TRYING TO UNDERSTAND.

          One day, during the following month, while Bronco napped and Dad was at work, Mom showed me pictures of Kenneth.  I gazed at the man dressed in an army uniform; his service cap cocked over one eye.

          “Here’s one that was taken shortly after we married,” Mom said as she handed me a photo.

           Mom appeared young in the picture.  She was wearing a print cotton dress, and even in the black and white photo I could tell she was blushing.  The man standing beside her, with his arm around her shoulder, was a few inches taller.  His dark hair, parted on one side, waved back from his forehead and his lips were drawn into a pleasant smile.  I wished I could see the color of his eyes.

          “Who’s this?” I asked Mom, pointing to a second man and woman in the picture.

          “That’s Pa Bolding, you grandfather.  Well, at least I called him “Pa, and that’s his wife.”

          “Is she Kenneth’s mother?” I asked.

          “No, Kenneth’s Mom and dad were divorced and both remarried.  Kenneth’s real mother, Mrs. Murphy, lives in Arizona, and Kenneth has a half brother and sister from her second marriage.”

          I was trying hard to keep everything straight in my young mind.  I listened with rapt attention, not wanting to miss anything.

          Mom continued, “I really enjoyed Pa and his second wife.  That picture was taken when we visited them in Texas.  They don’t live there now.  I heard they moved to California.  Lucky...Kenneth is in California also.  He has started his own business out there."

          Mom laid a couple of pictures before me and her eyebrows knit together a she continued talking...

          “I really should never have married Lucky, because I didn’t love him.  In many ways we were both immature,” her voice had a sadness and regretful as she spoke.

          She seemed to forget I was there and her words came as old memories.  I listened as she reminisced of a marriage that had never had a firm foundation.  She spoke of jealousy, accusations, arguments and separations.  She spoke of Lucky (I noticed she used his nickname and only with conscious effort did she call him Kenneth), joining the army and being stationed overseas.  Lastly she spoke of a woman he met in England.

          "We were finally divorced.  I felt guilty, and had a hard time holding my head up around Magdalena.  All the town gossips had a hay day, because very few people got divorced.  It was considered a disgrace.  Many of them thought I should have stuck with my marriage no matter what.  But, they didn’t have to live with it. "

           "You and I had moved back home after you were born.  My family lived on the outskirts of Magdalena at that time,” Mom’s expression softened and a smile played across her lips, “Every one of my brothers and sisters treated you like their own. "

          Mom rummaged through the pictures and handed me one.  I recognized Mom and her sister Ruby.  They were sitting on the hood of an old car.  Their hair was braided and wrapped on top of their heads and they were wearing sloppy shirts and rolled up jeans.  It was obvious, from the photo, that they were enjoying themselves.  Behind them, one on each side of the car, were two men making faces at the camera. 

          Mom laughed, “That’s Deryl and Gene Gaines.  I dated Deryl and Ruby dated Gene.  They were a lot of fun.  They lived in Socorro and they would drive over on Saturday nights.

           I dated Deryl and Slim during the same period of time.  I couldn’t decide whom to marry.  Deryl and I were like a couple of kids, just having a good time.  Slim was more mature and ready to settle down.  I made up my mind to marry Slim, but when he told his parents they disapproved because I was divorced and had a child.  Slim married me anyway.”  Mom’s face mirrored the rejection she felt as she continued,

          “For awhile, after we were married, Slim’s folks wouldn’t allow me to come into their home.  You and I stayed outside in the car while Slim went into see them.  He was upset over the situation, and they must have felt they would lose him, because they finally did invite you and me into their house."

          Understanding flooded me as I listened to Mom.  I could feel her hurt and I wanted to reach out and comfort her but I didn’t know how, so I just sat quietly and listened.

          Mom straightened herself and began putting the pictures back in order.  She seemed to be trying to pull herself back from the past.  She looked at me as if she wanted me to comprehend what she was going to say,      “Slim has been a good father to you.  He adopted you so you could bear his name.  He has even taken a firm hand in disciplining you, because I had a hard time doing it,” Mom’s voice became softer, “Remember at the church in Philipsburg when you sang the solo?  Why, he got tears in his eyes.  He cares about you.”

