buffalo-hunters-causey-new.html">Causey</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/11/on-edge-of-staked-plain-house-nm.html">House</a>, and <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2016/02/get-motor-running-highway-new-mexico.html">Highway</a>.<br />
<br />
<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/GroceryStore_2.jpg"><br />
<br />
Jean M. Burrough’s “Roosevelt County History and Heritage” leads off with a handwritten letter about the Bilberry family’s arrival in what was not yet Lingo. They lived in a “two-room shack, dirt floor” and Finis Bilberry farmed and raised sheep. School was first held in 1916, the schoolhouse being a one-room dug-out at a place regrettably named Nigger Hill. Also known as Dead Negro Hill, this was where, in July 1877, a group of African-American soldiers and buffalo hunters abandoned their pursuit of some Comanche who had stolen stock and killed one hunter. Desperate and dying of thirst in the summer heat, the men began to search for water, some going 86 hours without a drink. Five would die in this incident, which was sometimes remembered as the “Staked Plains Horror." Finally, in 2005, the name of the rise was officially changed to Buffalo Soldier Hill.<br />
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Speaking of place names, in <a href="http://www.unmpress.com/books.php?ID=542">“The Place Names of New Mexico,”</a> Robert Julyan notes that Lingo was known as Need in 1916, becoming Lingo in 1918. No one knows why it was originally called Need, but in 1918 the postal authorities thought the name too close to Weed, a settlement down south in Otero County. At that point, not only did Need become Lingo, but the post office got moved three miles to the north. I don’t know why the post office also had to move. Anyway, it’s been speculated that Lingo took its name from the way the people spoke (i.e., “the jargon, slang, or argot, of a particular field, group, or individual”), but more probably it references a family, now forgotten. <br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/PostOffice_1.jpg"><br />
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Now, I often feel like City of Dust is in a race against dusty oblivion as so many of the buildings documented on this blog are disappearing fast, and those in Lingo are no different. But unlike <a href=http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-tale-of-three-lucys-lucy-nm.html">Lucy, NM,</a> where I got there too late to photograph the old school or the Formwalt house, in this case I arrived just in the nick of time.<align left="left"><img align="left" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/PostOffice_2.jpg"> Shown above and at left is the post office, where around 1953 a Mrs. Balko was postmistress. Mrs. Fanny Brown took the position on April 20, 1968, staying until the post office closed in 1984 (possibly on November 2). I visited on December 12, 2015 and on Valentine's Day 2016 the old PO burned to the ground. Apparently someone was driving a pick-up with a BBQ grill in the back and hot coals became airborne. Numerous blazes were started, consuming a total of 1,083 acres in southeastern Roosevelt County, but at least no one was hurt and no other structures were damaged.<br />
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Below is the crumbling Lingo Baptist Church, reportedly also used by other denominations on occasion, possibly after a second church in town closed. The general store is shown at the top of this post. Other buildings included a café, hardware store, basketball gym, and a shop in a Quonset hut, none of which still stand.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/Church.jpg"><br />
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Fish fries and dances were held at the high school, which was across the street from the post office. The dances were a big deal as such stuff was not allowed in nearby <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/10/in-shadow-of-buffalo-hunters-causey-new.html">Causey</a>. However, Causey was where you would go to get your hair styled by the much-loved Lingo resident Edna Ashbrook. Lingo’s last graduating class was in 1945 and numbered five: Meryl Terry, Pete Rogers, Billy Joe Cunningham, Otis Foster, and Gene Collins. You can still find the blacksmith shop, but it’s fallen into a jumbled heap. Things are certainly much quieter than when Lingo could boast of the Hair twins--Judson and Jettie--and the Henry triplets--Anna, Bunna, and Lanna--although, you know, sometimes quiet can be nice.<br />
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Now I must return to my Theraflu.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Lingo/House.jpg"><br />
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The only published sources of information on Lingo that I could find were Burrough’s <a href="http://www.high-lonesomebooks.com/pages/books/27594/jean-m-burroughs/roosevelt-county-history-and-heritage">“Roosevelt County History and Heritage”</a> and Julyan’s <a href="http://www.unmpress.com/books.php?ID=542">“The Place Names of New Mexico.”</a> Wikipedia has a long entry on the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_Soldier_tragedy_of_1877">“Buffalo Soldier tragedy of 1877.”</a> Everything else for this post came from the many good people that left their recollections of growing up and living in Lingo on a series of photographs on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/">City of Dust Facebook page</a>. Those photos and the accompanying comments can be found <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/a.251923124956264.1073741828.251915061623737/583867191761854/?type=3&theate">HERE</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/a.251923124956264.1073741828.251915061623737/584235785058328/?type=3&theater">HERE</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/a.251923124956264.1073741828.251915061623737/595522880596285/?type=3&theater">HERE</a>, and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/a.251923124956264.1073741828.251915061623737/605332829615290/?type=3&theater">HERE</a>. jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-10423930247700751012016-07-31T22:25:00.000-05:002020-03-03T22:15:05.647-06:00Empty Desks: Contreras, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Contreras/School_1.jpg"><br />
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In Socorro County, New Mexico, tucked off a side road that parallels I-25, not far from a muddy stretch of the Rio Grande, is the little village of Contreras. This was where a man named Matías Contreras once raised cattle and sheep and gave his name to a small community. A post office opened in 1919 but closed in 1935.<br />
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Not far south of Contreras is La Joya, the literal end of the road, and, in fact, a map from 1918 has Contreras as Los Ranchos de la Joya. La Joya’s recorded history post-European contact goes back much farther, to 1598, when Juan de Oñate's expedition found a Piro Indian pueblo there and called it Nueva Sevilleta because the setting reminded the Spanish explorers of Seville, Spain.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Contreras/School_2.jpg"><br />
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To me, the most striking building in Contreras is the old, long-empty school, naturally. I don’t know much about it, but I do know that students were attending classes there in the 1930’s. So perhaps it's one of the many Works Progress Administration (WPA) structures built in the area around the time of the Great Depression. Nearby Alamillo has a WPA school that became (and might still be) a residence, although it looks quite different.<br />
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There used to be a plaque to the right of the front doors (see top photo), which I somehow managed to miss. Later I was told it commemorated some local folks involved with the school, but before I could get back to look more closely it had been removed. I don’t think it was stolen though; probably it was taken off because the building is in such poor condition. Maybe whoever has it will read this and tell us what it says! I should mention that I photographed the school a few years ago and not only is it in worse shape now, it's also been fenced-off.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Contreras/School_3.jpg"><br />
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Otherwise, the San Jose Catholic Church, part of Our Lady of Sorrows Parish, is well-maintained and hosts a fiesta in March. There are no going commercial or civic concerns, but there are some well-kept homes and, if you visit whilst under the vengeful eye of the relentless afternoon sun on a parched, triple-digit day, plenty of dust. Of course, as this is the blog for connoisseurs of dust, everything is as it should be with this trip to Contreras, New Mexico.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Contreras/Church.jpg"><br />
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There’s not a lot out there on Contreras, so pretty much all the historical information for this post came from Robert Julyan’s trusty <a href="http://www.unmpress.com/books.php?ID=542">“The Place Names of New Mexico.”</a><br />
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I have a backlog of so many small towns and villages in New Mexico that I may well never get to them all at this rate. But I can keep trying! Next time I’ll just reach my hand into the hat and see what I pull out.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Contreras/School_4.jpg">
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-56997202550773726762016-05-31T21:20:00.054-05:002024-02-20T09:31:15.612-06:00The Ruins by the Rails: Ricardo, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_1.jpg"><br />
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<i>MARCH 2023 UPDATE: I am beyond thrilled to be able to make available here one of only two known firsthand descriptions of life in Ricardo, New Mexico. This account, spanning from 1908-1916, is contained within Zorene Thompson's wonderful memoir, <a href="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Our-Little-House-on-the-Prairie_Thompson-Zorene.pdf">"OUR LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE."</a> In addition, there's an <a href="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Our-Little-House-on-the-Prairie_Addendum-Chap-5.pdf">ADDENDUM TO CHAPTER 5</a>, which goes deeper into the story of Della Carley, who shot two people at the Ricardo post office in 1912. To download the PDF's, just right-click on the file names above and do the ol' "Save Link As..." trick. A big City of Dust thank you is due to Zorene Thompson's son, Ray Mack Thompson, for assembling his mother's rare story and making it available to all, a true labor of love! Thanks also to Jacalyn Carley, the granddaughter of Della Carley, for generously providing a chapter from her own family's history in Ricardo!<br /></i>
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Ricardo, New Mexico, is yet another of the many towns that came to life seemingly overnight as the <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2010/01/train-i-ride.html">Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad</a> (AT&SF RR) built the Belen Cut-off through the east-central part of the state. Located in De Baca County, a few miles south of <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2011/12/life-and-death-by-railroad-yeso-new.html">Highway 60</a>, the recorded history of Ricardo appears to be scant at best. The village’s name is thought to have been that of a railroad official, and Ricardo, right along the tracks, was an AT&SF RR section house and water station.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_NM_depot.jpg"><br />
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Sadly, on the night of May 6, 1908, a massive fire started in the large Grosh and Strayhorn store, spreading to the Ricardo Hotel, the barbershop, and most of the town. The <i>Santa Fe New Mexican</i> said that Ricardo was "reduced to ashes." However, rebuilding commenced, and the post office opened the same year, doing business until 1956, after which point the mail went to Fort Sumner. There was also a schoolhouse, which I’ve been told was comparable in size to the <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2012/01/whiskey-and-devil-taiban-new-mexico.html">First Presbyterian Church of Taiban</a>. In the late-1950s, the school was purchased and hauled away so the lumber could be reused. A vintage photo of the train depot would seem to indicate that Ricardo at one point had "the one and ONLY flower garden" in De Baca County.<br />
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While virtually none of Ricardo is as it was (the post office became part of a ranch home; a general store collapsed), one gem does persist—at least for now—and that is a wonderful and spacious two-story rock and plaster structure, which may have been contructed in 1908 as a tuberculosis sanatorium that never held any patients.<align left="left"><img align="left" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_2.jpg"> In the late 1920s, it's said that locomotive firemen who provided assistance shoveling coal to get freight trains up the long hill to <a href="https://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2013/06/cross-road-blues-vaughn-new-mexico.html">Vaughn</a> were briefly stationed here. It was headquarters to the adjacent ranch, as well. A later renovation for a family home was found to be impossible and now it is quite near collapse. However, having become the lone sentinel over this small part of the eastern plains, much of its old charm and majesty somehow remains. It’s not hard to imagine a family tending the stone walkway, or perhaps lounging on the porch of a fine spring morning, the wildflowers blooming way-off into the distance. If you’re quiet, beneath the prairie wind you can almost hear boots slowly climbing the shattered wooden stairs.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_3.jpg"><br />
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You don’t have to be quiet to hear cows though, a couple dozen of which may be quite excited to see you until they learn you have no food. Then they just seem vaguely hostile. I assume the concrete structure below was once used to water such cattle, but I’m not certain. Perhaps someone can provide some insight.<br />
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I should also mention that not only is Ricardo remote, it's on private ranchland. At one time I thought it might've been owned by the railroad, but that's not the case. So unless you have an invitation and a way with cows, it is best not to just show up on the porch of the last house in Ricardo.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_4.jpg"><br />
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And that's all I know about the ghost town of Ricardo. I would love to hear more from anyone that might have something to tell, so please leave a comment if you do. For now, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico”</a> has the most to say, and I picked up a bit more info from some knowledgeable viewers of the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm">City of Dust Facebook page</a>. The short news piece, "Fire Wipes Out Ricardo," was published by the <i>Sante Fe New Mexican</i> on May 8, 1908. I got the vintage photo from NM ghost town photographer <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeaCerto/">Beata Certo</a>, but no one knows the original source. Anyway, thanks, folks!<br />
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Next time I believe we’ll visit Contreras, down in <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2012/08/back-at-ranch.html">Socorro County</a>.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Ricardo/Ricardo_5.jpg">
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-44295943002628404062016-04-17T16:54:00.000-05:002020-03-03T22:12:29.739-06:00The War Correspondent<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_01.jpg"><br />
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Despite the photo from Cedarvale, New Mexico above, this isn't a ghost town piece. Instead it's yet another story to fill in the time between my all-too-infrequent posts. This one is called...<br />
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THE WAR CORRESPONDENT<br />
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“You’re married? You’re fucking <i>married</i>?!”<br />
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I’m nearly—finally—asleep when suddenly a girl yelling in the room above mine jolts me back awake. My first reaction is one of pure anger. I haven’t slept in a very long time, and for the last 12 hours I’ve been nearly frantic to close my eyes. I’d driven over 36 hours straight with only a couple of quick naps at rest stops along the way. Out of nowhere Monday morning we needed to get a load immediately from our warehouse in Provo, Utah down to near Miami and my regular rig, which I could at least sleep in comfortably, was getting transmission work. All that was left to drive was a beat-up box truck, and between that and the tight deadline, decent sleep had not been in the cards. But I’d dropped off the load, gotten a quick bite, and checked into some place called the American Economy Inn not far from the beach to get my head down before starting the long haul back in the morning. So, I’m pissed to be awake. However, in another instant, curiosity takes hold.<br />
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“Oh my God!” yells the girl. Then an octave higher: “<i>Oh! My! God!</i>”<br />
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The man’s voice is deep and hard to understand through the floor. It sounds even and steady though. He’s trying to calm her down. There’s some stomping and another “Oh my God!” My stomach tightens and I’m ashamed of myself. Why should I feel anything for these people? I just want to be asleep. I hear the man again and make out a few words. “Baby.” “Her.” “You.” “Sorry.” I could fill in the rest myself if I wanted to.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_02.jpg"><br />
