Cinderella's Daughter and the Secret of Big Bend

By Diane Garner

Diane Garner considers herself a small town Texas Anglo girl with an astonishingly successful single mom. She experiences a dramatic transition from desperate poverty that resulted when her father abandoned the family.

The family finds prosperity in a small Texas town when her mother becomes a hospital executivea very unusual career for a woman in the fifties. Diane grows up in the nurturing community where she enjoys various adventures and mischievous pranks with friends. One day at the age of twenty-two she learns a startling secret about her mothers hidden past, then embarks on a journey to restore the lost legacy of her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475901023

Diane Garner

Diane Garner grew up in small town Texas and was an educator in Houston for 25 years. In 1975 she transcribed her grandfather’s 130 letters as a gift to her mother. After retiring, she began in earnest to write her family’s story. She has previously published Letters from the Big Bend: Legacy of a Pioneer. She and her husband live in Houston, Texas where she is an active member of her church and likes to read, travel, and do volunteer work.

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Cinderella’s Daughter

and the

Secret of Big Bend

Diane Garner

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Cinderella’s Daughter and the Secret of Big Bend

Copyright © 2012 by Diane Garner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-0101-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0102-3 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 7/13/2012

Contents

Preface

List of Illustrations

Chapter 1. The Secret

Chapter 2. The Departure

Chapter 3. Total Immersion in Pensacola

Chapter 4. Back to Texas

Chapter 5. Our Family during World War II

Chapter 6. High and Dry in Coleman

Chapter 7. Moving to Giddings

Chapter 8. Hospital Whites and a Hint of an Accent

Chapter 9. Mom’s Big Promotion

Chapter 10. Memories of Dad

Chapter 11. Taking Care of My Baby Sister

Chapter 12. Mother’s Little Helper

Chapter 13. Delicious Adventures

Chapter 14. Christmas Memories

Chapter 15. Cowboy Coffee

Chapter 16. ‘‘There’s nothing like a Ford!"

Chapter 17. Bobo and Weedy: Our Surrogate Grandparents

Chapter 18. From Peplums to Merry Widows

Chapter 19. Elementary School Hi-jinx

Chapter 20. High School Capers

Chapter 21. On Being a Teenager

Chapter 22. Adventures with Mom

Chapter 23. Idyllic Summers

Chapter 24. The Second Time around – Mom’s Second Marriage

Chapter 25. Cracking the Glass Ceiling

Chapter 26. Retirement

Chapter 27. On the Trail of Cinderella in 2004

Chapter 28. Family Heirlooms

Chapter 29. A Mystery No Longer

Chapter 30. Mom’s Southern and Mexican Recipes

References

Acknowledgments

In memory of my mother,

Mary Susan Landrum

And to my husband,

Ron Garner

And my children,

Gregory Schroeder and Jennifer Schroeder

I lift up my eyes to the hills.

From where does my help come?

My help comes from the Lord,

who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 121:1-2

Ancestors of Cinderella’s Daughter-

FAMILY_TREE_page_1_v2.jpg

Jeanette Diane Tate

FAMILY_TREE_page_2_v2.jpgInsert1.MapBigBend.jpg

Map of Big Bend (Courtesy of Michael Marvins, author of "Texas’ Big Bend, A Photographic Adventure)

Preface

I’m Diane, one of Cinderella’s daughters. I’ve been planning to write this story since that day in 1963 when the contents of a hidden suitcase changed my understanding of my heritage. I was always proud of my mother, a divorcee whose strong character and hard work won her an unusual executive position in a small Central Texas town. But I didn’t know the depth and breadth of her story. She shared only a few snippets of her childhood in the Big Bend. A rich history of memories was hidden in a cache of old letters written by the grandfather I never knew when he lived in the Big Bend long ago.

Why hadn’t I pursued Mother’s few anecdotes when I first heard them? We are so caught up in our present and future there is a void where curiosity about parents and grandparents should be. As we raise our families those responsibilities consume us. I regret the lost opportunities, the moments I let pass when I could have asked Mom, What was it like in the Big Bend? Why were you raised by your grandparents instead of your parents? What were your grandparents like? What special memories do you have about your neighbors and relatives in the Big Bend? And, what did you know about your father? I should have been more curious to know those relatives, friends, and neighbors.