          Mom’s words hit the cords of my heart.  Did she know I was wondering if Dad loved me?  Did she know I felt distant from him?  I had spent a lot of time remembering the times he had disciplined me and was having a hard time remembering when he had shown me love.

          Mom didn’t tell me if Dad was aware of my new knowledge that he wasn’t my real father.  Instinctively I sensed that he knew.  He seldom teased me anymore, and I felt that he was sterner.  Of course, there were times lately when I thought he didn’t have a right to tell me what to do; after all he wasn’t my father.

           I never expressed what I was thinking.  Perhaps he could see it in my eyes and mannerisms...perhaps he feared he had lost his fatherly standing with me...perhaps...perhaps...I never knew because we didn’t verbally communicate.  We were two strangers, who had always known each other.  An invisible chasm separated us.  Each of us longing for it to be the way it had been, but neither of us knowing how to make the crossing.

          It would never be the same.

Gloria (5yrs old), Daddy Slim, Bronco (6 months old.

Bayard, New Mexico 1949

1949...Bayard, New Mexico. I began pre-first in Bayard...finished the 2nd half of the year in 1st grade in Sharon Springs, Kansas, with my Aunt April, while Mom and Slim went to Montana on a job search..

SEARCHING FOR PROOF

          The house was quiet, except for the ticking kitchen clock.  Alice and I crept through the living room and entered the master bedroom.

          “We’ll have to hurry Alice.  Mom is across the street having coffee,” I whispered.

          “Gloria, you don’t have to do this,” Alice said nervously, “I believe you.”

          I had tried to confide to my friend what Mom told me concerning Kenneth, but because of her similar experience, of learning Mr. Birmingham was not her real father, she accused me of making up my story.  She was sure I was trying to copy her so I could say I had both a real dad and a stepfather.

          “This just can’t happen to both of us,” Alice had argued.

          The master bedroom watched silently as I opened the sliding closet door.

          “That’s it up there,” I whispered as I motioned toward a large cardboard box.

          “Whew, that’s heavy,” Alice breathed as we pulled the box off the shelf and sat it on the hardwood floor.

          “These are Dad and Mom’s important papers.  If there is any proof it should be in here,” I said to my friend as I began sifting through the contents of the box.

          “Gloria, let’s put it back.  If your mom catches us we’ll be in big trouble!” Alice said nervously, her voice becoming louder.

          “Shh Alice, I’m not doing this just for you.  I want to see for myself,” I said firmly.

          I searched through the papers looking for something, but I wasn’t sure what.  My fingers clasped a thick brown envelope.  I drew it from the container.  I opened it and unfolded the contents.  The first paper had elaborate script across the top...MARRIAGE LICENSE.  Underneath, to one side, in smaller print was...STATE OF NEW MEXICO, AND BERNALILLO COUNTY.  The document certified that on the 12^th day of December AD 1941 in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I the undersigned clergyman did join in Holy Bonds of Matrimony...Warren K. Bolding and Wanda L. Underwood.

          I handed the certificate to Alice.  My heart was beating so fast I was sure she could hear it.

          The second paper was a degree of divorce...Wanda L. Bolding vs. Warren K Bolding.

          The final document was a right of adoption, giving Marion M Williams legal custody of Gloria Sherlene Bolding and changing said name to Gloria Sherlene Williams.

          I was stunned by my discovery.  I had not fully believed that I would find anything, and now I held the proof in my hands.  Alice and I passed the papers back and forth absorbed in the confirmation of my roots.

          Suddenly I remembered Mom!

          “Come on Alice, help me put them back,” I said as I folded the papers into the envelope and stuffed them deep inside the box.  Alice grabbed one side and I the other, and we lifted the container back on the shelf.  I slid the closet door back into place.  Our shoes clattered against the hardwood floors as we ran through the house and out the back door.

          “See Alice, I told you,” I said breathlessly, “and that’s not all; I have a sister four years older than me.  Her name is Linda Lee!”

 

 

 

SECRETS REVEALED

IDENTITY CRISES…LUCKY'S CHILD

          The mid-afternoon sky was blue with soft, billowy clouds.  Bronco and I climbed into the back seat.  We were tired and dirty from exploring the field next to our grandparent’s house.