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Then there’s a crash and I wait for the inevitable. Real screaming. Harder stomping. All followed by a door slamming and then, maybe, a chance to get some shut-eye. I hope it won’t drag on too long, but then minutes pass with no sound at all. I listen harder, which only increases my wakefulness. Still nothing. Then there’s the unmistakable slow, rhythmic squeak of the bedsprings of a cheap motel mattress. Listening to other people have sex can be infuriating or depressing and in this case it’s both. So I turn on the light and put on my jeans and boots. The clock says 1:43AM. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, though there’s nothing remotely unbelievable about it. I wish I could call the guy’s wife. Not that I’m overly concerned about morality here, mind you, I just want some sleep.<br />
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There’s nowhere else to go so I get in the truck and turn on the radio. Two men are discussing ISIS in serious, somber tones. Where they come from, what they believe, how much money they have. In my exhaustion I’m struck by the thought that the modern world of dingy motels and run-of-the-mill adultery is going to have its hands full for quite some time battling the ancient world of religious martyrdom and apocalypse.<br />
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I listen to the radio for a while and must somehow eventually fall asleep because when I open my eyes I can see a thin paling of the darkness along the horizon just above the ocean. The clock on the radio says 4:52AM and a different man is talking about the weekend’s upcoming football games. My back and neck are stiff and I struggle to move as the blood painfully returns to my numb left arm, which has been pressed against the door. I turn the key, worried that the radio will have killed the battery, but the truck fires right up. So I cut the ignition, switch off the radio, and haul myself out of the cab. I’m too disoriented now to properly focus my anger on the couple upstairs as I stumble through the pre-dawn humidity back to my room where I sit on the bed, pull off my boots and jeans, and at last tumble into sweet oblivion.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_03.jpg"><br />
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Only the oblivion doesn’t stay sweet for long. Soon I’m dreaming that I’m wandering on a darkened battlefield amongst smoldering craters and mangled military equipment. Yet I can see no one either alive or dead. In my left hand is a camera and in my right a microphone but there’s nobody to speak to or document. I am too late for the war. The sense of failure is shattering, like I’ve let the entire world down. All those who might’ve fought here will go unnoticed and unremembered. As I walk slowly through the wreckage a hard, cold rain starts to fall, and the muddy ground begins to run with what looks like blood. But just as I’m about to scream I’m awoken yet again, this time by a knock on the door.<br />
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“Housekeeping!” I raise myself off the pillow and for a moment can’t recall where I am. Another knock: “Housekeeping!” The clock on the stand says 9:41AM.<br />
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“Not yet,” I answer, hardly recognizing my own wracked voice. “Half an hour, please.”<br />
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“Okay, sir,” is the reply through the door. “Sorry to disturb you, sir.”<br />
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I listen to the cart move further down the hall and then get out of bed and into the shower. In less than 30 minutes I’m walking across a sand-strewn parking lot toward the Flamingo Restaurant, a run-down 60’s-era joint next to the motel, with a voucher for a $5 breakfast. I sit on a faded pink stool at the blue and gold spangled counter, drink some coffee, and eat two runny eggs while I try to pull myself together. I think about how I didn’t plan on being a truck driver. I know plans don’t really mean much in life, but I never even made it to college. Then Cody came along before I’d turned 23 and that was that. I don’t mean to make it sound like Cody was the end of anything though. Really, he was the beginning. At 17, a junior in high school, he’s already a better man that I’ll ever be and I can’t claim any credit for that. He’s his own person, thankfully. For the last 10 years he’s lived with his mother and I’ve helped out as best I could. At first I’d visit only when I felt able to face him and his mom. It was harder when he was small, but it feels like it’s getting easier now. I’m grateful for that.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_04.jpg"><br />
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After breakfast I get in the truck and am about to hit the road when my phone rings. It’s my boss, Lindy.<br />
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“Dan, that was nice driving the last couple days. Damn heroic.”<br />
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“Thanks,” I reply. “I guess it was one for the books.”<br />
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“Sure enough. You made everyone happy.”<br />
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I almost laugh at that, but don’t.<br />
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“Listen,” continues Lindy, “take your time getting back. Find a couple places to stay. Some nice places. But, you know, maybe not <i>too</i> nice.” I do laugh at that. It doesn’t seem like there could possibly be a nice place between where I’m sitting and home. “And take the weekend off. In fact, I don’t want to see you ‘til Tuesday.”<br />
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I’ve worked for Lindy for eight years, often putting in six day weeks—sometimes even seven—and he’s always been good to me in return. It means something these days. It’s why I’ve stuck around.<br />
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“Thanks,” I tell him. “I appreciate that.” And I do.<br />
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“I know,” he says. “And I appreciate you handling this run. Now get back here safe.”<br />
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I tell Lindy I will and hang up. With the weekend free I figure I should give Cody a call and see what he’s up to. I make a mental note to do that later, telling myself not to let it slip like I have so many times before.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_05.jpg"><br />
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There’s a lot of road ahead of me. I’m still tired and I’d like to put in at least 10 hours before taking Lindy up on his offer. The sun sits low out over the water, gathering power. Happily, traffic is very light and moving fast. I get up to 80, about as fast as the old box truck will go, and start making good time. I’m fiddling with the radio, trying to avoid the news, when a car up ahead changes to the right lane without looking, pushing the car next to it off the highway. Then the first driver overcorrects in an attempt to get back into the left lane, slides sideways, and flips completely over, landing upside down at the bottom of an overgrown embankment. The other car has also flipped, but landed right side up on a flat spot near a swampy depression off the road farther back, its roof crushed.<br />
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I pull onto the shoulder and jump out of the cab. I smell the acrid tang of burned rubber. A puff of black smoke hangs in the air. A woman is screaming from the car that’s upright, but everything seems strangely quiet and still. I call 911 and tell them there’s been a serious accident. I give my best guess at the mile marker number and even though the operator tells me to stay on the line I hang up. The woman continues screaming, but I’m closer to the other car, so I run to that one, already breaking a sweat. At first I can see no movement inside. In the driver’s seat a man is strapped into his safety belt, hanging upside down against the roof. I kneel in the tall grass and yank on the door. It opens and I reach for him. He’s dazed and bleeding badly but alive. Then he opens his eyes wide and yells, “My son! My son!” He waves his hand toward the passenger seat but the child is actually lying on the roof, near the rear window, completely still. So much blood covers the man’s face that he can’t see his boy.<br />
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“He’s here, sir,” I say, surprised at how calm I sound. “I’m going to help him first.”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_06.jpg"><br />
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I run around the back of the car and smell gas. I know cars don’t usually blow up like you see on TV, but if there are fumes then the fuel system might no longer be sealed, and it occurs to me that maybe the vehicle is combustible. I kneel to get at the rear door handle and pull. The door is jammed, but I feel it give slightly so I try harder. It finally opens and I gently pick up the boy. He is perhaps six or seven and there is no blood on him at all. I think he must be dead but then his chest rises weakly. With the man’s son in my arms I run from the car to the grassy slope of the embankment by the highway and gently set him down in a patch of sparse vegetation. Some people have gathered and a middle-aged woman crouches beside me. She says she’s a nurse and begins to look at the boy. Without saying a word I get up to return to the man and it’s only then that I realize the woman in the other car is still screaming. Another man is trying to get her out of her vehicle, but I run back to the upside-down car and a third man follows me. This man and I work together to extricate the driver, whose scalp I now see has been partly torn from his skull, likely after hitting the spider-webbed windshield. He lapses in and out of consciousness as we undo the seatbelt carefully so he does not tumble onto the roof. The smell of gas is much stronger.<br />
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Quickly covered in the driver’s blood we slide him from the car. His left arm hangs limply from his side and it looks like his collarbone has been broken. We slowly carry him to the grassy slope and, as we do, I see the other man carrying the woman in his arms. She has not stopped screaming, but somehow it has become mechanical, the sound almost disembodied. The ground is wet in that direction and the man lifts his legs high to free them from the mud with each step as he moves towards us. We all converge on the slope and the woman is also covered in blood, a white stump of bone sticking through her thigh below her torn dress.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_07.jpg"><br />
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Finally I hear sirens growing closer and the state patrol arrives. Next come ambulances and a firetruck. We all step aside and let the paramedics get to work. Some firemen inspect the vehicles and then the firetruck begins to douse the car that’s upside-down. The injured woman suddenly goes quiet and is loaded into an ambulance. The man and his son are put in other ambulances. Bystanders begin to wander back to their cars. With traffic reduced to one lane, a line of vehicles snakes into the distance. Having seen the entire accident, I’m asked by the state patrol to provide a report. The officer goes through some questions and since there isn’t all that much to tell it’s over quickly. I’m given some forms to fill out with my contact information and it’s hard to keep the pen steady. Investigators arrive with measuring tools and tow trucks ease their way off the highway toward the crumpled vehicles. No one says, “Good work,” or “Nice job.” I’m not certain that I’ve done the right thing. Should I have done more? Should I have done less? I simply don’t know.<br />
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Then I walk to my truck and find the man who helped the woman doubled over behind it, vomiting. I try to light a cigarette but begin shaking and have difficulty getting the lighter to flame. The man straightens, wiping his chin with a sleeve, and I ask him if he wants a smoke. “I quit years ago,” he says, but an instant later reaches for the outstretched pack. Somehow I manage to light us both up and we stand there silently watching the wreckers and policemen. I’m quickly down to the filter and then all I can think to say is, “Be safe.” The man nods and replies, “You, too.” I climb into the truck and ease slowly into traffic that stretches far back along the highway, where tragedy comes fast and often.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_08.jpg"><br />
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It doesn’t take too many miles before I know that I need to get off the road. I’m halfway across the parking lot of a Super 8 when I remember there’s a lot of blood on my clothes. The woman at the front desk eyes me warily until I explain that I was just at the scene of an accident.<br />
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“Oh my god!” she exclaims. “A couple ambulances went past half an hour ago. That’s an awful stretch out there. Wrecks all the time. Bad ones.”<br />
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I ask if she’s heard anything about the people that were injured, but she hasn’t. She gives me a room for half price and even though it’s on Lindy anyway I don’t dismiss the gesture.<br />
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I take a long, hot shower and get dressed. I walk outside to the dumpster and toss my bloody clothes inside. Then I call Cody. The sun is setting and the steady woosh of cars off Interstate 75 mixes with the voices of travelers around me.
“Hey, Dad,” answers Cody after a few rings.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_09.jpg"><br />
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“Hi, buddy. How are you?”<br />
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“Pretty good. What’s up?”<br />
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“Well, you know, I just got the, uh, weekend off.” My voice is unsteady, all adrenaline now completely drained from my system. “You wanna go to the football game Sunday?”<br />
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“Sure,” he says. “Sounds good.”<br />
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“Alright, I’ll, um, try to get us some tickets and, uh, call you Saturday.”<br />
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A few seconds pass.<br />
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“Dad?”<br />
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“Yeah?”<br />
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“Are you okay? You sound kinda funny.”<br />
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All at once I’m afraid I might start crying. Hard. Like maybe I won’t be able to stop. I take a breath. “It’s been a tough day.”<br />
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“A bad one?”<br />
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“Yeah.” I press my fingers to my eyes. “Pretty bad.”<br />
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“You want to talk about it?”<br />
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“I do.” And that’s the truth. Still, I can’t. Not just then. “But I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Give you the full report.”<br />
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“Okay. Where are you, anyway?”<br />
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“Florida.”<br />
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Cody laughs. “Florida?! No wonder you’ve had a bad day. Florida sucks.”<br />
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I smile. “Yeah.” Then I hesitate, like I always do, a weakness inherited from my own father. But I make sure I get the words out: “Love ya, buddy.”<br />
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“Love you, too, Dad.”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_10.jpg"><br />
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I walk back to my room and lie down on the bed. I listen to the clock radio—the oldies station—as a patch of sunlight travels across the carpet. Then the room is filled with shadows, and finally it goes dark as Carole King sings me to sleep. Never once do I hear so much as a peep from upstairs.<br />
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The next morning I wake up starving. I have plenty of carbohydrates and a cup of scalded coffee at the continental breakfast and then I’m back on the road. It’s still early and I turn the radio on. Overnight there have been mass killings in three more countries. Suicide attacks. Car bombs. Retaliations upon retaliations. I think about the tragedies within those tragedies, the battles waged in individual lives, no less important because they go unrecorded. Could anybody’s god stand to bear witness to them all? I turn off the radio and get ready for a long piece of I-75. I give the rattling box truck a little more gas. I’m heading for home, the fighting over for now.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Correspondent/Correspondent_11.jpg"><br />
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If you like this kind of thing, there's more <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Loss-Words-Other-Stories-Excerpts/dp/1505922429">HERE</a>. And <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-real-desert.html">HERE</a>. And <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/06/independence-day.html">HERE</a>, too.<br />
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The photos were all taken over the last couple years with a <a href="https://www.lomography.com/magazine/9532-woca-120g">WOCA 120G</a> that does what it wants no matter how much Gorilla Tape I put on it.