Writing this memoir has been like traveling down a road of nostalgia. I was raised as an Anglo while unaware I was also of Mexican descent. Most of my young life was spent in a small town in Texas during the halcyon days of the 50s. It was a very happy, tranquil existence during that time in our country’s history with little thought to the undercurrent of dissension that would erupt across the nation in a few short years. The history of my family is important for my children. They need to know their heritage. Life cannot be understood by just knowing one’s own generation. The past can often illuminate our future. I hope this memoir will help shed some light on our family’s special history and help guide my children.

My interest in my family history waxed and waned over the decades following my mom’s revelation. I became interested in genealogy while reproducing my grandfather’s letters in 1975 as a Christmas present to Mom. But my own life, raising children, teaching, widowhood, and then a new marriage absorbed my attention. I was inspired by Maria Von Blucher’s Corpus Christi, an account of pioneer life in Corpus Christi, Texas, based entirely on letters Maria wrote to relatives back in Germany. I returned to the story of my grandfather and his letters after my husband and I traveled to West Texas in 2004 where a surprise discovery reconnected me with the story. With the new information, I took on the challenge of writing about my past with memories of my mom in combination with my grandfather’s letters. In 2008, I enrolled in a memoir writing class and began to write my family’s story.

In the past, my published writing experience had been for professional education magazines until my first book, Letters from the Big Bend: Legacy of a Pioneer, a history, was published in 2011. This is my first attempt at writing a personal narrative. The details in this book are accurate to the best of my knowledge and ability to recall and research, including quotes and sequences in time. I have purposely renamed most of the people mentioned in the memoir except family members and my close friends. In the appendix, I have listed the resources which I have relied upon regarding some of the facts about my mother’s life. Any mistakes are my own. In discussing racial issues, I have used the term, Colored, although some might prefer Black, African-American, or Negro. I have used the term Mexican to refer to people of Mexican ancestry instead of Hispanic, Latino, or Tejano. In the 50s, Colored and Mexican were the terms generally used for those ethnic groups.

As I think of my mother’s upbringing in the Big Bend of Texas and in Pensacola, Florida, I now understand many things that were at times confusing. Some of her father’s best traits shine through in her. Her strength and courage were born in the Big Bend and even further back, derived from her parents and their families. This writing process has been an emotional journey which has provided much insight to me about many aspects of my forebears.

List of Illustrations

1. Family tree

2. Map of Big Bend

First Group of Photos

3. Jim Landrum, Pensacola lawyer, with Paul’s Scarlet Climber rose in lapel from Landrum Cottage garden

4. Landrum, circa 1910, from postcard, as an Agent of the Alpine Auto Company in six-hour drive from Boquillas to the Big Bend

5. Señora Susana Rodriguez de Mena, and three of her six children, Guadalupe, (name unkown), and Gregoria, my maternal grandmother, on the right

6. The law in the lower Big Bend, 1919 - Pete Crawford, game warden; Ray Miller, justice of the peace; Bob Poole and one-armed Arch Miller; Texas Rangers; Steve Bennett, constable (Courtesy Harry Ransom Center, UT Austin)

7. Teacher Ivalee Bales arriving Glenn Springs (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

8. Ivalee and cowboy playing croquet in Glenn Springs (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

9. Ivalee and Mary Susan Landrum (cloche) and classmates (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

10. Mary Susan Landrum and Ivalee on Coco, the calico mule (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

11. Mary Susan, Ivalee Bales, May and Steve Bennett, and W. D. Smithers (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

12. Mary Susan Landrum (acting as translator), and Ivalee Bales with W. D. Smithers and carrier pigeons; bird at top right bound for San Antonio with another Big Bend story, 1926 (Courtesy of Archives of the Big Bend, SRSU)

13. The Landrum Cottage, 229 N. Barcelona where Mary Susan lived with her aunt and uncle.

14. Katherine (Kit) Chapman Landrum, circa 1905, Landrum’s youngest sister

15. Aunt Kate Landrum, Mary Susan Landrum, and Uncle Ben Landrum, Pensacola

16. Mary Susan Landrum, circa 1936

17. Mary Susan Landrum in her early twenties, Pensacola

18. Mary Susan’s friend and mentor, Alpine Justice of the Peace, Hallie Stillwell, with daughter, Dadie (by permission of James Evans, Big Bend photographer)