          Dad backed the ford onto the street, and we waved at the older couple standing by the chain-linked gate.  I looked out the back window as we drove away.  Grandma made her way to the side of the house to check the chicken pen.  Grandpa Williams, with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his brown pants, resembled an artist’s character.  He strolled back to the front door; his beige Stetson hat rode faithfully on top of his head.

          We turned the corner onto Main Street and Dad stopped the car in front of Benjamin’s grocery store.

          “I’ll be right back,” Dad said as he got out of the ford.

          “What’s Dad getting?” I asked Mom.

          “Just some things we need...huh...Gloria, I want to tell you something.” Mom’s voice was low and subdued, as if she didn’t even want the Ford to hear.  I glanced over at Bronco; he leaned against the upholstery, his eyelids heavy with soon approaching sleep.  I scooted to the edge of the backseat and leaned my arms and chin on the back of Mom’s seat.

          “When I was sixteen years old”...her voice began.

          Oh good, I thought to myself.  I loved Mom’s recollections of her “long ago” days.  They were full of brothers and sisters, funny pranks, laughter; taking baths in an old washtub, with two children at a time sharing the same bath water.  There were tales of depression days when they traveled cramped in an old car: of Grandpa Underwood searching for work, and painting billboard signs for money to survive; and of Grandma Underwood cooking pancakes over a campfire for her large family.

          I focused my attention back on Mom’s voice.

          “Uncle Don introduced me to Kenneth Bolding.  Actually, his full name was Warren Kenneth Bolding, but his family called him Kenneth.  To his friends in Magdalena he was known as "Lucky".  He was new to Magdalena and he took a fancy to me, probably because I didn’t fall all over him like the rest of the girls in town.  He was very good looking, with black hair and blue eyes.  I dated him for a while.  During this time, life at home became unbearable, and I wanted to leave.  Lucky suggested that we get married, so we drove to Albuquerque and...And... Got married.”

          “I never knew that,” I said in surprise.

          “I was waiting until you were older to tell you,” Mom continued, “You were born when I was eighteen...Lucky...Kenneth Bolding is your real father.”

          I sat perfectly still, my mind unable to comprehend what Mom was saying.  It was foreign to everything I knew about myself.

          I finally found my voice, “How can that be?” I asked in unbelief.

          “We were divorced when you were three years old.  I married Slim and he adopted you.  Kenneth didn’t care about you or he would have contested the adoption.  He gave up all of his rights to see you again.  Lucky...huh...Kenneth was married before me, and he had another daughter by that previous marriage.  Her name was Linda Lee.  She was four years older than you.  In baby pictures, you both looked a lot alike.  She...”

Mom’s voice halted abruptly as Dad walked down the sidewalk carrying a grocery sack.  He put the sack on the back floorboard and slid behind the steering wheel.

          “Sorry it took me so long, we got to talking.  Cy says to tell you hello and stop in next time we’re in town,” Dad said light heartedly.

          Dad didn’t know that a little part of his world had changed.  I stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.  Sadness stirred inside me.  If he wasn’t my real father, then why did people say we resembled each other?  Why did we both have dark hair and hazel eyes?

          My mind moved slowly like a large locomotive pulling a heavy load.  Thoughts, like boxcars linked together, began to gain momentum as they passed one by one.  Alice Birmingham came to mind.  Just a few weeks before she had confided in me as we walked home from school.  She had been told that Mr. Birmingham was not her real father.  Her words echoed in my mind.

          “I just don’t see why I should have to call him Father any longer; after all, he’s only my stepfather.”

          “I can understand how you feel Alice,” I answered sympathetically.

          Later in the day, I told Alice’s problem to Dad and Mom.  Neither of them made a comment, and at the time I gave it no thought, but now I remembered the expressions on their faces and everything registered!  They must have felt they were being confronted with their own secret.

          A light dawned in my mind...that’s why Mom felt Grandma and Grandpa Williams didn’t accept us.  The light slowly dimmed, and I felt another wave of sadness as I realized I wasn’t special to them.  I didn’t belong. Bronco lay near me on the seat.  As he turned in his sleep his arm fell on my leg.  I looked down at him and emotions choked inside me.  My eyes brimmed with tears.  This morning I thought I was a whole sister, but now I was only half of one.  I believed I was a real daughter, and now I was adopted.  Somewhere there were other grandparents to whom I did belong.  There was Kenneth, although Mom said he didn’t care about me.  And there was Linda Lee.