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-26935553540927392102016-04-13T21:28:00.000-05:002020-03-03T22:09:17.223-06:00Little Place on the Prairie: Dunlap, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Dunlap/Dunlap_1.jpg"><br />
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The Homestead Act of 1862 was an attempt by the U.S. government to entice citizens to open up the West by offering 160 surveyed acres in exchange for a five-year commitment to reside on the property. Untold numbers of people who couldn’t afford their own farms and ranches or struggled at difficult factory jobs in crowded cities thought that sounded pretty good, and they quickly hitched up their wagons or hopped on a train.<br />
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This sometimes isolated and remote land was often accepted sight-unseen by would-be homesteaders and, while many did find fields fertile for farming, others did not. Some then tried to eke out a living as best they could; others got right back on the next train heading in the direction from which they’d just come. While the history of Dunlap, New Mexico doesn’t go back quite as far as 1862, it's in the homesteading spirit that those who settled here came to find themselves in this sparsely populated part of the eastern plains.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Dunlap/Dunlap_2.jpg"><br />
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It was W.O. Dunlap who founded the town in De Baca County, about 35 miles southwest of Fort Sumner, and gave it its name. He scouted parcels for incoming homesteaders and a community developed. In 1907, a post office opened. However, as the years passed, many in Dunlap began to find it harder and harder to survive off this land, and most eventually left. Most that is, but not all. In fact, Dunlap persists as a small, close-knit rural community to this day.<br />
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The post office closed in 1961, possibly taking the general store with it. Now no evidence of either remains. And, really, it’s the lone building they once stood next to, the Dunlap Community Church and School, which was for many years the heart of this area. Worship, academic instruction, community discussions, and just plain-old get-togethers all happened in this little place on the prairie.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Dunlap/Dunlap_3.jpg"><br />
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There's little documentation of Dunlap that I can find, and perhaps the best look back has come from a couple people who grew up there and shared their memories on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/pb.251915061623737.-2207520000.1460594908./506838049464769/?type=3&theater">City of Dust Facebook page</a>. I hope they won’t mind my including their words here and might even approve of this brief history of a place of which they clearly remain quite fond.<br />
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"Our ranch was the closest to the school. Once one of the teachers lived in our bunkhouse. Miss McCoy, I believe. My mother played the piano for all the plays and programs! No one's mentioned the dances! Hot times Dunlap!<br />
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“My family and our friends share a long memory of a uniquely close life in an isolated area but the memories of those times do not fade at all in my heart.” SS<br />
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“My family homesteaded and ranched in this area, and my grandmother, her brother, and my dad all attended school here. Dunlap was the hub of the ranching community. Dances and other social events were held in that building. It was a school, church, and community gathering place. There was also a post office and general store there.<br />
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"My grandmother used to ride her horse--or drive a horse and buggy--to the school. My dad, his cousins, and several friends all attended school there until they completed 8th grade, when they transferred to different high schools. My dad's last year there was around 1955. I last attended a church service there in the early 1980's, right before I left for college.” JDW<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Dunlap/Dunlap_4.jpg"><br />
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Some wonderful photos from 20 years ago, when the Dunlap Community Church and School was in much better condition (and still had the piano!), can be found at <a href="https://atsfinroswell.wordpress.com/2015/04/03/somewhere-in-eastern-new-mexico-sits-this-intriguing-structure/">AT&SF in Roswell</a>. I highly recommend taking a look. And I’m not just saying that because City of Dust gets a mention!<br />
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Thanks very much to JDW and SS for providing the kind of remembrances you can’t find through Google. If anybody else would like to leave recollections, please do so. Additional info for this post came from Robert Julyan’s trusty <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico.”</a> You can find a synopsis of a 1996 interview with W.O. Dunlap's grandson, Ralph, <a href="http://www.nmfarmandranchmuseum.org/oralhistory/detail.php?interview=144">HERE</a>. Finally, I should mention that the land on which the Dunlap Church and School sits is privately owned. Feel free to contact me if you would like further information.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Dunlap/Dunlap_5.jpg"><br />jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-74787132209992447622016-03-01T15:48:00.000-06:002020-03-03T22:08:50.480-06:00A Tale of Two Towns: Acme & Frazier, NM<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_1.jpg"><br />
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Those of you who are fans of the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote might be excited to hear that there was once a town in New Mexico named Acme. However, the corporation which lent its name to the place made cement blocks not jet-propelled unicycles. In the early 1900’s, the Acme Gypsum Cement Company built a mill slightly south of the Clovis Highway (supplanted by present-day U.S. 70), 17 miles northeast of Roswell, where aliens would later badly botch a saucer landing.<br />
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In 1907, the Acme School commenced lessons from inside a tent. Later, a one-room frame and plaster school was built on the western edge of town, placed so as to keep the students away from the dust and smoke of the mill. Grades 1-8 were taught and kids had to bring their own books and supplies, along with their lunches.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_2.jpg"><br />
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Acme boasted a hotel, large horse barn, general store, depot, and some company houses for workers. Its post office opened in 1906 and closed in 1946, by which time the Acme Gypsum Cement Co. had been out of business for ten years. When the mill closed, it was estimated that there were 30-40 people in Acme, of which 20 were children. Now there is nothing left of Acme at all, except for the cemetery, which is north of U.S. 70, half a mile away from where the mill once crunched gypsum.<br />
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One hundred meters from what doesn’t remain of Acme is the photogenic ruin of the Frazier School. So close together that some people seem not to distinguish between Acme and Frazier, their existence overlapped slightly. Frazier was established later and survived longer...but not <i>too</i> much longer. Frazier’s post office opened in 1937, a year after the Acme mill closed. That same year the Frazier School was built. Funeral services were also held in the school since the Acme Cemetery was nearby. I assume that anyone who died in Frazier was also buried in the Acme Cemetery. I also assume funerals weren’t held during class, unless mortuary science was on the curriculum.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_3.jpg"><br />
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Now, Frazier was a community of folks trying to make it through the ongoing effects of the Great Depression as best they could. Many of those who worked at the Acme Gypsum Cement Co. had moved on and almost the only employment in the area was to be found in the dusty, meagre soil of the eastern plains. Some ranchers did have cattle, and one enterprising rancher is said to have herded turkeys as if they were sheep. Coyote skins could be sold at Bond-Baker Wool and Hide Co. for $1.50-$5.00 per pelt, and the meat of a cottontail rabbit might be worth $1.00. Still, many families lived in dugouts or other similarly challenging shelter.<br />
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Yet these homesteaders wanted their children to receive a good education. So, it was C.M. Martin, the Chaves County superintendent, who designated that a new school, larger than the one in Acme, be built on land donated by Otis L. Shields. Then Lake J. Frazier secured a contract with the Works Progress Administration for construction, and thus both the school and the community were named for him. This would be the last one-teacher school built in Chaves County.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_4.jpg"><br />
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Stones were gathered from the area for building material, and black volcanic rocks framed the windows and doors. White rocks were used to create a five-point star above the front doors, and a steer’s head with longhorns was set in the eastern wall. There was one double-size room with a smaller room on each side partitioned by double doors. There was no electricity, but six large north-facing windows let in lots of sunlight (see photo above). Nor was there running water, but a stone tower out back contained a cistern on top, as well as coal storage below. “WATER” was spelled-out in volcanic rock along the tower’s top (see photo below). Mesquite roots augmented the coal supply when it came to providing heat. Teachers were required to check the route for rattlesnakes before allowing a child to use the outhouse.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_5.jpg"><br />
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As soon as it was completed, pupils attending the Acme School moved to the Frazier School, as did their teacher, Margaret Harrison. There were 24 kids that first year and Mrs. Harrison boarded with the family of Mac Smith, who ran a store and gas station, as well as the post office. Some students walked to school, but those on ranches were picked up in a car. Horse-drawn implements were used to finally make roads suitable for busses. Mrs. Harrison had already moved to another school by 1938 and teachers came and went frequently in Frazier.<br />
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Frazier was an active community through World War II, but, after the war, enrollment in the school dropped below the mandatory eight pupils and it closed in 1945. Students in the area were then sent to Roswell. For a time the school was used a community center, but eventually even the need for that withered. Now, not a soul remains in Frazier and the ruins of the stone school, once the pride of many, are all that marks this place.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Frazier/Frazier_6.jpg"><br />
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Most information for this post came from <i>The last one-teacher school is special to many</i>, in the December 27, 1996 edition of the Roswell Daily Record, as well as <i>Acme’s heyday was from 1905 until late 1930’s</i>, in the November 29, 1996 edition of the same. Both articles were written by Ernestine Chesser Williams and can be found in her collection, “Chaves County Schools 1881-1968: Treasures of New Mexico History.” The only place that has copies for sale is the <a href="http://www.roswellnmhistory.org/">Historical Society for Southeast New Mexico</a> in Roswell. As usual, Robert Julyan’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico”</a> provided some detail, but Williams reported details available nowhere else.<br />
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Incidentally, Williams’ little homemade book seems to have debunked at least the location of the reputed Billy the Kid <a href="http://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/local_news/billy-the-kid-a-fan-of-croquet/article_5a5d7d2c-09e1-58b3-9f2b-dcad9004b1c1.html">“croquet” photograph</a> as her drawing of the original Flying H School looks nothing like the building in that photo. Pretty cool.<br />
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-69690352242577866132016-02-28T11:58:00.001-06:002020-03-03T21:59:40.382-06:00Get the Motor Running: Highway, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Highway/Highway_1.jpg"><br />
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After last month’s epic 1,600 word post on the bayside ghost town of <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2016/01/my-mother-was-marshland-drawbridge-ca.html">Drawbridge, California</a>, let’s make some concessions to time and ADHD with a snack-sized post on the tiny dot on the map of eastern New Mexico known as Highway. Located on NM Highway 206 between Pep and Milnesand, perhaps 12 miles from the Texas line, Highway got its name because...well, it's located on a state highway. Locals will tell you it should be "Hiway," but NMDOT has other ideas. There isn't a post office and I don't think there ever was one, although there are a few inhabitants.<br />
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The building pictured above is probably the most prominent in Highway (or Hiway!), and was a welding and mechanic shop for many years. At first, the construction had me thinking it might’ve been a church or school. Oscar "Pouch" Lott lived and worked here most of his life and still maintains the reputation of having been the best blacksmith in the area. The precise function of the structure pictured below remains obscure, but if I had to guess I’d say it was something to do with water.<br />
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Hiway (or Highway!) is in Roosevelt County, on the very western edge of the mighty chunk of flat land known as the Llano Estacado, and you can read a bit more about that legendary feature in previous posts on the nearby towns of <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/10/a-lively-and-energetic-place-pep-new.html">Pep</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/10/in-shadow-of-buffalo-hunters-causey-new.html">Causey</a>, and <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/11/on-edge-of-staked-plain-house-nm.html
">House</a>.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Highway/Highway_2.jpg"><br />
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Everything I could learn about Highway came courtesy of Robert Julyan’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico”</a> and helpful viewers commenting on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/pb.251915061623737.-2207520000.1456682079./589418887873351/?type=3&theater
">THIS</a> post and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/posts/606873309461242?comment_id=606891626126077
">THIS</a> post on the City of Dust <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/">FACEBOOK PAGE</a>.<br />
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Soon we’ll visit the twin ghost towns of Acme and Frazier, New Mexico, perhaps 50 miles southwest of here as the crow flies, and not too far from where that flying saucer crashed in Roswell.