Second Group of Photos

19. Arthur Tate as a young man

20. Annie Allen Tate as a young woman

21. Van Edward Tate, 2 yrs. old

22. Teen-ager Van Tate with hunting dog and unidentified friend

23. Van Edward Tate, 1938

24. Mary Landrum 1938

25. Mary Landrum Tate with daughter, Diane, 2 months old

26. WW II Bombers are backdrop for 3-year old Diane

27. Van, Mary, and Diane Tate in Virginia, WW II

28. Diane, age 4, in front of Aunt Fannie Bell’s Fort Towson Café

29. Diane in Ft. Towson, Okla. 1940’s

30. Grandmother Tate and Diane during WW II

Third Group of Photos

31. Diane (2nd from left, 2nd row) 1st Gr. Del Rio, Texas

32. Diane, age 5

33. Diane holding her baby sister, Carole, Coleman Texas, 1947

34. Christmas Reindeer in Coleman

35. Diane and Carole, newcomers to Giddings, 1949

36. Mother and Carole, Giddings, 1949

37. Lee Memorial Hospital, Giddings, Texas

38. The infamous Christmas tree

39. A generous gift

40. Carole, Diane and Teddy Baby

41. Diane, Maggie Bobo and Carole

42. Carole, Weedy Folkes and Diane

43. Carole playing dress-up at Bobo’s home

44. Carole and Diane, Easter 1950

45. Diane, 10 yrs. old, 1951

46. Diane, Mother and Carole at Easter

47. My Toni Doll

48. Two flutists, Peggy and Diane, friends since third grade

49. Lee County Courthouse

50. 1954 Ford, our first car

51. Mary Tate, Lee Memorial Hospital Administrator 1950s

52. Mary Tate in hospital office

Fourth Group of Photos

53. Diane, 8th Grade Band Camp, UT

54. Girlfriends in Junior High

55. Nellie and Diane, 1954

56. Our blended family

57. Carole, Virginia, and Sissy, babysitting

58. Giddings High School circa 1955

59. Lions Club Variety Show Dancers doing the grapevine step

60. GHS Band

61. Nellie, Diane, Peggy and Janis, High School Buffalo Gals, Marcia not shown

62. Buffalo Gals smoking. Notice the unopened beer cans

63. Diane, a Junior at Jr.-Sr. Prom 1958

Fifth Group of Photos

64. Diane and Buddy’s Wedding 1961

65. Carole, Aunt Kate, and Mother in Pensacola 1961

66. Carole, Mother and Diane at Pensacola Beach

67. Ron and Diane, Thanksgiving 1997

68. Diane in Boquillas, Big Bend, 2004

69. Remains of ledgestones used in dugout home of Clemente Mena homesite on Tornillo Creek (Photo courtesy of Louis Aulbach)

Chapter 1. The Secret

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I was raised in a small town in Central Texas and am the older of two daughters of the Cinderella of Big Bend. My story begins on a cool Friday in September of 1963. I was going to visit my mom with Buddy Schroeder, my husband of three years. She was forty-nine years old and had been married to my stepfather, Charlie Fields, for about seven years. Buddy and I both enjoyed driving to our hometown for regular visits to each of our families living there. It was a chance to get our jeans on and escape from the city. Mom always looked forward to seeing us. We were living in Houston since Buddy had landed a job in the city after graduating from the University of Texas in Austin.

I had just graduated from the University of Houston, but I was three months pregnant so plans to begin my teaching career had to be put on hold. Texas school districts had an idiotic pre-feminist rule - a pregnant teacher had to go on leave until after the birth of her child. I suppose the reasoning was that it would corrupt the minds of the innocent children under our care. It seems preposterous now when you compare the attitudes of what was proper back then to what is acceptable today. Regardless, after getting over the initial shock of being pregnant, we were excited about having our first baby. Mom looked forward to being a grandmother.

My mother and I were close, and I expected she would tell her future grandchildren her wonderful stories about growing up in the Big Bend country of West Texas where she rode horseback, hunted, and got to know some Texas Rangers. I hoped she would also tell about her teen years in Florida when she went to Pensacola to live with her Aunt Kate and Uncle Ben. The story I liked best was when she defied her Aunt Kate and got her hair bobbed (a very short haircut popular in the 1920s.) Her grandchildren would want to know about the adventures of living through World War II and finally settling in Giddings, where she just happened to be in the right place at the right time and became the hospital administrator of the newly-built Lee Memorial Hospital.