          As we approached Albuquerque, I realized I had spent the entire ride deep in my thoughts.  A multitude of lights twinkled into the dark night.  I had always loved the lights of the city and would pretend they were all my jewels, sparkling and shining just for me; but tonight I was too engrossed in the realities of life to imagine and dream.

 

MAGDALENA

          Pinks, with tinges of yellow, outlined the New Mexico sunset, as our car sped down highway 60 toward Magdalena.

          “We’re almost there,” Mom said.  Bronco and I were starting to get “antsy.”

          Bronco and I watched intently at the approaching mountain.  At one certain angle, a rock formation resembled a woman’s profile.  Spanish settlers had named the mountain after Mary Magdalene and their town born the name...Magdalena.

          “I see it...I see the lady!” Bronco yelled with excitement as he jumped up and down causing the car seat to shake and me along with it.

          It was only a matter of minutes before we drove into the small town.  Quaint buildings, modest homes, and dusty side streets gave an air of oldness and rugged history.  Tales of saloon fights and lawless days were passed down from the older generations.  Legends of outlaws and cowboys passed the days of slow, country style living.

          Mom’s family, consisting of eight children, had moved to Magdalena when she was in her early teens.  Dad, ten years her senior, met her when he returned from the Second World War.  Mom’s family had long since left the area, but Dad’s folks were still here.

          This town, with its dusty streets and quiet mystery, was the place of my birth.  The once, little makeshift hospital, where I caught my first breath of life, was now the town’s fire station.

          We turned off the main street of town and drove east.  The white stucco house, with its chain-linked fence sat on the corner of the second block.

          A tall older woman was bent at the waist shooing chickens into a pen at the backside of the house.  The sound of the car door shutting caused her to straighten and turn, as she patted her windblown white hair.

          “I declare, those chickens are more than I can handle,” she said as Dad opened the chain linked gate.

          “Now Mom, what would you do without your fresh laid eggs?” Dad teased.

          “Yes, and what would I complain about,” she said as she gave Dad a hug, “It’s good to see you son.”

          “How are you doing Wanda?” she asked Mom.

          “I’m just fine Mother Williams,” Mom answered.

          Turning her attention toward Bronco, she encircled him with her arms and pulled him to her.

          “How’s my boy?”

          Looking up, her eyes met mine.

          “Hi Gloria, I’ve made you and Bronco some cookies.  Come on in the house.”

          We followed her into the front room.  The house had the scent of mustiness from old furniture.  Grandpa Williams stood with effort from his rocking chair.

          “Come on in folks, it’s good to see ya...have a chair.”

          Dad pulled up a platform rocker and sat next to his father.

          Mom took some of our belongings into the back bedroom, while Bronco and I followed Grandma Williams into the kitchen.  We wanted to see about those cookies!

          During that evening, and half of the next morning, I spent my time observing.

          Mom eyed me curiously, “Don’t you feel well?” she asked.

          “I feel fine,” I answered nonchalantly.

          “Why don’t you go outside and play?”

          “I just want to stay inside,” I answered innocently.

          I sat on my perch beside the kitchen table.  I was determined to solve the mystery.  Why did Mom get upset and why did she feel she and I weren’t accepted?

          Grandma and Mom seemed to have a polite co-existence as they moved around the kitchen.  I noticed Grandma did pay more attention to Bronco, but he was still little.  After all, at nine years old, I was half-grown.  There comes a time when a person doesn’t need all that hugging and kissing, I reasoned. 

          I could not remember a time when Grandpa Williams had spoken a word to me. He never talked to Mom and me, but he never conversed much with anyone...except Dad.  They would walk around the yard (Dad slowing to Grandpa’s gait), or sit in the rockers discussing ranching.

          Maybe there isn’t anything wrong.  That’s probably just the way Grandma and Grandpa are, I decided.  I felt a mixture of relief and freedom as I ran out the back screen door into the warm summer day.

         

Historic...Magdalena...where I was born.

Historic Magdalena New Mexico

A community rich in history...