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-28043497249394341732016-01-18T18:38:00.000-06:002020-03-03T21:26:54.738-06:00My Mother was the Marshland: Drawbridge, CA<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_01.jpg"><br />
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<i>My mother was the marshland. My father was the railroad. I was born in 1876 after they met on Station Island. Some now say that I am a ghost town, sinking in the mud. Maybe I am, but I hate the name. So do the people who remember. They remember the independent spirit, the close friendships, the happy days and their paradise that was lost.</i> ~ Drawbridge<br />
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It’s rare that you find a fully abandoned, 100% ghost town in the midst of one of the most urbanized areas in the country, but such is the case with Drawbridge, California. Near San Jose and flanked to the north by San Francisco and Oakland, Drawbridge is rarely visited despite being surrounded by millions of people. In fact, I lived in Oakland and never even knew about it. The reason for its low profile is a good one; Drawbridge is located in a salt marsh and sinking further into the mud with each high tide. It is also part of the <a href="http://www.fws.gov/refuge/don_edwards_san_francisco_bay/">Don Edwards San Francisco Bay National Wildlife Refuge</a>, which is home to several endangered species and thus closed to the public. The refuge is patrolled by US Fish & Wildlife Service personnel, who I encountered on my trip while they were trying to apprehend some other “visitors.” Why didn’t I get busted? Because, through leveraging my vast City of Dust empire, I received legitimate access and could thus arrive via boat instead of taking the illegal and dangerous route.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_02.jpg"><br />
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Like so many other ghost towns, Drawbridge was brought to <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2011/12/life-and-death-by-railroad-yeso-new.html">life</a> <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2013/06/cross-road-blues-vaughn-new-mexico.html">by</a> <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2010/01/train-i-ride.html">trains</a>. In 1876, the South Pacific Coast Railroad built a two-room cabin for a bridge tender, Mr. Mundershietz, on a new stretch of line that by 1880 would link Alameda to Santa Cruz. The cabin was deep in marshland, between Coyote Slough and Warm Springs Slough, on a chunk of relatively solid ground soon known as Station Island. Because the train would stop at Station Island, people could now get there, and because there were lots of ducks around, it was hunters who first <i>wanted</i> to get there. The railroad even provided an old baggage car and chair car as free accommodation for hunters.<br />
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So it was that the earliest buildings in Drawbridge were gun clubs, and there were many of them. The first structure, after the bridge tender’s cabin, was the Gordon Gun Club, probably built in 1880. Incredibly, given the transience of wooden buildings in Drawbridge, I believe its ruins are captured in the b&w photo above, based on a shot from the 1980's, when it was still easily identifiable by its rounded Dutch roof and square nails.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_03.jpg"><br />
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After the Gordon Gun Club came The Sprig Duck Club, The Widgeon Gun Club, The Twilight Gun Club, The Tony Gun Club, and cabins with names like the Precata, Recreation, Harbor View, Sorry, Don’t Worry, Clambake Club, Julie Lodge, and more. As Drawbridge was often reached by boat, boat-building and repair was another typical pastime, as were swimming and fishing, naturally.<br />
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Some people actually lived in boats, known as “arks,” which were put up on pilings. One was a 50-person Matson Line lifeboat that had a cabin built in top of it. Drawbridge’s structures, all on pilings to stay dry when the tide came in, were along the railroad tracks, which became known as “Main Street” or “A Street.” Walkways were extended from front doors straight to the tracks, a privilege for which the railroad charged $1 a year. There were also “high tide parties,” when foot paths were flooded and neighbors would visit each other by boat. Toilets, unfortunately, went right into the marsh.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_04.jpg"><br />
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In 1902, the Sprung Hotel was established. As many as 500 people would come to Drawbridge each weekend, and Mrs. Sprung would often rent her own bed and sleep in the bathtub. In 1920, with the arrival of Prohibition, she made homebrew for 25 cents as quart, as well as wine. The Hunter’s Hotel was built by Louis Demit, also in 1902, and later run by his wife, Susan. Whether Louis died or the couple divorced is unknown. Despite being smaller than the Sprung, the Hunter’s Hotel had a large ballroom decorated with stuffed birds and windows all around. It also contained a baby grand piano. <br />
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As one man familiar with Drawbridge, William McCall, Sr., said, <i>“You wouldn’t go down there if you weren’t a different breed of cat. It wasn’t the easiest place for access; every duck you got you worked for. And like those people that went down, they were in another world. They were completely away from civilization.”</i> Or, as the last resident of Drawbridge, Charlie Luce, put it, <i>“…it wasn’t a disease, that Drawbridge mud just calls to you!”</i><br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_05.jpg"><br />
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By 1926, about the peak of Drawbridge, there were 90 cabins and five passenger trains coming through each day. Later, rumors circulated that Drawbridge was filled with gangsters, gamblers, and prostitutes (with a roulette wheel at the Hunter's Hotel to decide which lady of the marshy night would be yours!), but it was mostly populated by doctors, dentists, and store owners, many with a passion for duck hunting. Even so, mothers on the north end of the island warned their children to stay away from the south, while the south considered the north “stuck up.” By the way, there really was a roulette wheel, but residents said the only thing wagered on was waterfowl.<br />
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Then Drawbridge began to sink more quickly as the surrounding sloughs were cut-off by dikes or drained. Wells for fresh drinking water had to be drilled deeper. Sewage from Bay communities began to foul the water around Drawbridge, and the ducks decided it was time to leave. Next the Great Depression arrived and, after that, vandalism. Newspapers began referring to Drawbridge as a ghost town, with cabins full of antiques simply left by their owners. This was not true, so signs were hung on cabins: <i>“Please don’t shoot my house,”</i> and <i>“Dear thieves and vandals, Please do not break into this little house. It’s the only home we have.”</i> Sadly, the signs didn’t always work.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_06.jpg"><br />
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The Sprung Hotel closed in 1930. It would finally collapse in 1968. Hunter’s Hotel burned in 1943, possibly from a spark off the cigar of then-owner, Barney Panella. So Barney constructed the only two-story building ever seen in Drawbridge on the site, complete with another ballroom and yet another baby grand piano. It would burn in 1984. Throughout the history of Drawbridge, fire has been perhaps the gravest danger, even surrounded as it is by water.<br />
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By 1940, only 50 cabins remained and the marsh was so polluted it could not be swum in. By the end of the decade, the sloughs were too silted-in to navigate. The years passed and there were more fires, some thought to be for insurance pay-outs. The train no longer stopped unless it was flagged down. In the 1960’s, partiers began to make the trek to Drawbridge. Some of these people, called “dopers” by residents, would try and stay in empty cabins only to be chased out with a shotgun or an ax. In 1970, the railroad station was torn down.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_07.jpg"><br />
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Yet some old-timers held on, until at last there were two. Nellie Irene Dollin, who had first come in 1910 and bought a place in 1932, left in 1974. Her house was broken into by two drunken kids one night while she was home with her granddaughter. She had no more trouble after firing her shotgun out the window, but the newly-christened “Shotgun Nellie” had had enough and moved to nearby Hayward. Charlie Luce visited Drawbridge in 1930, but didn’t go in on a cabin—The Sunset Club—until 1950. It was torched in 1964. Charlie and some friends bought another house and he began living in Drawbridge full-time with Quincy, his dog. He was bought out by the US Fish and Wildlife Service in 1979. His former home burned down in 1986.<br />
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These days Drawbridge is almost more liquid than land, a condition that will only accelerate as the rate of sea level rise increases. Everyone on this trip left wet, muddy, and cold…but happy. One iPhone was submerged (while in a hip pocket!), but at least no one drowned. People are still trying to have parties, too, and continuing to damage or destroy buildings, but now they're usually getting caught before the party even gets going. While it might appear that there are a lot of structures remaining, compared to what was here 20, 30, or 40 years ago there is relatively little. Hopefully, what's left will persist until Mother Nature fully reclaims what was once hers alone, and the ghost town in a salt marsh finally vanishes entirely into the mist of the San Francisco Bay.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_08.jpg"><br />
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Many thanks to the <a href="http://www.fws.gov/refuge/don_edwards_san_francisco_bay/">DESFBNWR USFWS</a> for very graciously letting me access Drawbridge. The public (which also includes me, now) is asked to please obey the "No Trespassing" signs. That's the best way to protect Drawbridge and honor its history. A special thank you to D. Thomson for providing a boat and navigation skills and generally making it all happen. Virtually all information from this post came from "Drawbridge, California: A Hand-Me-Down History" by O.L. “Monty” Dewey. If only every ghost town had such a thorough and well-researched oral history written about it. Thanks again, D.T.!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_09.jpg"><br />
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Next time we’ll be back in New Mexico, but just where is a mystery to me as much anyone. Oh, and happy birthday to me! Finally getting a new City of Dust post up is a pretty good present to myself.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Drawbridge/Drawbridge_10.jpg">
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-6974855544638647022015-11-26T16:19:00.000-06:002020-03-05T21:04:21.823-06:00The Real Desert<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_1.JPG"><br />
<br />
This month I'd hoped to finally finish a piece on Drawbridge, California, the ghost town in a salt marsh, but time has moved too quickly. So, rather than let City of Dust go dark for all of November, I thought I'd post this tale. While it contains no ghost towns or historical content whatsoever, it does feature the desert as a main character. The photos were taken earlier this month, mostly in Salton City, on the west shore of the Salton Sea, in the Colorado Desert of California. However, the last two shots are from the South Bay Salt Works, the second-oldest continuously operating business in San Diego, CA. See you in December!<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_2.JPG"><br />
<br />
THE REAL DESERT<br />
<br />
I’m spending a few days out in the desert again. I can’t tell if I’m moving towards something or moving away, but that’s nothing new. Whatever the case, I’ve got some time and a little bit of money so I’ve based myself out of the Whispering Sands Motel, and each morning I set off in a different direction down some desolate, windswept two-laner.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it can be hard to find food out here and when I pass a pizza place in what looks like a wooden shack I make a u-turn, park the rental car in about five inches of sand, and go inside. They’ve got some pretty fancy slices for the middle of nowhere and the twenty-something girl behind the counter in Daisy Dukes, tank top, and tattoos seems genuinely thrilled to tell me that the caprese has been drizzled with locally-sourced balsamic vinaigrette and the Greek has real Kalamata olives. This country seems to not actually make <i>things</i> anymore, so I guess we’re going to see if we can float an entire economy on craft beer, pour-over coffee, medical marijuana, tattoos, and artisan pizza. Still, the slices look good and I get one of each. The girl hands them to a large, sweaty guy in the kitchen who pops them in the oven. His tattoos look like they probably cost less than hers and didn’t take nearly as long, either.<br />
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There’s no one in the dining room except for five guys in the back who have brought in a couple of their own six packs. They’re discussing “bands that are popular but not super-popular,” and, thankfully, I haven’t heard of most of them. But even so I quickly understand that they have bad taste. I grab a copy of “Sunrunner: The Journal of the Real Desert” off the rack by the door. The subtitle seems a little audacious, but there’s a story about a highway that sounds even more godforsaken than the ones I’ve been traveling. Thus, they get my attention.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_3.JPG"><br />
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The girl brings my slices out on paper plates and starts talking to the guys. At first it seems like maybe they all know each other and she asks them what kind of music they want to hear. I instantly wish she wouldn’t have.<br />
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“Do you like Zeppelin?” she says, when, happily, no one suggests anything.<br />
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That doesn’t sound terrible to me, but I guess I don’t get a vote.<br />
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She flips through her phone for a few more seconds. “How about Glen Campbell?”<br />
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Given the surroundings, that sounds better, if stranger. Don’t kids have their own music anymore? This stuff wasn’t even <i>my</i> music.<br />
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More silence. “Who?” asks one guy, finally.<br />
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“You know, ‘<i>Just like a rhinestone cowboy...</i>,’” sings the girl, only a touch out of tune.<br />
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The guys erupt in laughter, one louder than all the others, naturally.<br />
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“Nah, nah,” the loud one says, shaking his head and taking a pull off his beer. “I’m good.”<br />
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Then another suddenly looks intently at the girl. “Play your favorite song,” he says. “What's your favorite song of all-time?”<br />
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The girl is quiet and, after some obvious thought, replies, “That’s hard. That’s maybe something I’d tell somebody after we’d been together for, like, three months.”<br />
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The guy raises his hands in front of him, palms up. “What? Don’t we know each other well enough now?”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_4.JPG"><br />
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The girl takes a step backward toward the kitchen just as the guy’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a moment, frowns, then says, “I’m with the bro’s,” and hangs up, much to the amusement of his friends. It’s getting hard to focus on the story about the highway, but it seems to pass mainly through towns named after scientific elements, which is always a good sign.<br />
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“No, seriously,” says this guy, starting up again. “Play your all-time favorite song. Let’s get to know each other better.”<br />
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“I don’t think so.” The girl takes another step toward the kitchen. “It just seems, like, too personal to me.”<br />
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Now the guy lowers his voice. “Come on. I could learn some things about you that are more personal than that. Why don’t you let me? Then maybe you’ll play me your favorite song, too.”<br />
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His friends laugh and drink as the girl turns quickly and goes into the kitchen. I can hear the chef talking, but can’t make out the words. I take a few last bites of my balsamic-drizzled caprese, grab my Sunrunner Magazine, and step out the door into a blinding wall of heat and sun.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_5.JPG"><br />
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After a couple dozen miles I decide that I need a palate cleanser and stop at an AM/PM. Spending lots of time in the desert makes me crave salt, so I usually buy Payday bars. But this time I go for a Skor. As I’m reaching down for it a black man comes right up next to me and leans over, too. “Gotcha a little sweet tooth?” he whispers, almost in my ear. This is startling, but the man smiles at me so good-naturedly that as we both straighten up I’m disarmed. He’s wearing a filthy t-shirt and swaying. He seems a little drunk.<br />
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“Yeah,” I reply, also whispering, feeling conspiratorial for some reason. “Sometimes I just need a little dessert.”<br />
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He grins and blinks his eyes in a funny way before going into his pitch. “Hey, man. You don’t have maybe five dollars I could borrow for gas, do you?” He gestures weakly towards the pumps where he surely has no car. Or truck. Or ATV, for that matter. But I like this guy more than the bro’s, so I give him a dollar, trying to not draw attention from the cashier, who is looking warily in our direction. I tell the man to take care. He tells me to have a nice night and seems to really mean it.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_6.JPG"><br />