But this day, with my first pregnancy, I had no thoughts of my family history as we traveled down the highway towards Central Texas. Little did I know a revelation was just around the corner. Arriving in Giddings was a happy scene. As we drove up to the house, Mom must have been watching for us through the window of Charlie’s study that faced the street. We saw her walking out the door, past the carport, and down the driveway to greet us with a quick, purposeful step. She was smiling with those pretty straight teeth and her jet black hair in a short hair style. So, on that lovely warm day in September, we three happily greeted each other with big hugs.

We entered their rambling five bedroom ranch-style home. She made her usual inquiries about the ride and our lives as newlyweds in the big city of Houston. We began to plan for the week-end. She didn’t mention any hospital duties. She spoke to us warmly, and her manner as always was matter-of-fact and straightforward. When you listened carefully, you heard the slightest hint of an accent that couldn’t be easily placed. I’m so glad you’re home, she said as we made our way to the guest bedroom with our overnight bags. I’m planning to prepare a delicious supper.

Mom and Charlie’s blended family had dwindled from seven to three. My two stepsisters and stepbrother were no longer living at home and my younger sister, Carole, would soon graduate from high school. The house was unchanged from the last time we had visited. Everything seemed to be quite normal.

Something Hidden

Awakening on Saturday morning I followed the wonderful kitchen smells wafting from the stove to see what was cooking. Mom had brewed a pot of cowboy coffee and there was bacon sizzling in the pan as I reached for a pastry, the perfect match for a good cup of coffee. My husband had already left to visit with friends.

Mom and I were at the large Spanish style rustic kitchen table around which our blended family of seven always used to sit for dinner and which we would expand to seat ten if needed. Charlie had purchased the huge table and matching buffet when they first got married. Mom was at the end of the table. I was at the corner next to her. I was surprised when she said with great trepidation in her trembling voice, Dear, I want to show you some things. You know I’ve told you something about being raised in Big Bend in Brewster County, right?

You mean those stories about riding horses? I remember that you told me about hunting for rabbits and dove and watching for copperheads and rattlesnakes in the canyons where you lived when you were little.

That’s right. Well, there’s some more to that story that I haven’t told you, Mom replied with some hesitation in her voice as she averted her dark brown eyes from mine. The sentence hung there cool and heavy. After a long pause she continued, There’s no way to tell you but just to begin.

Tell me what? I silently tried to guess what she was talking about but nothing prepared me for what came next.

Mom got up, left the room momentarily and returned with a suitcase in one hand and a purse under her arm. She sat down and placed the purse on the table in front of her. It was a large, vintage, patent leather clutch in a rectangular shape. It was almost like a bank deposit pouch but much larger with bright pink roses painted on one corner. I still remember the crisp sound of the zipper as she slowly opened it to reveal some photographs and letters. Next, she turned to the small suitcase that was also on the table and opened it. Made of thick cardboard covered with a brown, striped, tweedy herringbone pattern with a brown leather handle, the suitcase looked like it had seen better days. Its corners were scuffed and frayed and when she began to open it, the rusty latches seemed to hesitate. It had character that comes with age as if it had been well-traveled and had experienced lots of adventures. Like the purse, the suitcase was filled with letters and more photographs.

These are my father’s letters to his family back in Pensacola after he took the train west to the Big Bend. He went there in 1908 because he had tuberculosis (which was called consumption at that time). I’ve been reading his letters from time to time, she told me. I saw my hand reaching out to the purse and felt my fingers touch its shiny patent leather cover. Looking inside, I was extremely curious as my gaze swept over stacks of yellowing envelopes with letters in them. The remaining letters in the suitcase were loosely folded together without envelopes. I noticed the law degree awarded to James Robert Landrum dated 1899 on faded parchment paper with brittle edges that crumbled too easily as I touched it. Mom had bundled all the details of her father’s life and had stored them away in the purse and suitcase. My eyes landed on a yellowing copy of a newspaper article about a child. The title was Texas Most Remote School 100 Miles from Railroad. I reached for the yellowed clipping and began to read a story about how the Texas Rangers and one W. D. Smithers befriended a girl named Marie in the Big Bend Country.

Texas Most Remote School 100 Miles from Railroad

School Started for One Child

Establishment Grows Out of Efforts of Two Texas Rangers.

What is probably the most isolated school in Texas has been opened at Glenn Springs, in Brewster County, about seven miles north of the Rio Grande with Miss Ivalee Bales of Bonham as teacher. This school is not only 100 miles from the nearest railroad at Marathon, but it is 131 miles from Alpine, county seat of Brewster County.