Stay and explore our history and natural beauty
The Village of Magdalena is an incorporated village with its own governing body, nestled in among the beauty of some of the most scenic mountains, trails and historic buildings. Located at an elevation ranging from 6,548 feet (Magdalena) to 12,600 feet (South Baldy Peak) and an area population of approximately 1200, the small town atmosphere is host to some exciting and vibrant changes. Over the past few years many new businesses have opened their doors to serve the local population and travelers.
The perennial mild climate makes this a great year-round destination with temperatures for this area ranging from around 19°–60's (fall/winter) and 43°–90's (spring/summer), with mountain breezes and summer monsoon showers.
There are several historic buildings, still to be found in Magdalena, and several of these today are home to active businesses and private homes. Magdalena is undergoing a "face-lift" and is being recognized for its growing arts community, place to stop, shop and stay a while. The Historic U.S. Route 60 is home to one of the most delightful towns, numerous galleries, stores, hiking trails and other events and attractions.

The history surrounding Magdalena is rich with Old West Legends, Dusty Cattle Drives, Pioneer families, Main Street Shoot-outs, Fiery Ranchers and Grimy-faced Miners. This history just adds to the many area attractions. To name but a few of those attractions:

Trail's End

Magdalena is known as the "Trails End" for the railroad/spur line which was built in 1885 from Socorro to Magdalena to transport the cattle, sheep wool, timber and ore. Thousands of cattle and sheep were driven into town (cowboy style) from the west, using the historic "Stock Driveway", aka "Hoof Highway." The original historic stockyards are still intact.
This historic Stock Driveway was used annually, from 1885 through 1916 when the driveway was officially designated by law through the signing of the "Grazing Homestead Act" and was continually in use through 1971.
The 125 mile driveway extended west to Datil, New Mexico then forked south toward Horse Springs and Reserve, New Mexico, while the other fork led to Springerville, Arizona.
The drive was 5 to 10 miles wide and covered 200 square miles. The peak trailing year, 1919, saw 150,000 sheep and 21,000 cattle pass the point around Ten Mile Hill.
The Civilian Conservation Corp., (the CCC) boys fenced the driveway in 1930, and drilled a well about every ten miles.
During the drives cowboys moved about 10 miles a day, and herders moved sheep about 5 miles a day, allowing them to graze as they went. Chuck wagons and relays of horses followed behind. Trailing gave way to trucking, and the last portion of the driveway was officially closed in November of 1971.

Mary Magdalene

Mary Magdalene (aka "Lady on the Mountain") gazes down from the Magdalena Peak today as she has for centuries, keeping a watchful eye over her town.

Kelly Ghost Town

The "Ghost Town of Kelly," located just minutes from Magdalena, was in its day home to close to 3,000 people, with shops, doctors, saloons, churches, hotels and schools. Mining bought prosperity to the area in the early 1880's.

GOING TO MAGDALENA....A CHILD'S DISCERNMENT...(No church)

Our family was adjusting to Albuquerque.  I had new friends; Dad liked his job; Bronco, in his four-year-old way, was always happy; and Mom neighbored with the ladies on the block.

  One neighbor, in particular, visited Mom often.  Sometimes on Saturdays they would sit at the kitchen table and have coffee.  One subject they always discussed was " religion".  Mom’s friend blamed the nervous breakdown her sister had suffered on “getting too religious.”  After one of these visits Mom said to me, “A person has to be careful not to go overboard on religion.  A lot of people have lost their minds that way.”

Despite the warnings on religion.  I missed the Presbyterian Church in Philipsburg and the Bible stories of Jesus, the friend of every child.

I walked up the driveway of our new home.  With its one level and attached garage, it faced east.  Mom said we could watch the sun come up from the living room and watch it set from the kitchen.  The house was clean and crisp with its white paint and green trim. 

 I felt a sense of pride as I looked at the green lawn.  I had helped by watering it to keep it damp, after Dad sowed the Kentucky Blue Grass seed.  He used string and stakes to make a barrier around the yard to ward off any treading feet.  Within days, tiny blades of grass had pushed their way through the soil and we watched as it grew and thickened, making a rich velvety carpet.  The back yard still had its original bareness.  Dad said that eventually we would plant grass there also.