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Outside the sun is beginning to set over the spiky mountains, yet it somehow feels hotter. I don’t know how that happens in the desert, but every now and then I notice it. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I’m planning on doing a little off-road exploring the following day, but I didn’t bring any sunscreen and, despite my fondness for blast-furnace landscapes, I really hate suntans. A sunburn seems an affront to myself perpetrated by no one but me, like spitting in my own face. So I drive further into this little town, the softening purple-blue horizon thick with mountains, reminding me why I’m out here in the first place. I begin looking for a drug store.<br />
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The first place I come to is Wal-Mart, of course. But they tend to put me in a bad mood. Since I’m pretty much already in a bad mood, I press on. Next, oddly enough, is a K-Mart. Where America shops. The red-headed stepchild to Target’s good son when I was growing up. K-Mart’s seem increasingly rare and I find no reason to ask why as I wander the ravaged shelves under brutal fluorescent lights with a handful of other spaced-out-looking customers. Finally, I find Health and Beauty and choose my protection.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/Salton_7.JPG"><br />
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Back outside it’s getting dark and as I head to my car another man sees me across the sand-strewn parking lot, sunscreen swinging in the plastic bag at my side, and begins to walk quickly over. I can feel the heat radiating off the asphalt as I slow down and then come to a full stop. I decide to wait because the man is wearing broken-down cowboy boots with thick, dingy green sweatpants tucked into them. He’s also got on a vest that looks like something a Boy Scout might have made, covered in patches and badges, and cut crudely out of a dark felt material. Underneath the vest he’s bare-chested, his skin the tone and texture of old leather. Finally, he’s sporting a crumpled, sweat-stained, black Stetson, but it’s too large and sits too low, barely above his eyes. As he approaches, he pushes the hat up.<br />
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“Hello, sir. Could you spare any change for a burger?”<br />
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My curiosity is probably obvious. “Isn’t it a little hot for sweatpants out here?”<br />
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The man laughs with seemingly genuine mirth and strikes a pose. “I’m a…a…a…”--he waves a hand theatrically, searching for words--“cock-eyed cowboy.” Crossing his ankles he tilts to one side and then seems to almost curtsey.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/SD_1.jpg"><br />
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I tell him he’s got an interesting look.<br />
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“Thank you,” he replies, nodding his head. “Everyone wants to be interesting but nobody wants to pay the price. Me? You can see <i>I</i> paid the price. I may have even paid too much.” He laughs again. “All I can afford now are some ratty-ass sweatpants, a vest I found in a box, and a hat that’s too big for my head.”<br />
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I like this guy best of all and give him whatever cash I have left, which turns out to only be $3.72. We wish each other well and go our separate ways into the still desert night, the stars blinking on one-by-one overhead, the waxing yellow moon just clearing the jagged peaks, bathing us both in a gentler kind of light.<br />
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But soon enough the warring sun will rise again, and back at the hotel I tell the manager I’ll be checking out the next day. I take my copy of Sunrunner up to my room so I can read more about that highway I’ll be driving in the morning.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Real_Desert/SD_2.jpg">
jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-4617814275093842492015-10-23T20:28:00.000-05:002020-03-05T21:03:52.192-06:00No Rattlesnakes/No Pinto Beans: Cedarvale, NM<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/School_1.jpg"><br />
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Let’s stay in central New Mexico for one more post and add yet another piece to the picture of a region that in the 1920’s was the country’s largest producer of pinto beans. While you probably aren’t going to drive through without reason, as you might <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2012/01/shaffer-hotel-mountainair-new-mexico.html">Mountainair</a>, nor are you going to find it in most ghost town guides, as you will <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/09/pinto-beans-and-singing-conventions.html">Claunch</a>, Cedarvale was an important dry land farming and ranching community from the time of its establishment in 1908 until the Dust Bowl and Great Depression combined, along with overgrazing and farm consolidation, to force many of its residents to search for their fortunes elsewhere…yet again.<br />
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It was Ed Smith, William Taylor, and Oliver P. DeWolfe who chose the site for Cedarvale and requested that it be surveyed by the U.S. government. The town would be along the route of the New Mexico Central Railroad. Lots were sold through the General Land Office and a post office was soon opened. The new place was named Cedarvale after Cedar Vale, a town in Kansas from which the founders hailed and was also located in a valley with cedars (i.e., junipers).<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/School_2.jpg"><br />
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Soon hundreds of homesteaders from other states arrived on “immigrant trains,” following the lead of Smith, Taylor, and DeWolfe. Most were looking to plant pinto beans. The relatively high altitude (6,384 ft) and short growing season of central New Mexico was good for the beans, which could be dry farmed and were in demand, particularly once World War I began and pinto beans were used to feed soldiers. Come fall, the harvest was stored in Cedarvale’s three elevators.<br />
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The population of Cedarvale would eventually reach about 500, but is now perhaps half that, and there are no functioning commercial concerns. The post office closed in 1990. But what impresses one most as they approach from the northwest along Highway 42 is the looming wreckage of the Cedarvale School. Initially, the school in Cedarvale was a typical one-room affair, but as both the town and Torrance County grew more space was needed. So, Oliver DeWolfe donated 20 acres of land and, on August 25, 1917, the Torrance County Board of Education approved a bond issuance in the amount of $5,000.00 to construct a new school.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/Class_3.jpg"><br />
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The school was finished in 1921 and an addition made in 1935 via the Works Progress Administration (WPA). By then, the building seems like it would've been surprisingly big for the area, containing four large classrooms, each of which contained three grades and about fifty students. Children attended kindergarten through eighth grade and were then driven in the back of a truck a few miles southeast to Corona for high school. No fancy Bluebird busses here!<br />
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Aside from continuous and dire warnings about rattlesnakes, the massive gymnasium remains perhaps the most striking feature of the Cedarvale School. This was clearly a gathering place for the entire community, as well as a basketball court (complete with raw wooden backboards still in place) and, judging from the design, probably a theater. I’ve heard it hosted some bingo games, too. Despite taking the warnings fairly seriously—signs are even painted on the walls of the school—no rattlesnakes were encountered on this trip.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/Gym_2.jpg"><br />
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The school closed in 1953 and is now falling down quickly, the years finally overcoming its sturdy construction. The large wooden beams are impressive, and I’m told the Cedarvale train depot was built to the same hardy specifications. The depot no longer stands, but the materials were re-purposed and used in a home in Albuquerque which is owned by the daughter of a man who helped build both the depot and the school. I’m pleased to have been able to walk around on that historic lumber recently!<br />
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There are still many people that have fond memories of growing up in Cedarvale, as is true for virtually all the small central New Mexico towns in which the train once rattled through constantly and the whoosh of pinto beans pouring from the elevator heralded the end of one season and the approach of the next. These are sounds which may yet perhaps be heard, if only faintly, in the startling quiet of places like Cedarvale.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/Class_4.jpg"><br />
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As I said, there ain’t much out there on Cedarvale. David Pike’s <a href="http://unmpress.com/books.php?ID=20000000005559&Page=book">“Roadside New Mexico: A Guide to Historic Markers”</a> has a good synopsis of the town’s founding and the history of the school. You can glean a little bit more from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico”</a> and its similarly-named predecessor, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/New-Mexico-Place-Names-Geographical/dp/0826300820">“New Mexico Place Names: A Geographical Dictionary.”</a> Beyond that, you’ll have to hope that maybe someone that was there will <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cityofdustnm/photos/a.251923124956264.1073741828.251915061623737/549395678542339/?type=3&theater
">tell you what it was like</a>.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Cedarvale/House_1.JPG">jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-10006823489114315592015-09-21T21:22:00.000-05:002020-03-05T21:02:57.098-06:00Pinto Beans and Singing Conventions: Claunch, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Car.jpg"><br />
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Of all the places we could go from long-lost <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/08/too-small-to-be-village-not-large.html">Centerpoint, New Mexico</a>, which we visited last time, perhaps it makes the most sense to simply continue south down Highway 55 and follow it through a few sharp turns until we get to Claunch, something less than 30 miles away. Claunch’s position in central New Mexico put it firmly within the pinto bean empire of the early part of the 20th century, when neighbor Mountainair was proclaiming itself the “Pinto Bean Capital of the World” and soldiers fighting in WWI were eating beans that had been grown in the fertile Estancia Valley.<br />
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Back around 1900, when Claunch was being settled, it wasn’t known as Claunch. Instead, it was called Fairview. Or perhaps DuBois Flats, after Frank DuBois, a local cattle and sheep rancher. Or maybe it had been called both. I can find no certainty on the matter. (UPDATE: Claunch was formerly known by both names, with DuBois Flats the earliest, dating to the 1890's.) Whatever the case, Claunch became Claunch near 1930, when the town was big enough to warrant its own post office and a DuBois, NM already existed. Or a Fairview, NM existed. Or both did. But a new moniker was definitely needed and L.H. Claunch, who ran the nearby Claunch Cattle Co., agreed that his surname could be used for the town. Later, he would firmly refuse to let his name be attached to the Claunch Saloon, which thus never opened.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/School.jpg"><br />
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Claunch flourished in the 1910’s and 1920’s, before it was actually called Claunch. However, by the early-1930’s, just as Claunch had gotten its name and post office, the Great Depression and the relentless drought of the Dust Bowl began to hit farmers in the Estancia Valley hard. Within a few years a Works Progress Administration (WPA) school would be built, but as more topsoil was carried off by the howling prairie winds it was already becoming too late. The school closed in the 1950’s, but its skeleton yet sits on the plains.<br />
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Where it's been said that there was once a homestead on every 640-acre section in the area, by the late-1960’s it was more like one homestead for every 20 sections, and only six or eight close-knit families inhabited Claunch. These are numbers which have certainly not increased in the last 50 years and the place remains isolated, the nearest towns, as ever, being Mountainair, 37 miles northwest, and Carrizozo, 42 miles southeast.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Highway.jpg"><br />
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While Claunch is largely quiet these days, if you listen closely you might hear voices on the breeze, for singing once echoed loudly across the gravel roads. At first, there were gatherings in people’s homes, but then, in 1916, under a brush arbor not far off from town, the Torrance County Singing Convention was born. These were not informal get-togethers, but true events rooted in long religious tradition stretching back to the remote forests of New England in the 1700’s. Ralph Looney, relating his attendance at a convention in Claunch in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Haunted-Highways-Ghost-Towns-Mexico/dp/0826305067">“Haunted Highways,”</a> even describes learning of shape-notes, a tool intended to aid those who can’t read music, which has a rich history in a unique type of hymn singing in the Deep South often referred to as <a href="http://awakemysoul.com/">Sacred Harp</a>.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Swingset.jpg"><br />
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The Torrance County Singing Convention attracted people from all over the region and even those from other states who had moved away. A yearly state-wide convention could bring in as many as 1200 singers. In DuBois Flats/Fairview/Claunch, the singing convention “year” began on the fourth Sunday in April, with another convention held in June, August, and October. And, as with Sacred Harp “sings” in the South, food--and lots of it--was required to sustain hours upon hours of music in which everyone participated. So, after two hours of singing in the morning, it was time for lunch.<br />
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Ralph Looney describes a spread he saw in the mid-1960’s, years after one might’ve assumed Claunch was forgotten: “Meat loaf, fried chicken, roast chicken, ham, beef roast and pork roast. Turkey, molded fruit salads, slaw, tossed salads. Vegetables like pickled beets, green beans, wax beans, mashed potatoes, potato salad, candied yams. Homemade yeast rolls and cornbread. Chocolate cake, angel food, vanilla cake, white cake, apple pie, cherry pie, blueberry pie and so on and on and on and on.” Then would follow at least another three hours of songs such as “Joy is Coming,” “Then We’ll be Happy,” and “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Museum_1.jpg"><br />
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I’ve been assured there is still fine music being made in Claunch, if not on quite so grand a scale. And the post office is open yet, and operating as a library, too. You can check a book out or swap for one of your own. But as you walk past the old pinto bean elevator, with Ye Olde Dance Hall still faintly visible on the front, and a sign for a museum which it’s probably best you not wait too long to open, it is the past you feel, remarkably soothing--which is not always the case in such places--and somehow alive and singing.<br />
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It is perhaps worth adding a short postscript: Claunch lies about 40 miles northeast of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trinity_%28nuclear_test%29">Trinity Site</a> as the crow flies. Given prevailing winds on the morning of the world’s first atomic bomb blast, it was directly in the <a href="https://hps.org/publicinformation/ate/q9593.html">path of potential fallout</a>. People from the region still talk of cows that turned white after the explosion and were then shown off at local fairs as curiosities to ponder over. But it’s cancer that may be the longest-lasting local legacy of Trinity, and while a group calling themselves the <a href="http://www.trinitydownwinders.com/">Tularosa Basin Downwinders Consortium</a> has spent years fighting for recognition and compensation, it could be too late for Claunch, whose population is now under 10, the old-timers gone, their families scattered long ago. It's a strange and unsettling footnote in the history of the little town of pinto beans and singing conventions.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Farm.jpg"><br />
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Ralph Looney’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Haunted-Highways-Ghost-Towns-Mexico/dp/0826305067">“Haunted Highways”</a> provided a wonderful description of Claunch in the 1960’s, while <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Towns-Alive-Trips-Mexicos/dp/082632908X">“Ghost Towns Alive”</a> by Linda Harris revisited the town over 40 years later. I grabbed a little info from Robert Julyan’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">“The Place Names of New Mexico,”</a> as I tend to do, as well.<br />
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Next time we’ll just see where we end up. I’ve got a backlog of locations that only seems to grow larger.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Claunch/Vehicles.jpg">jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-80750060711856622222015-08-11T00:19:00.013-05:002022-03-18T10:12:14.946-05:00Too Small to be a Village, Not Large Enough to be a Town: Center Point, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Centerpoint/Road_1.jpg"><br />
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On Highway 55, about 40 miles south of Mountainair, New Mexico, is a charming old one-room schoolhouse. It’s one of those abandoned places that is a sheer pleasure to visit. I even put the above photo on my City of Dust "business" cards. But where exactly are you when you’re at this school? For many years it was a mystery to me as I could find no record of anything besides <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2012/01/shaffer-hotel-mountainair-new-mexico.html">pinto beans</a> existing in the area. Enter the internet. After a few photos (not even <i>my</i> photos!) of the school showed up on ghost town and history-related Facebook pages, the story of this little dot on the map, which, it turns out, was known as Center Point, finally came to light.<br />
