Echoes of Colorado

By Fern Croley Jones

My first view of Colorado was from the arms of my maternal grandmother, Mary Clarissa Cade, when I was eight months old. She brought me to Pueblo while my mother hopefully recovered from typhoid fever in far-off Arkansas. Two months later, Mary realized this little girl would be her responsibility from then on, and already Little Fern, as I was called, was determined to call her grandmother "Mama." My view changed as I graduated from my baby crib to following her around the garden in the backyard and learning to identify creeping things along the path. My grandfather, JW Cade, taught me to be seen and not heard and go to bed "with the chickens," which I cheerfully ignored. My uncles and aunts and cousins taught me to feel accepted and honor my parents example of love. As I grew, I realized that Pikes Peak was a beautiful skyline, and my tree swing that hung from the backyard elm tree was a place to not only swing but read and sing and dream. The last view I treasured, even when I finally returned to Arkansas, was at night with the star-studded sky above just as in Colorado, where I dreamed I saw my parents and other dear ones above them looking down at me. Along with the music I learned there, I knew there were angels singing and watching over me, awaiting the time when we would all finally see home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646285082

Book preview

For the descendants of Lloyd Dale and Luella Fern Jones which by January 2020 will be forty-eight. Also for the many who have joined our clan through marriage or the decree of God; all are family.

And for our children: Gary, Linda, Dave, Diane, Richard and Ray and my friends who have encouraged me to write this…especially my bluegrass family. My brother Leroy and our surviving sisters Leota, Jennie and Liz…

Now also when I am old and gray headed. O God do not forsake me…until I declare your strength to this generation and who is to come.

Psalm 71:18

Dear Mother,

I dreamed I found you last night. You were standing by a hospital bed. Your face was in the shadows, so I couldn’t see clearly, but I knew it was you since you recognized me and said, You found me! It seemed you had been waiting for me. Suddenly I realized that I had always tried to find you, though it was more of a dream or a wish, not a conscious search. I wanted to ask you why you chose to be with your baby boy, who only lived thirty minutes, rather than be with me, your baby girl, who was eight months old and knew you.

My daddy, Bert, told me you couldn’t make that choice, so your heavenly Father made it for you. When the angels came, you had no choice but to follow. It was early in the morning, before first light, and when Daddy Bert realized what was happening, it was too late. He was too exhausted to cry after weeks of keeping watch by your bed as you struggled between two worlds, culminating in crushing disbelief. His first thought was wondering how he would tell your folks who had taken me to Colorado.

In Colorado, a baby cried. The grandmother got up to try and quiet her before she would awaken your father. And just at that moment, she knew. I was that baby.

Little Fern

Mama Cade and Little Fern in Colorado

Year 1934

Dear Mother,

My first conscious memory was of chewing on the wrought iron rail of the crib I was in…cutting teeth? Maybe… The second was peeking over the edge of the large oak dining room table as the women were working on a quilt.

When I first got to Colorado, still clinging to my grandmother, Mary Cade, there were so many people I had never seen before. They all called your mother Mama, so in spite of her objections, I did too. There was Daddy, who was my grandfather, JW Cade, who reminded me of my grandpa Croley I left behind in Arkansas.

Emma was my aunt next youngest to you and was married to Uncle Erman, who worked at a bakery. They had two boys, Nevin and Ronnie.

Next was my aunt Alva, who was married to Uncle Floyd, who worked on a railroad. They had my cousin Tiny Tim and later little Billy by the time I was seven.

Uncle Joe would later marry Mildred, who lived next door.

Uncle Harold married Eulabelle, who was the youngest daughter of my daddy Bert’s fiddle instructor, who had been friends of the family for years. I couldn’t say Harold, so I called him Uncle Hell. Before long, I had two little cousins—Barbara Jean and Carol Ann. Then came Jimmy followed by Patricia. Eventually, they had another son named Bob.

Uncle Bill was called Willie at first since he was William after my grandfather. We teased him about the song Can you bake a cherry pie…Billy boy, Billy boy. I couldn’t say Willie, so I called him Uncle Widgie. He married much later in life to a girl named Mary; they had John, Jim, Mike, and Catherine.

The youngest was uncle Kenneth, who was only twelve when I replaced him as the baby of the family. He reminded me of my Arkansas uncle George, who was the same age. I called Uncle Kenneth Uncle Kenness.

All my uncles called me Toots.

My daddy Bert eventually came to see me, but my grandparents Cade were not too cordial. They felt he could have taken better care of their daughter, not realizing or caring how happy they had been. When I wrote about them using her own words from actual letters, penning An Ozark Mountain Waltz, he wrote everything down he remembered, as well including how she fell ill from drinking from an abandoned well. They definitely loved each other.

When my grandmother got me from Arkansas, she asked Grandpa Croley why there were no screens on the windows… He thought he would be funny and said, We cut them up to make flyswatters. She didn’t laugh.

In spite of it all, he was determined to visit as often as possible, though he gave up on the idea he could raise me. He said he would not do anything to disrespect Tina’s parents, and it was obvious by then that I was adjusting to my new home.