The unique story of how one small American girl, was the primary cause of the establishment of the school, has been brought back to San Antonio by W. D. Smithers, photographer. He recently returned from an extensive picture-taking tour of the entire section surrounding this little settlement.

Although Glenn Springs is one of the oldest settlements in the famous Big Bend country of Texas, it was without a school until this fall. Establishment of the school at that time grew out of efforts of two Texas Rangers, R. E. Pool and Archie Miller, and local townspeople. The interest of the Rangers in the educational project was aroused through their acquaintance with an orphan American girl, Marie Landrum, living in Boquillas, Mexico, across the river from Boquillas, Texas, with her foster parents, Mr. And Mrs. Juan Garcia [sic].

Thirteen-year-old Marie received special consideration from Immigration authorities to permit her to enter the American school, and she is the only American child among the 15 pupils and is the sole one above the first grade, and the interpreter for the teacher. The other 14 Mexican children, ranging up to 16 years of age, knew no English when school opened, and their teacher knew no Spanish. They all are in the first grade, but Marie, who is in the third grade.

Mom gave me time to grasp the identity of the orphan girl, Marie. It was her name before it was Anglicized to Mary Susan when she joined her Landrum relatives in Pensacola. Then she gestured toward the letters, continuing, I knew my father had written to his family in Pensacola – to Grandmother Landrum, Aunt Kate, and Uncle Ben. I had looked through the letters from time to time as I was growing up in Pensacola. After I finished high school, I asked Aunt Kate to store them for me because I was moving back to Texas. She finally decided that she should return the letters and photographs to me. Look, she said, He wrote to his family weekly from 1908 until 1914 when he disappeared with the Constitutionistas in the Mexican Revolution. Aunt Kate, Grandmother Landrum, and the rest of the family wrote back to him, but those letters were lost.

What? I sat straight up, I don’t understand. Did you just say he was in the Mexican Revolution? I guess I never understood how you grew up in the Big Bend, but Aunt Kate and Uncle Ben also raised you in Pensacola. Didn’t you live with your father and mother when you lived in the Big Bend? What happened? Why did you leave and go to Pensacola to live with Aunt Kate and Uncle Ben? Before answering my questions, Mom reached for a coffee refill. Revealing my ancestry would require delicacy. But she took a deep breath and forged ahead. She described the romance of her Scotch-Irish father from Pensacola and her young Mexican mother from Boquillas in the Big Bend on the U. S. side of the Rio Grande. I sensed her nervousness in telling me about her past.

"You see, Diane, my father was thirty-four when he settled in La Noria in the Big Bend in Brewster County, Texas. He first lived in Alpine for a short time before he landed the trading post manager’s position from the widow of Judge Max Ernst who had recently been murdered. Sometime before Jim Landrum arrived, Ernst had moved the post office from Boquillas to La Noria. Hence, even though my grandfather’s letters to Pensacola began with the date and the location, Boquillas, the real location of the store in 1908 was La Noria. After he settled in La Noria and a couple of years had passed, he began to learn to speak Spanish because many of his neighbors were Mexican. Soon he began to establish friendships with people like Clemente and Susana Rodriguez de Mena and their sons and daughters. Clemente had a parcel of land where he raised some crops and ran livestock. As you read the letters, you’ll notice that my father always signed them as Jim. I suppose everyone called him that instead of James Robert, so I always think of my father as Jim Landrum. He ran the trading post, called Ernst Store or the Big Tinaja Store and also served as the Justice of the Peace, postmaster and the local medic. He treated Susana Mena when she was ill, and she returned the favor and nursed him back to health when he came down with cholera. It was about this time that he met and fell in love with Gregoria, their youngest daughter. They decided to marry while she was still in her teens, but her young age was not unusual in the Mexican culture. Trouble soon occurred when he was unjustly accused of a horrible crime. He then had no recourse but to leave his wife in Texas to join the Constitutionistas in the Mexican Revolution. Many months later he disappeared. As you read the letters, you will get a better understanding of how this happened."

Mother continued, You asked if I lived with my mother. Actually, I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was two years old. My grandparents told me she died of heartbreak, so they raised me as if they were my parents. Mom paused as she seemed to be searching for the right words. You see, she said finally, with a bit of dread in her voice, I am half Mexican and that makes you one-quarter Mexican. Mom braced herself waiting for my reaction to the news. She looked intently, with her eyes searching deep into mine, moving back and forth like the hand on a fast metronome. She was eager to see my reaction to her secret. As she leaned forward, every muscle in her body seemed to be wound tight as a watch spring waiting for my reaction.