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Center Point isn’t in Robert Julyan’s comprehensive <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891">The Place Names of New Mexico</a>, but I can still tell you how it got its name: It’s smack dab in the middle of the state, right by <a href="http://www.placekeeper.com/New_Mexico/Center_Point_Hill-887375.html">Center Point Hill</a>. The only “official” mention of Center Point seems to be in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mountainair-N-M-Centennial-History-1903-2003/dp/0974063401">“Mountainair, N.M., Centennial History, 1903-2003”</a> by Bert Herrman (published by Mountainair Public Schools), which includes Center Point in a list of area schools: "Many rural schools were three-month terms and began after New Mexico became a state in January 1912. Teacher's salary was $25 a month. Many of the teachers were 16 or 17 years old; they boarded at homes until small teacherages could be built for them. Dozens of schools dotted the countryside as the region developed. There was Eastview, Center Point, Piñon, Round Top, Ewing, Cedarvale, to name just a few. Typically, each had one room and one teacher that taught grades one through eight. The teachers often lived in shacks next to the schools.”<br />
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Beyond that, the initial bit of first-hand information about Center Point came from S. Smith-Cumiford, who saw a photo of the school on-line and said, “That’s on the road to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/sapu/learn/historyculture/gran-quivira.htm">Gran Quivira</a>. It looks like the school built on land donated by my grandfather-in-law, John Cumiford, who was a land-granted rancher and whose homestead ranch was the last to be sold off, in 1985.”<br />
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A short time later, H. Thomas added some poignant history about John Cumiford who, it seems, also built the school: “John Cumiford came to Mountainair from Independence, MO in a covered wagon with nine children, his wife dying <i>en route</i> or shortly after as a result of childbirth. He never remarried but was cared for in the late 1950s by my mother-in-law, who had some nursing background. He built this schoolhouse which also doubled as the chapel on Sundays.”<br />
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(UPDATE MARCH 2022: It has come to light that John Cumiford did not donate the land for the Center Point School, but for another nearby school that was actually known as the Cumiford School. While some local families maintain that the Center Point School was built on land donated by homesteader Lum Fulfer, references in the Mountainair Independent from 1916-1917 attribute the property to William C. Harrison, as do Mr. Harrison's descendants. The school may also at times have been known as the Harrison School and the Liberty Point School. Whatever name it went by, it was surely constructed by men from the local community, which could've included both Mr. Harrison and Mr. Fulfer, and most likely opened for classes in late 1916 or early 1917. It was closed by 1949, after which time students were bussed to nearby Gran Quivira. However, by then, the area was sparsely populated indeed, and even the school in Gran Quivira closed a short time later, possibly as early as 1950. As a sad aside, Mr. Fulfer was killed in 1935 when a team of mules he was driving bolted and crashed into a gate on his ranch.)<br />
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Then came a wonderful account from J.E. Bowers, who grew up in Center Point, and through Facebook comments provided what is likely the most extensive history of the place in existence: “My mother, Florence Drew Tausworth, taught in that schoolhouse. My brother and I went to school there. We lived in that shack across the street. When it snowed we would wake up with snow on our beds. This was in 1946-1947. There was no community. Just the schoolhouse and the shack. There was a cistern where we got our water. We had a pot-bellied stove in the house. The people lived on their farms and brought their kids to the school.<br />
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“My mom taught all the grades. There was a wood stove in the schoolhouse and my brother would go over every morning and light a fire. There were three of us. My oldest brother went to school in Mountainair. It was his job to chop the wood. The wood was brought in by the people that lived in the area. My uncle was the preacher in Mountainair so he would come get us once in a while and take my mom grocery shopping as we had no car.<br />
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“I thought it was the most wonderful time in my life, but my brothers felt differently because of the hard work they had to do. Oh yes, I forgot, there was an outhouse. I don't know when the school was abandoned as we moved to Willard the next year. I was quite young. We had enough kids for a baseball team. As you are standing looking at the school, to the back left was where we played baseball. My mom was quite brave to live out there with us three kids.<br />
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“The only name I remember that lived close by, maybe a mile or so, was Garrison. One of their sons (Larry, I believe his name was) was a year older than I was. We went back to visit them a year or so later, and Larry had died of food poisoning from home canned green beans.<br />
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“The house doesn’t look the same. It has been ‘updated’ since we lived there. LOL. I don't believe it had the ceiling or the drywall and insulation. There were cracks in the walls and ceiling and the wind, snow, or rain would come through. We had to use pots and pans to catch the rain. We had a rain barrel also and we used the water to wash our hair with. Mama would heat water on the stove for us to take baths in the washtub. We had a chamber pot which my brother had to empty every morning. Being the youngest, I never had to do anything.<br />
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“We had no toys. So we went wandering. My brother says he got lost one time and it took him quite a while to find his way home. We looked for birds eggs in the piñon trees. We ate a lot of beans. I do remember buying margarine and mixing the yellow packet that came with it. Mother made a lot of corn bread, so cornbread and beans was our main meal with the margarine on the cornbread.<br />
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“It's been so long ago that it's taking me a while to think of things. When I said I had no toys, it made me remember. My Aunt Leta Hood cut pictures out of magazines for me. They were my paper dolls. I also had some jacks. I was a whiz at jacks. My mama would get down on the floor and play with me. Years later, when my daughter was that same age and we went to visit my mama, she got down on the floor and played jacks with my daughter.<br />
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"My mother was the treasure. I can't imagine taking three children to a place with no modern convenience. This was where I got my love for reading. I read anything and everything. (Even the Montgomery Ward catalog in the outhouse. LOL.) Wouldn't it be nice if things still cost the same as they were in that catalog?<br />
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"So many people had it much harder that we did, but fortunately for me and my brothers, we had a very determined mother. So, to me, this story is about my mother, who was determined to be a teacher. She's the one who brought her three children from Texas to New Mexico. And she's the one who probably gave those children in Center Point one of their most memorable school years, as she loved teaching and she loved children.<br />
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“Here's what my eldest brother said. (Funny, we all have the exact same memories.): 'Mom taught grades 1 thru 5. I, a 5th grader, was the janitor of the school with a monthly salary of $5.00 which went to mom to help with expenses. During the winter we all slept with a hot rock wrapped in a towel and it went cold too fast. Brother Bob was to keep wood chopped for fire wood and help haul water on wash day. The cistern was always dry and we had to have water hauled in at $10.00 a load. On Christmas eve, the school children put on the Christmas play and we wore bathrobes to be the Three Kings.<br />
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"'On New Year's Eve there was a group of local men who played instruments and came and put on a "jam session" for the local people. And, yes, we could have all the pinto beans from the fields we wanted, and go pick leftovers after harvest. But at that altitude they took a long, long time to cook. And I hiked to Gran Quivira one time not realizing it was five miles away. Thought I was never going to get back home. But I found a beauty of an arrow head.<br />
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"‘Like you, the only names I can remember are the Garrison's. They lived in the next house north of us, about a mile up the hill, on the east side of the road that was surrounded by trees. There were two boys that I remember, one a senior in high school that year, I believe. I think his name was Glen. He used to supply us with firewood. I don't remember anyone else that I rode with on the school bus. When I was there, probably 20 years ago, I couldn't find the house, and the trees were gone. All that land was bean farming and there were lots of piñon trees. When we were there last, both were gone.’"<br />
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It’s true. So much of Center Point has slipped quietly into the past that even its memory was hard to find. But it has been found and now if you Google “Center Point, New Mexico,” well, you might wind up here and read just about everything that’s ever been written down about the place. One thing that has not been found is the house that J.E. Bowers grew up in. If it's still there, it can't be far from the school. I'll have to take a closer look next time I'm in the center of New Mexico. (UPDATE: From J.E. Bowers: "The shack the teachers lived in is gone. It was right across the street. It probably fell down. LOL.")<br />
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Information for this post came from people that knew Center Point and that book about schools around Mountainair. And that’s it! I cut-and-pasted the comments of S. Smith-Cumiford, H. Thomas, and J.E. Bowers and her brother from Facebook and with luck they’ll find their way here and give City of Dust their blessing! I thank them for sharing their memories and present them here with the utmost respect, even if I did sort of steal them (for now).<br />
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Photos 1-5 were taken in 2009. Photos 6-10 were taken in 2014. Different time of day, different film stock, different time of year.<br />
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Next time…I’m not sure. I’ve got more places to write about than time allows, so I’ll just go with what grabs me in a couple weeks. Drawbridge, CA? Claunch, NM? The <a href="http://route66hotels.org/">El Rancho Hotel</a> in Gallup? We shall see.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-87209459603056105322015-07-16T23:06:00.001-05:002020-03-10T23:11:13.561-05:00The Bridal Chamber: Lake Valley, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/LakeValley/Car.jpg"><br />
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We’ve spent a lot of time over the past few months in Grant and Sierra Counties, including visits to <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/08/this-is-not-ghost-town-hillsboro-nm.html">Hillsboro</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-way-things-werent-kingston-nm.html">Kingston</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/04/iron-town-fierro-new-mexico.html">Fierro</a>, <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/05/zinc-town-hanover-new-mexico.html">Hanover</a>, and <a href="http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2015/05/for-sale-fort-bayard-new-mexico.html">Fort Bayard</a>. So, let's make one more stop in southwestern New Mexico (for now) and check out Lake Valley, site of the famous Bridal Chamber Mine.<br />
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Lake Valley lies in the shadow of Monument Peak (aka Lizard Mountain), a prominent knob of rock that nevertheless would’ve given no indication to early travelers of the great wealth waiting nearby. It was 1878 when George W. Lufkin, a Union Army soldier, and his partner Chris Watson went looking for silver not far from Hillsboro. A Chinese man had told Lufkin and Watson in a Georgetown, NM saloon of how he’d ended up lost on the way to Silver City<align center="left"><img align="left" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/LakeValley/Safe.jpg"> and come across a piece of silver chloride, or horn silver, a very pure, soft form of the mineral, yet could never find where it came from again. That would certainly be a likely story in the Old West. However, both Lufkin and Watson were in their mid-50’s and desperate for a strike. And they thought what they’d heard had the ring of truth. Thus they went out looking for silver. For weeks. With no luck, naturally. Then the story gets contentious, but everyone agrees that somehow Lufkin and Watson stumbled upon silver outcrops. Unfortunately, they’d now been out so long that their initial grubstake was exhausted and they had to quickly head back to Hillsboro to raise more money.<br />
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After an additional delay due to Apache depredations, the two miners eventually got back to work, hauling out a half ton of ore and bringing it directly to the Red Onion Saloon in Silver City. Here, John A. Miller saw what had been found and offered the men $1.50 a pound or $1500 for the whole load. Miller went to the assay office, where the geology was better than in the saloon, and quickly learned that the ore ran $12 per pound. So he put up enough money for him, Lufkin, and Watson to mine in earnest.<br />
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In the spring of 1881 the men sold their claim to a syndicate led by George Daly. Miller got $100,000 while Lufkin and Watson, along with nine other men, each got $25,000, in addition to the considerable amount they’d already made. Lufkin would build a house nearby in a camp he named after Daly, but the settlement soon moved and became known as Lake Valley in honor of a small lake nearby long since gone dry.<br />
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Then, John Leavitt, a blacksmith, leased a claim from the Sierra Grande Mining Company (in which Walt Whitman owned 200 shares!) and spent two days digging in a hole that Lufkin and Watson had started. Lufkin and Watson should’ve gone farther though because at ten feet Leavitt hit a thing that most miners surely didn’t even dare dream of--a cave of solid silver chloride measuring 26 feet wide and 12 feet high. A flame would melt silver right off the ceiling. Despite all this, Leavitt didn’t seem to know what he’d discovered and sold his claim back to the Sierra Grande Mining Company for a few thousand dollars.<br />
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(Leavitt's cave, now collapsed, would be in the middle distance in the photo below. The visible mine and rock pile are the result of manganese mining during WWI and II.)<br />
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Of a dirty gray color and very malleable, horn silver was soon being cut into large blocks and loaded into railroad cars parked right outside the cave. The ore didn’t even need to be smelted it was so rich. A massive piece, valued at $7,000 (about 394 pounds-worth, silver then being $1.11 an ounce), was exhibited at the Denver Exposition of 1882. In fact, no single concentration of silver has ever exceeded what was quickly named the Bridal Chamber for obvious reasons. All told 2.5 million ounces was exhumed in a couple years, still not even half of the silver taken from the immediate area between 1881 and 1893, when the price of silver collapsed with the end of mandated government purchases. In short, for a few years in the early 1880's, Lake Valley was something else.<br />
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It’s often said Lake Valley’s population peaked at 1,000 in 1884, but the 1885 Territorial Census counted only 183 residents. The town moved once and then again to be closer to the Bridal Chamber. One western surveyor tagged Lake Valley as, “…the toughest town I’ve ever seen.” Adding, “I’m satisfied a man died with his boots on every night.” Marshal Jim McIntire was brought into Lake Valley in 1882 to keep the peace at the astounding rate of $300/mo. Those 200 or so folks must have been rowdy indeed. Legendary lawman and strong-arm Jim Courtright was also there and quickly killed two ore thieves in a gunfight. He would kill three more men in Lake Valley.<br />
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Yet if Lake Valley was not lacking for silver or bloodshed, it was not lacking in irony, either. George Daly, who had purchased all those area mining claims initially, was killed by Apaches on the day the Bridal Chamber was unearthed by John Leavitt. About the time Leavitt was digging, an area rancher returned home to find his cabin burned and his wife, Sally, as well as one of his children, missing. He immediately rode to Lake Valley to get help. Sally was found, beaten, but safe, and with her child. Still, things were heated between settlers and the Warm Springs raiders led by Nana, Geronimo’s brother-in-law, then in his eighties and still avenging the death of Victorio.<br />
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So, that night, a retaliatory ambush was planned. A posse headed to Cotton’s Saloon for some liquid courage and to await the arrival of the Buffalo Soldiers of the Army’s Ninth Cavalry. Lieutenant George Washington Smith was reluctant to join the attack, but he finally relented and his men accompanied the posse. Nana’s camp was found 10 miles west, in Gavilan Canyon, and there, the group charged right into an ambush themselves, with Daly and Lieutenant Smith killed in the initial moments.<br />
<br />As for George Lufkin, who, with Chris Watson, first re-discovered the lost silver near Lake Valley, is also buried in the town’s cemetery; he died without a penny and rests in a pauper’s grave.<br />