After two lonely years, he married Eulabelle’s older sister, Vivian, and gave me two brothers, Ernie and Leroy, and a stepbrother Donnie just my age. Daddy Bert explained when I was grown that Vivian didn’t take my mother’s place…she had her own place in his life. They spent many years playing music together as she played chords on a lap organ. I also credit her for influencing my daddy Bert to find faith as he was not a believer, especially after losing a little boy Albert Jr. only thirty minutes old, then his mother, and his wife, my mother. He knew my mother was a Christian and his own mother, but he didn’t feel such belief was necessary as a suffering young man of twenty-four. Later, he was not only influenced by Vivian’s newfound faith, but when he watched President Kennedy’s funeral, he could see the influence of faith on the president’s family members… He told me he was ready. He was a carpenter, even making church pews. He always played What a Friend We Have in Jesus each evening when he played the fiddle. I miss him even now.

Dear Mother,

When I was still very small, I had two reoccurring nightmares. It’s hard to describe objectively since just the thought of them brings back an unresolved memory of loss and searching. After you left me, I just wanted to see your face again, but everyone who walked in our cabin door was a disappointment because it wasn’t you. I don’t consciously remember my confusion and longing. My daddy Bert told me he was too busy trying to salvage his broken life to see me as much as I needed, and he wasn’t you anyway. Money and work were still scarce…

I was only eight months old when Mama (your mother) came to get me. The nightmares started after I was in her house awhile. The first one, it seems, there was a ring of people looking down at me and talking loud and pointing at me and laughing. None of them were you. The second nightmare I had involved me hovering up by the ceiling in the room where my grandparents and I slept. I was in my wrought iron crib, and Mama was next to me in the double bed. When I would realize where I was, I cried as loud as I could, Mama, Mama, hoping she would get me down.

I would always awaken Daddy, who would demand Mama do something to quiet me down, and that would scare me even more. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but I was still floating above them.

Whenever she would reach out for me and pick me up, I would be back where I was supposed to be, and she would take me in by the heating stove and hold and rock me until I would be drowsy enough to sleep again, humming and singing. I still love Rock-a-Bye Baby.

I don’t know how long it took for the nightmares to stop, but it seems as soon as I focused on searching for Mama’s face instead of yours, I was happier. She was always there. When it was explained to me later why you left, I’m not sure I accepted it entirely, but I didn’t look for you every time someone walked in.

Mother, I don’t remember your face anymore, except to picture you like you are in the portrait on the living room wall. My aunt Alva says I look like you, but others say I look like a Croley. And since that’s who I am, it’s okay either way.

Love,

Fern

Dear Mother,

When I was about two years old, the WPA was established (Works Progress Administration) to help those men find work who lost employment due to the Depression like Daddy Cade. In spite of having a physical handicap, he was a hardworking man who never complained about working. His foot caused him to limp, either a genetic condition or an accident he never knew. The arch of his foot was so flat it looked as if it was bent back the other way. The most pain he felt from it was when he got new shoes and had to break them in as he called it. He also had a nervous twitch in his cheek…

He had a history of construction work, so when he was put to work on sidewalks and roads, he was very good at it…especially cement work. One census report said he was working on storm sewers. The WPA lasted about nine years, and this gave him the time to be eligible for an old age pension as they called it then.

He had first met my daddy Bert’s parents in construction as the Croley’s had a thriving business before the crash of 1929. The Croleys all came from Nebraska, and so you met their son, Bert, my daddy, when the Croleys invited the Cades to visit.

Another New Deal program was the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp), so my uncle Joe took part in building the rock walls and structures of Pueblo Mountain Park above Beulah where my aunt Alva had a home called Juniper Lodge. At the park, there was a main lodge called the Horsehoe Lodge where different groups provided housing for church camp and other events.

They also had a playground with swings, slides, and a merry-go-round and a teeter-totter that wasn’t a plank over a sawhorse like what Kenneth fixed for me.

Your parents could not afford me, but they were careful with what they had, buying food carefully and growing their own, canning for the winter. They raised chickens for eggs and Sunday dinner. I never knew we were poor people. I just knew living in the little house was fun…and there was always music. The uncles helped financially since they worked too. My daddy Bert couldn’t help much since he had another family, but he still never forgot my birthdays and Christmas.

I thought we were rich just having a tall wooden radio to listen to, music and drama…a favorite of us all.

Love,

Fern

Dear Mother,

I don’t know why your daddy seemed to be so unhappy, and Mama put it cranky. He was born in Ohio in 1875, and I have found out recently that he and two of his little sisters, Margaret and Harriet, were put in an orphanage by the county where he had been abandoned by his parents. This was after the Civil War, and times were terrible for families to survive since the soldiers all needed work, and there were few to be had. The orphanage was in Cleveland, and if he ever saw his parents again, he never said. Margaret was taken in by a family as a helper, and Harriet was adopted by a family who renamed her Tina Jane. You were named after both sisters, I found out. He had other siblings, but they were not taken to the orphanage, so he lost track of them. When he was nine years old, he was indentured to a farmer in Kansas, and after a year where he worked for a total of $25, he decided he could do better on his own.

I don’t know where he worked or what happened the rest of his young life, but he met Mama in Nebraska. After their marriage, they homesteaded in Northern Colorado, and he worked for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company, repairing the tracks. After several years, he moved to an acreage in Huerfano County near Rattlesnake Buttes. I wrote about what happened next in the book I wrote using your journals and letters.

His work ethic influenced me. At breakfast, he always put the