The oak hardwood floor shown bright as I opened the front door.  Mom was especially pleased with the wooden floors that graced every room except the bathroom and kitchen.

          The living room, with its light green walls, complimented the gold furniture and the white brick fireplace built into the north wall.  I laid my books in the gold rocker and followed the voices I heard coming from the kitchen.

          The dining area and kitchen were one long room, partitioned by a counter.  The walls were white, and gold curtains, over west windows, accented the brown and gold linoleum.  Every room in the house had the fresh smell of newness.

          Mom was working at the counter making sandwiches, and Bronco sat at the oak table coloring with his crayons.

         

 “Look at the bird I colored, Glory,” he said proudly, as he help up his artwork for me to see.

          “That’s really good,” I said with extra approval in my voice.

          Satisfied with my attention he returned to his artistry.

          “Hi Mom,” I said as I opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a carton of milk.

          “Hi honey.  We’re picking Dad up at work and going to Magdalena to spend the night,” she said as she watched me pour the milk, “Be sure to lay out an extra set of clothes so I can pack them with mine.”

          “Ok,” I answered as I picked up a sandwich.  I frowned as I thought of going to Magdalena.  I sat next to Bronco and bit into the soft bread.  Almost every weekend we visited Grandma and Grandpa Williams.  I was bored there at times, but what really bothered me were the disagreements between Dad and Mom that often followed. 

          “Wanda,” Dad would begin, “I’d like to look at the Wilson’s place.  I’ve been told we could get a good price for it.  They’ve been trying to find a buyer for sometime now and...”

          “Slim, we’ve gone over this before,” Mom said with exasperation, “It isn’t that I wouldn’t enjoy living on a ranch.  I just don’t think it would work living that close to relatives.”

          “I don’t know why you feel that way.  My folks have been good to us.”  From his tone, it was evident that Dad was becoming irritated.

          “I feel they’ve never accepted Gloria or me,” Mom’s voice cracked with emotion.

          I was deep in thought as I drank the cold milk.  I decided to be very observant when we went to Grandma’s.  I’d see if they really did treat Mom and me differently.

NEW BEGINNINGS

ALBUQUERQUE...SANDIA MOUNTAINS

          ALBUQUERQUE....1952

 

          The sandy dirt covered the toes of my shoes as I left the school playground.  The pre-fab building sat behind me, it was serving its purpose until the new school building was finished.  Shuffling my books, I crossed Constitution Avenue and began the half-mile walk home.  The wind whipped across the mesa causing the sand to sting my legs.  Only the south side of the street had a sidewalk.  I looked across at the barren land.  Sand and sagebrush lay for miles in the distance.  Tumbleweed rolled from the mesa, across the pavement, and onto the green lawn before me.
      The new housing development was claiming the desert, turning it into structures and green grass.  Dad said the houses would someday be up to the mountains.  My eyes followed the mesa as it stretched for miles up to the base of the Sandia Mountains.  The Sandias' stood majestically against the blue New Mexico sky.  Shades of purple and browns enhanced their rugged beauty as they cast their royal gaze down upon Albuquerque, the civilization springing up in this once wilderness land.

          I still remembered my first impression of Albuquerque.  It had been overwhelming.  Bronco and I stared with fascinated wonder at the busy intersections, restaurants, stores, and pedestrians that passed by the windows of the 1949 ford, as it pulled the bulging U Haul down Central Avenue.

          We waited outside and “people watched” as Dad entered the large building bearing the name, “Public Service Company of New Mexico.”  It was close to an hour before Dad strolled back to the car.  His face was serious.

“Oh dear,” Mom said anxiously, as we watched him approach, “I wonder what happened.”

          “Well Wanda, what do you think we should do?” Dad asked solemnly.  His face was sober and under control, but his eyes twinkled.

          “Slim, don’t tease me at a time like this.  Did you get the job?”

          Dad’s face broke into the grin he had been suppressing.

          “Yep, I sure did,” he said with laughter in his voice, “See, I told you there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

          Celebration filled the interior of the black 1949 Ford.

          We rented an adobe house in the northeast side of Albuquerque.  We were living there when I started school.  I was scared when I entered the forth grade classroom.  I soon discovered I was only one of many new students.  The population explosion of Albuquerque was adding to the schools.