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In 1908, with Lake Valley having burned in 1895 and already on its way to becoming a ghost town, a man named Oliver Wilson came to make a home. He’d built the Victorio Hotel in Kingston and refused to sell, only to have the bank finally foreclose on him. His daughter, Blanche, was nineteen and as they approached the town saw no way that she could remain in Lake Valley. In the end, she stayed until <a href="http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSln=Nowlin&GSiman=1&GSst=34&GRid=30373556&">her death on March 31, 1983</a>, running the Continental Oil distributorship for the area and fully taking the reins after her husband A. Lee Nowlin’s death in 1937. Blanche said her family disapproved of her marriage because Lee was from Texas and “Texans generally weren’t held in very good repute around here in the old days.” Blanche’s next door neighbors in the old Bella Hotel, Pedro and Savina Martinez, were the final holdouts, keeping watch over the town until 1994. Pedro had arrived in Lake Valley in 1904 at the age of two and spent 90 years there.<br />
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(Mrs. Nowlin's home is in the photos above and below. Her name can still be made out on the screen door.)<br />
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So why would anyone live nearly alone in a ghost town? Blanche Nowlin said, “It’s so peaceful, you know. It’s wonderful to wake up in the middle of the night and hear the silence. This is where all my memories are,” she continued. “There are seven graves over there on that hillside that I can’t leave.” Now she rests amongst them herself.<br />
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Much of the background on the cast of characters in Lake Valley came from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Haunted-Highways-Ghost-Towns-Mexico/dp/0826305067"><i>Haunted Highways</i></a> by Ralph Looney. Varney’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/New-Mexicos-Best-Ghost-Towns/dp/0826310109"><i>New Mexico’s Best Ghost Towns</i></a> and Julyan's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891"><i>The Place Names of NM</i></a> were also useful, of course. The BLM now operates and oversees Lake Valley and <a href="https://www.blm.gov/visit/lake-valley-historic-townsite">their information</a> also came in handy. I highly recommend a visit soon. Woefully expired "Top Crest" brand 35mm film provided Lake Valley with a violet cast.<br />
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Next time we’ll visit a place that even Google won’t tell you about: Centerpoint, NM.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-63888901352833111392015-06-07T22:01:00.000-05:002020-03-05T20:55:30.559-06:00Independence Day<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Appliances.jpg"><br />
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It was the middle of the morning on the Fourth of July and the rain was pounding down. Dirty, gray clouds hung low in the sky. Lightning flashed across the horizon and thunder rumbled ominously. I’d loaded the last of my belongings into the bed of my beat-up Ford Ranger and covered it all with a tarp. I hoped I’d done a good job with the tie-down and that the tarp wouldn’t leak and let the rain damage my cheap, particle-board furniture. Then I thought maybe it didn’t really matter after all.<br />
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I was leaving Greenville, South Carolina for Knoxville, Tennessee. I was happy to be getting out of Greenville, but not so sure I really wanted to be going to Knoxville. I’d accepted a nine-month appointment as a research technician in the Department of Chemistry at the University of Tennessee and figured, in the worst case, that it would buy me some more time to plot my next move. I’d just gotten onto Highway 276 outside of town when I saw a man walking up ahead on the shoulder of the road with his thumb out. The rain was relentless and the wipers struggled to keep the windshield clear, especially the passenger side one, which was rotted and squeaked gratingly.<br />
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I’d picked up hitchhikers in the past, usually out of boredom or a passing sense of recklessness. Only occasionally had a little bit of compassion entered into it. Every hitchhiker I’d ever given a ride to was at least a little crazy, and usually to the point where you felt you best pay close attention and not let the situation get away from you. But it was always an interesting experience. Once I picked up a guy in Baton Rouge who combined poignant stories of the family he missed badly back in Chattanooga with seamless interjections about a UFO attack he believed was imminent. I thought it took not just a little artistry to pull that off. There was another time someone actually wanted to be taken to a mental institution. He’d managed to wander out of the dayroom and, after a night spent roaming the streets, didn’t know how to get back. He gave me the name of the place and I recognized it. I’d had a cousin that spent some time there. I dropped the man at the front door within 20 minutes. By then the police had been searching for him for hours.<br />
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This time I was feeling bored AND reckless. As I passed the man I saw the water running down his face and into his thick beard. No hat. No jacket. That rain was cold. I guess then I felt a little compassion, too. I pulled to the shoulder and flicked on the hazards. The man ran up to the car, swung open the door, and dropped into the seat. He was soaked to the bone. He put a small, very wet, army green duffel bag on the floor. Hitchhikers and their bags. The man’s long, brown hair was plastered to his skull. He was wearing only a blue, flannel shirt, and I could see some tattoos peeking out around his wrists and neck. A lighter shirt would’ve been rendered transparent, providing a better look, but what ink I could see didn’t appear to have been done by a professional. He was also sporting a paunch that hung over his sopping jeans.<br />
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“I apologize,” he said, out of breath. “I’m gettin’ your truck all wet.”<br />
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“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, pulling back onto the highway. “If this truck gets either of us to where we want to go we can consider ourselves lucky. Speaking of which, where are you going?”<br />
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“Knoxville.” Then he began to cough violently and needed a little time to recover. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued: “I’d ‘preciate whatever help you can give me in that direction. Only, when you drop me off, could I ask that you leave me at a gas station or someplace dry? I’m gonna die of pneumonia out there.”<br />
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The windows of the truck were quickly fogging up. I turned the defroster on full blast. “I’m going to Knoxville myself. I can take you all the way.”<br />
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The man seemed to somehow unspool from inside himself. He sank down into the seat with relief. “Brother, you’ll be doing a man that’s down on his luck a solid.” Then he held out his hand. “Name’s Terry, but my homeboys call me T-Dawg. You should, too.”<br />
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I shook his hand. It was rough and calloused and ice cold from the rain. “I’m Jack,” I told him. “Where are you coming from?”<br />
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T-Dawg didn’t miss a beat. “Prison,” he said. “A seven-year stretch.”<br />
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I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised, although I was a little alarmed. “Sorry to hear you were away. How long have you been out?”<br />
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He looked at his cheap plastic digital watch, seemingly still functioning despite the deluge. ”’Bout four hours. They transferred me to Greenville last week from Perry for some reason. They just let me out the door this mornin’ and I been walkin’ ever since.”<br />
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Now I was even more concerned, but I thought I hid it well. “So, this really is Independence Day for you.”<br />
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He paused and then laughed loudly. “Shit! I hadn’t even thought of that! You’re right. Hell yeah it is!”<br />
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I wanted to ask why he was in prison, but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “Did you do it?” and instantly regretted the words. I thought it would come off as funny, yet it only struck me as a much worse question.<br />
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But T-Dawg laughed even louder. “Man, NO ONE in prison did it. NO ONE!” Then he turned to the side window and wiped away some condensation. “But, yeah,” he added, somberly, “I did it.” As soon as he finished speaking he began to shiver and I switched over to the heater. He rubbed his hands in front of the vent. “Now I just want to see my ex-wife’s old lady and maybe cut the grass at her place, patch the roof, find out where my boy is at.”<br />
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Conversations with hitchhikers always seem to swing from jovial, if not entertaining, to dark and disturbing without a moment’s notice. Was T-Dawg really going straight from prison to mow the grass at his ex-wife’s mother’s house? And fix the roof, too? If he didn’t know where his boy was, then he must not have called ahead. I wondered what kind of trouble I was helping instigate. I only nodded.<br />
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T-Dawg dug into the top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a soaked pack of Camels. He opened the pack, saw there was no hope, and put it back in his pocket. I thought he’d want to know if I had a cigarette, but instead he asked, “So, how do you make a living?”<br />
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“I’m going to do some work for the chemistry department at UT-K. Just a nine-month contract and then who knows? The long-term is uncertain. Story of my life.” I thought the last two sentences might establish some sort of common ground between us. Maybe I was going to need it. But T-Dawg didn’t acknowledge any common ground. Instead, he leaned excitedly across the console. “Chemistry?! That so? Would you have access to maybe a pound of potassium nitrate?” I could’ve sworn he then bit his lip solely to keep from implicating himself further. He chewed at his beard for a few moments, as if deep in thought. “There’s this stump at my ex-wife’s mom’s place that I’d love to blow out of there.”<br />
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Again I nodded. “Well, I’d like to help, but I’m working with computers mostly. Data management and stuff. Plus, I haven’t even started yet.”<br />
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T-Dawg was clearly disappointed. “Ah, well. Maybe I can ask around a little.” Then he began to cough again.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Storm.jpg"><br />
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We continued north through Hendersonville and the rain only seemed to come down harder. “This is going to put a damper on holiday picnics and fireworks,” I offered.<br />
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“No shit,” T-Dawg replied. “Do they still do the big display in K-Town? The one where they light the whole damn bridge up?”<br />
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I told him I thought that was “Boomsday,” the Labor Day fireworks display in Knoxville, said to be the biggest in the country. But it’d been years since I’d spent any real time in the town and I couldn’t be sure anymore. It seemed impossible to think that they’d be able to have any fireworks at all in weather like this.<br />
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T-Dawg stopped shivering and eventually tiny dry patches began to form on his shirt. His hair was drying, too. Walking in that rain must’ve been exhausting, and with a little warmth now T-Dawg fell asleep. His head was against the window, mouth open, and every now and then he made a noise that was something like a groan. I wasn’t about to wake him until it was necessary. As we neared Asheville and I-40 westbound, I felt more relaxed with T-Dawg asleep.<br />
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When we approached the outskirts of Knoxville I gave T-Dawg a light tap on the shoulder. I let him take a few moments to remember where--and, perhaps, <i>who</i>--he was, and then asked how to get to where he wanted to go. He told me to exit I-40 at Western Avenue and head northwest. Then, as we came beside the railroad tracks, he indicated a narrow dirt road. We turned right and crossed the tracks into a trailer park that seemed to have been dropped haphazardly into a scraggly pine forest. The rain would’ve kept anyone inside but, judging from the number of satellite dishes, the gravel lanes might’ve been empty of people most of the time anyway. At the end of one street T-Dawg told me to pull onto a worn patch of grass in front of a worn-looking mobile home. I did, but rather than get out, T-Dawg sat there looking at the beaten trailer, saying nothing. Finally, he put his hand on my arm and said, “Come on in. I’d like you to meet someone. Maybe get you a drink, too.”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Tracks.jpg"><br />
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I searched for an excuse, but with no one waiting for me and nothing much that needed doing, I went blank. Before I could make something up, T-Dawg squeezed my arm and said, “You really oughta come inside.” He looked at me intently, his long, dirty hair and matted beard masking his true expression. Somewhere in this seemed to be the air of a threat.<br />
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“Ok,” I said, and opened my door. At least the rain had begun to let up. T-Dawg grabbed his duffel and swung out of the passenger side. As we walked to the trailer, he pointed to the wet grass which, while sparse, did approach my knees in places, making my shoes and jeans damp.<br />
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“See this shit?” he said. “I knew it’d still be like this. Always needs mowing. There just ain’t been no one around can do it.” Then he motioned toward the hacked and weathered remains of a pine tree along the side of the trailer. “There’s that fuckin’ stump. If I cain’t blow it out, maybe I can dig some ‘round the roots and chain it to a truck.”<br />
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As he ascended the rotten wooden stairs to the warped and peeling door, I dropped back. I couldn’t guess what was about to happen, but I kind of expected it to be bad. T-Dawg knocked and we waited. In a few moments, the door opened slightly and a woman with long, curly, blonde hair peered out while leaving the chain latched. From that brief glimpse I guessed she was in her 50’s, but it was hard to tell. She might’ve been younger. It looked like life could age you fast around this place. All at once her eyes got big and her mouth made a large “O”. The door slammed shut and I immediately felt queasy. I had no idea what I would do if things turned violent. Then I heard the chain rattle and the door swung open. The woman stepped out, threw her arms wide, and yelled, “Oh, my God! Terry!” She was crying. T-Dawg wrapped his arms around her tenderly and I looked away. Not far off a crow was perched in a pine tree, keeping dry in the rain. It was watching us, tilting its head this way and that, quizzically. It wasn’t the only one that was bemused.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/JFG.jpg"><br />
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It seemed that entire minutes passed before the woman stepped back to take in T-Dawg. Her face was red and damp. She was a little overweight, but now seemed friendly and warm. She was wearing a blue Wal-Mart employee vest. I couldn’t see T-Dawg’s reaction to any of this.<br />
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“Why didn’t you tell me?” the woman finally said. “You know I would’ve found a way to get you.”<br />
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“I couldn’t trouble ya,” T-Dawg answered. “Ya’ll got enough to do. Anyway, I figured it might best be a surprise.” He stopped and turned to me, still standing below the steps. “My friend Jack gave me a ride. He was heading this way anyhow.”<br />
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The woman looked at me as if I’d appeared out of nowhere. “Oh!” she exclaimed, but didn’t go further.<br />
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I took a couple steps toward her and extended my hand. “Jack Crawford.”<br />
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“Betty Johnson,” she replied, taking my hand very lightly. “Thank you for bringing Terry home. It’s nice to meet you.”<br />
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“You, too, ma’am.”<br />
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“Well, let’s not stand ‘round gettin’ wet.” T-Dawg motioned us inside as the rain started again. Part of me wanted nothing more than to turn around and get back in my truck but, on the other hand, what was going on between T-Dawg and Betty had gotten my attention.<br />
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Inside the trailer were plastic pails and buckets of all sizes and descriptions positioned here and there over the stained and buckled linoleum of the kitchen, scattered across the dingy carpet of the living room, and no doubt trailing off into the bedrooms, and probably the bathroom, too. As the rain strengthened, “plops” seemed to erupt from every direction, a soft, percussive effect without apparent pattern or rhythm at first, but then somehow seeming to cohere. Betty offered me a yellow vinyl chair that was torn, exposing a dirty piece of foam.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/WrongWay.jpg"><br />
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“Now, what can I get you after that drive?” she said. “Beer? Iced tea? How ‘bout a sandwich?”<br />
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Though I was hungry I couldn’t imagine asking Betty to make me a sandwich, so I just answered, “Iced tea, please.”<br />
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Betty dug around in the refrigerator, the back of her blue vest emblazoned with the white words, “How May I Help You?”<br />
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T-Dawg asked, “Where’s Tammy?”<br />