The sentence hung there cool and heavy. It was strange, this silence that filled the room. My emotions waffled as I tried to absorb all that she had told me. I was bewildered, surprised, and amazed to know Mom had carried this secret within her for forty-nine years. I felt some regret that my mother had not shared this information with me sooner. Then, I began to feel a sense of pride in Mom for her courage. I was awed by what she had accomplished in her life in spite of coming from such humble beginnings. I was aware that my mother was studying my every move. Would she be ashamed or disappointed in how I felt? I tried not to become emotional for fear it would seem to Mom that I was having trouble accepting the truth of being part Mexican. Her concern was misplaced, I felt like a child opening a rich treasure chest. The story intrigued me and I tried to keep my voice steady and matter of fact. I reached for Mom’s hand.

After a while, I got up to refill my coffee cup, giving my mind time as it began to race back to the past which was full of unanswered questions. Why didn’t Mom reveal this secret sooner? It was something she had never mentioned. I could only guess the answers as I sat down with my cup of hot strong coffee. I responded to her story, Mom, I’m just amazed that you have all these wonderful letters from your father. It must have been so hard for him to leave his family and start a new life in such a different place. To myself I asked, What was he like? How did he meet his wife? What was she like? Where was she born? Did he ever get to see his family back in Pensacola?

When Mom realized how interested I was in her father’s life in the Big Bend and that I could accept her revelation without shame or bitterness, she let out a huge sigh. I’m glad you told me, Mom! I responded confidently. I was surprised and happy to know that she had finally shared this secret with me.

I’m sure Mom felt waves of relief when she saw I was willing to accept that I was part Mexican. I began making plans with her to read each and every letter. More questions began to pop into my head: How did Aunt Kate and the Pensacola Landrums feel about the marriage? Did Aunt Kate ever get to meet Gregoria? I was amazed. This suitcase was a real treasure chest and these letters were like a puzzle waiting for me to complete. As I went through the letters, one by one, I noticed that there was no order to them, and it would be difficult to figure out what happened when James Robert Landrum first arrived in Texas and what happened in those years that followed. My hands began to tremble a bit with excitement as I began to arrange the letters in chronological order by his date on each letter. Then I realized it was going to be a time-consuming task. When she saw me trying to organize the letters, Mom stopped me and made a suggestion. Diane, why don’t you take the letters back home and continue to read them at your leisure."

A few days later back in Houston, I began to read the letters. As I carefully removed each letter from its envelope and then unfolded each page, I read with great interest each detail of young Jim Landrum’s life there in the Big Bend, his feelings of loneliness, his courage and determination to overcome his debilitating disease, and his gratitude to the Lord for finally restoring his health. I placed a paper clip to hold together the many pages of each letter and carefully laid each letter aside next to the suitcase as I read another and then another.

Most of the letters were complete from the greeting which always included a date and location to the salutation. Sadly, a few of the letters had a page or two missing. The quality of the stationery varied and those letters written on fine stationery held up well over the years considering the various conditions in which the packets of letters had been stored over time. Some of the ink had run or faded, and some of the lines of text had been lost in the folds. The better quality stationery had the letterhead of the M. A. Ernst Store (the Big Tinaja Store). I later learned this was the store he was managing after Judge Ernst, the owner, was murdered.

Other letters were written on inexpensive lined sheets of tablet paper. I noticed if my grandfather had lots of news or needed to go into detail about his thoughts and ideas, he would sometimes continue to write on the back. His handwriting was graceful and clear enough to decipher after all these years. He had a keen ability to sort out his thoughts before putting pen to paper as there were few strike-outs. The mail was delivered by mail wagons called hacks only once a week in that remote area, and sometimes if he had time, he would add more thoughts to the letter the next day before the hack arrived.

What a surprise it was to come upon his law degree that had aged to an almost crumbled state of decay. The brown spots over the text and the frayed edges made the fragile document even more precious to me. Jim and Gregoria received several postcards with simple messages but most of the dates and post office locations were blurred. I marveled at my grandfather’s descriptions of the stark beauty of the wide open spaces, the color of the desert, the friendliness of the people, the loneliness that must have enveloped him at times, and the satisfaction in knowing that he was recovering his health. So, I began to know my grandfather through these letters.

Uncovering a faded and yellowed newspaper