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Betty began to pour some tea from a big plastic jug. “Memphis, last I heard from her. But that was about six months ago.”<br />
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“How’d she sound?”<br />
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“About the same as last time you all talked.” Then Betty put the glass in front of me and glanced quickly at T-Dawg. “Maybe a mite worse.”<br />
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T-Dawg chewed on his beard and rubbed his hands. Betty asked if he wanted anything, but he shook his head. I took a sip of the iced tea. <i>Plops</i> seemed to be coming from everywhere at once now as the rain pinged harder on the roof. After a few more moments, T-Dawg said, “Can I see Cody?”<br />
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Betty was quiet. More rain came down from the sky and more water fell in the buckets. “Of course,” she answered, finally. “I think you need to.”<br />
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Then she went off to the back of the trailer and, while T-Dawg and I waited, I heard her talking to someone on the phone. But she spoke quietly and I couldn’t make out the words. I could see T-Dawg straining to pick up the conversation, but then he seemed to give up and leaned toward me. “Hey, could you gimme a lift to one other place? It ain’t far.”<br />
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I felt like I had no choice. “Sure. No problem.” I took another drink of tea.<br />
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Betty came back out looking serious. “You can go over anytime you want. They’re at home. I’d take you now but I’m afraid I’m already going to be late for work. They don’t accept no excuses at that place.”<br />
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T-Dawg made a noise that seemed to be an affirmation and told Betty that I’d drive him. To where, I didn’t know. I finished my tea as T-Dawg grabbed his bag and moved toward the door. He told Betty he’d see her shortly. I stood up and thanked Betty and then we were back outside in the rain, walking quickly to the truck.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Pumps.jpg"><br />
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We backtracked to I-40 and went south across the roiling, brown Tennessee River on Highway 441. T-Dawg told me to exit on Maryville Pike, but aside from the few directions, he said nothing and only stared out the window at the gloom. Every now and then he coughed a bit more. It sounded like it was getting worse. The wipers swooshed and squeaked. I wasn’t about to say anything.<br />
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Finally, T-Dawg told me to slow down and then pointed out a narrow street. I made a left turn and we quickly pulled up beside another trailer. This time the yard was well-manicured with a garden gnome sitting by the front steps and an ornamental wrought iron deer underneath an adjacent pine. It didn’t look like T-Dawg would need to do any work at this place.<br />
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I shut off the car and T-Dawg clutched his bag. “Betty’s older sis, Mary, lives here.”<br />
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Now at least I knew where we were. It seemed like he wanted to say something more, but he opened the door and got out into the rain. I did likewise. I saw a prim-looking woman’s face through a window and then the door opened before T-Dawg could knock. Mary was thin, dressed in jeans and wearing cowboy boots. Her brown hair was cut short and she looked younger than her sister. She put her arms around T-Dawg, but the reaction was cooler than Betty’s. If she was at all surprised to see him, she didn’t show it.<br />
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“This is Jack,” T-Dawg said, pointing to me still standing on the walk, getting wet. I just waved. I felt better closer to the truck.<br />
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Mary seemed to be trying to size me up. She was probably wondering why I was there at all. Then she gave a slight shrug, said, “Nice to meet you,” and told us both to come inside.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Bridge.jpg"><br />
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The trailer was immaculate and warm. A crockpot burbled on a counter in the kitchen and the smell of beef stew was heavy. My stomach rumbled. A framed piece of needlepoint by the door read, “God Bless This Home and All Who Enter,” and some country music played low in the background. “Dixieland Delight” by Alabama.<br />
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Mary offered me a seat, then looked at T-Dawg and said, “I’ll go get him.” She went down the hallway and in less than a minute returned with a boy beside her. He was thin and his black t-shirt said “TENNESSEE” across the front in orange block letters. His hair was exactly the color of T-Dawg’s and as unruly. His eyes were wide, although he avoided looking directly at anyone. He couldn’t have been ten years old and he was scared. Mary stopped directly across the kitchen from us and put her arm around the boy’s shoulder.<br />
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“Cody, your daddy’s here.” The boy seemed to draw up into himself. “He’s come to see you.”<br />
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T-Dawg put his duffel down and took a few slow steps toward Cody. Then he put a hand on his son’s head, tousling his hair gently. “How you been, lil’ man? You taking care of things while I been gone?”<br />
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It seemed impossible, but the boy’s eyes got wider. His mouth opened, but instead of speaking he pulled away from Mary’s side and ran back down the hallway.<br />
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T-Dawg looked stunned, and then like he might cry. He made a movement toward the hall but Mary stopped him. “Let the boy be. He needs some time. He’s just scared.”<br />
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T-Dawg snorted. “Scair’t of his own daddy.”<br />
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Suddenly it was like a dark cloud passed over Mary’s face. “The last time he saw you he could barely say ‘daddy’,” she hissed, coldly. “You’re lucky he even remembers you enough to be scared.” T-Dawg put a hand against the wall as if to brace himself. “Why wouldn’t you let him see you all these years, anyway? A boy needs his father, even if his father’s in prison.”<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/McCarthy.jpg"><br />
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T-Dawg stared at the shiny linoleum floor. He seemed dissipated. “Because I didn’t want him to see me there. I didn’t want him to have memories of his daddy like that.”<br />
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“So you thought no memories at all would be better?” T-Dawg just shook his head. “He’s acting out at school, you know. Gets in fights. Won’t do what the teachers ask him. ADHD was what the doctor said. He gave us some medication.”<br />
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T-Dawg took a minute to process this. “Does the medication help?”<br />
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“It seems to, I think. At least when I can get him to take the pills. Sometimes he hides them under his tongue and spits them out when I’m not looking. Now I make him open his mouth and show me.”<br />
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T-Dawg went back to staring at the floor. Mary softened. “But he’s a good kid. He’s got a good heart. You’ll like him. You just need to make sure he likes you.”<br />
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T-Dawg truly did start crying. Now <i>I</i> stared at the floor.<br />
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“What are your plans, Terry?” asked Mary, after a while.<br />
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“Oh, I ain’t going nowhere,” said T-Dawg with a sniffle.<br />
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“Good,” Mary replied, then repeated, almost at a whisper: “Good.”<br />
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T-Dawg started coughing again and walked through the kitchen and out the door without another word. Mary watched him, then turned and went back down the hall. I didn’t know what else to do, so I followed T-Dawg outside. The rain had eased again. He was sitting on the bottom stair step. The aluminum storm door rattled, but he didn’t seem to hear me. I stopped as he pounded his big fist into his right thigh. Hard. Then he did it again. I waited a few moments before scuffing my foot on the wooden step to get his attention. He turned and looked at me like I was a ghost, then ran his palm quickly across his face. “Hey, man, I want to thank you. You been good to me.” He reached out his hand and I took it. I felt an unexpected surge of emotion. I came down the steps and wasn’t sure what to do. “Have a good Fourth,” I said, and instantly felt like an idiot.<br />
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T-Dawg looked confused but then grinned, his stained teeth showing behind his beard. “Yeah, God bless America, man!”<br />
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Then I walked to my truck, got in, and pulled away. T-Dawg gave me a wave. I was barely back to Maryville Pike when the rain started falling harder once more. It was beginning to get dark so I decided to make a quick stop at Taco Bell and then head over to see what was going on at World’s Fair Park. I‘d finally remembered that <i>that</i> was where they had the Fourth of July celebration in Knoxville, and I wanted to know if maybe they’d come up with a way to shoot off fireworks even in rain like this.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Independence_Day/Heart.jpg"><br />
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It's been a long time since I stepped back from ghost towns for a moment and posted a story. February 21, 2014, to be exact, when I put up a piece set in Socorro County, New Mexico, called <a href=http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-monsoon.html>"The Monsoon."</a> Not only does the story above take place (mostly) in Knoxville, Tennessee, but the photos all came from there, as well. On the perhaps rather off-chance that you want more of this kind of thing, you can always check out the City of Dust collection, <a href=http://www.amazon.com/Loss-Words-Other-Stories-Excerpts/dp/1505922429><i>A Loss For Words</i></a>, on <a href=http://www.amazon.com/Loss-Words-Other-Stories-Excerpts/dp/1505922429>Amazon.com</a>.<br />
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Next time we're off to the ghost town of Lake Valley, New Mexico, once home of the famous Bridal Chamber Mine.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921005.post-4892284308308122902015-05-26T22:06:00.000-05:002020-03-05T20:52:18.324-06:00For Sale: Fort Bayard, New Mexico<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/Officers_1.jpg"><br />
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For this installment we’ll be featuring a place you can actually buy if you’ve got some money and a whole lot of gumption: Fort Bayard, New Mexico. Located ten miles east of Silver City, Fort Bayard was established in 1866 as a direct result of the discovery of gold in nearby <a href=http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2011/03/high-pines-new-mexico.html>Pinos Altos</a> in 1859. As gold brought miners and prospectors to what’s now the region of the Gila Wilderness, the Warm Springs Apache did the best they could to drive the new arrivals either back to where they came from or into their graves, whichever happened first. So a fort was built and named after Brigadier General George D. Bayard, a frontier fighter with the First Cavalry who died in the Civil War at Fredericksburg, VA.<br />
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Initially, Fort Bayard was comprised of some huts made out of logs and adobe. Not exactly a formidable defense. But by the time serious campaigns were launched against Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, and Geronimo, it had grown considerably. The Army often sent African-Americans, sometimes referred to as Buffalo Soldiers, to battle Native Americans in the West, and such was the case with Fort Bayard.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/Greaves.jpg"><br />
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A monument to one Buffalo Soldier, Corporal Clinton Greaves, of Company C, 9th U.S. Cavalry, stands in the center of the fort. In addition to a statue of a rifleman in action, which may or may not be Corporal Greaves, there is a plaque which reads, “On June 27, 1877 while on patrol in the Florida Mountains near Deming, New Mexico Corporal Greaves performed an act of heroism saving six soldiers and three Navajo scouts from attack by forty to fifty Chiricahua Apache. Corporal Greaves was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor on June 26, 1879.”<br />
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However, in 1886, following the capture of Geronimo, the Apache threat subsided. The 400-acre post remained active until 1900, and then Fort Bayard became an Army sanatorium and research center for tuberculosis, the climate of the area being quite salutary for TB sufferers. The hospital was briefly transferred to civilian control before a new one, the first built under the auspices of the Veterans Bureau, was constructed in 1922. Here, in a modern facility with a 1,250-patient capacity, victims of mustard and chlorine gas attacks in WWI used mirrors to reflect the plentiful desert sunshine "into" their lungs in the hope it would heal them. During WWII the fort even housed German prisoners of war. The hospital closed in 2010 with completion of the nearby (but off-property) Fort Bayard Medical Center. And then there were none.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/Officers_2.jpg"><br />
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To me, the most striking part of Fort Bayard, which is both a National Historic Landmark and National Historic District, is Officer's Row, a shady avenue comprised of several derelict officer's residences which, aside from one that's a <a href=http://www.fortbayard.org/>museum</a>, resemble <a href=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQQnk09EzZU>abandoned mansions</a>. They were built in the 1920's to replace the shoddy original officer's quarters. Numerous smaller homes for enlisted men can also be seen, as well as a historic theater and various intriguing outbuildings. The 145,000-square-foot hospital, now boarded-up, reportedly costs about $100,000 annually to maintain and is the first thing slated to be demolished. It may already be gone as of this writing, but I wouldn't bet on it. Even demolition was estimated to cost $4.3 million. (5/28/15 UPDATE: The hospital does indeed remain and there is no evidence of imminent demolition. Thanks, readers!) (SECOND UPDATE: The hospital was demolished between April and July of 2016. Alas.)<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/Outbuilding.jpg"><br />
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Essentially, the state of New Mexico, which has owned the property since 1965, can hardly afford to tear anything down, let alone fix it up. Even the trees are dying from lack of caretaking. So Fort Bayard is on the market. Solicitations for expressions of interest from potential buyers, sort of fancy “For Sale” ads, have appeared in the Wall Street and Albuquerque Journals. How much might a nearly abandoned 19th century fort cost, you ask? Well, don’t reach for your checkbook just yet; there is no asking price, but NM General Services Secretary Ed Burckle is considering all serious proposals, of which there have been so few to date that you could count them on one hand. In fact, part of the reason the hospital is first in line for demolition is because it's thought the removal of the asbestos-filled building will make the fort more attractive to a future buyer who would then (hopefully) preserve the other structures.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/EnlistedHouses.jpg"><br />
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There have been many worthy ideas for re-purposing Fort Bayard, with its lovely old buildings and beautiful, open grounds. These include a treatment center for veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder, a workforce development center, a business and industrial park, and a mixed housing development. Others have suggested that the fort be turned into a shelter for homeless vets, a private military academy, or a ghost-hunting destination. The latter might be one way to meet Corporal Greaves and his companions.<br />
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Currently, believe it or not, the <a href=https://www.facebook.com/fortbayardhistoricpreservationsociety>Fort Bayard Historic Preservation Society</a> offers guided tours of the old fort every Saturday throughout summer and twice monthly in winter, providing a bit of access and plenty of history. Unfortunately, despite the many people that love the place, not least among them the aforementioned <a href=http://www.fortbayard.org/>preservation society</a>, Fort Bayard proves that the Beatles were incorrect in at least this instance. It’s not just love the old fort needs, but money, and lots of it.<br />
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<align center="center"><img align="center" src="https://www.cityofdust.com/blogspot/Bayard/Officers_3.jpg"><br />
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Information for this post came from <a href=http://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891>The Place Names of New Mexico</a>, as well as very informative articles from the Albuquerque Journal <a href=http://www.abqjournal.com/346485/news/nms-historic-fort-bayard-up-for-sale.html">(“NM’s historic Fort Bayard up for sale”)</a> and Silver City Sun-News (“A new day dawns for Fort Bayard”). I’d also recommend paying a visit to the <a href=https://www.facebook.com/fortbayardhistoricpreservationsociety>Fort Bayard Historic Preservation Society Facebook page</a>. If you want to know (a lot) more of the fort's history, <a href=http://newmexicohistory.org/places/fort-bayard
>newmexicohistory.org</a> will keep you busy for a couple hours.<br />
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Next time we’ll have a brief fictional interlude, the first since I posted <a href=http://cityofdust.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-monsoon.html>The Monsoon</a> over a year ago. This one is my ode to hitchhikers.jmhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470407787311078380noreply@blogger.com25