          One particular day, when I came home from school, Mom’s face was radiant.

          “The loan went through.  We’re going to have our own house,” she declared, “and a brand new one at that,” she added proudly.

          When Dad got home from work, we drove the four blocks to the new housing site.  We stood before the empty lot while Dad and Mom planned and dreamed.  The house would have an attached garage and we would plant a lawn and trees. 
         During the months that followed, in the cool of the evenings, amid the sounds of neighborhood dogs barking and young children playing on the sidewalks, we walked to the builder’s site.  The noises became distant as we entered the unoccupied street.  The builder’s tools had been put away for the day, and the houses stood half finished.  We watched with pride the building of our home.  Every part of the structure, from the foundation to the shingles on the roof, had been important to us.

          My thoughts returned to the present as I approached the familiar landscape.  The new signpost bore the name “Childers Drive.”  I quickened my steps as I turned the corner.  Manicured lawns and young-planted trees graced the front of the newly built homes.  At the end of the block the greenness ended and the barren mesa stretched into the distance until it reached the next development of houses.

          “Hi Gloria.”

          I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Jane waving as she walked up her driveway.

          “Hi Jane,” I answered and waved my one free hand.  I was adjusting to the move from Montana
back to New Mexico.
            Little did I know of the changes that would be taking place in all of our lives and the secrets I would soon learn.

                                        ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO AT NIGHT

         

  

CHANGES...LEAVING PHILIPSBURG



Philispburg, Montana



      Daddy carried the console radio, wrapped in a blanket, onto the U Haul trailer and wedged it between other belongings.  I watched with a feeling of heaviness as boxes were loaded.  I ran into the house to be sure that nothing was left behind.  It was hard to believe we were moving.  Only a few months had passed since the doctor advised Daddy and Mommy to move to a warmer, drier climate because of Mom’s health.



          My footsteps echoed against the empty walls of the house.  The black coal stove sat facing the furnished front room.  The windows were uncovered and ashamed in their nakedness.  Alone and forlorn, the rose kitchen’s cheerfulness seemed to have faded.  My bedroom felt lonely as I looked around the room.  Opening the closet door, I peered inside. Everything was gone. 



          “I don’t want to leave,” I said, just loud enough for the house to hear.  My stomach churned with the fear of the unknown.  In Philipsburg, and in this house, I was safe and secure.  I sensed that my life would never be the same as it had been here.  I straightened and wiped the tears from my cheeks and dried my eyes.  I didn’t want Daddy and Mommy to know I had been crying.

          I walked back through the front room, turned and lifted one hand. “Bye, house,” I said and opened the screen door, which gave me one last squeaking yawn.

          Dad was fastening the tarp over the U Haul; it resembled a tent with bulges.

“We’re loaded and ready to go,” Dad said to Mom.

          We took one last, lingering look at the red brick house.  The fact that we had only rented the furnished house meant nothing; the family times we had shared there had made it home.

          As Daddy drove our black 1949 Ford down the street we waved goodbye to neighbors.



          Our car pulled the hill heading out of Philipsburg, and I watched through the back window, as the houses grew smaller in the distance.  The road leveled, and all I could see was the U Haul following behind.  I turned in my seat and stared out the side window.  Montana ranch country sped by.  Cattle grazed in their pastures, and I was sure, with their heads hanging low, they were identifying with my sadness.







        

 

PHILIPSBURG...1951

I crossed the narrow pavement that served as the main street of Philipsburg, and began the incline to home and supper.  A cool breeze caressed my face, as the strength of the sun caused my eyes to squint.  Bushes along the sidewalk were covered with webs.  Spiders had spun their silver webbing hanging it out to dry.  A fat, brown-speckled caterpillar inched its way across the sidewalk before me, letting me know it too was enjoying this summer day as much as I.

          The smell of lilac bushes and hollyhocks saturated the air as I approached our house.  The red brick, two-story, sat like a monarch surveying its corner lot.  Two years earlier, in 1950, our family had moved to Philipsburg, Montana.  It was a world unto itself: a safe world for this eight-year-old.

          I bounded each step with exuberance, and swung open the screen door, which yielded its usual yawning squeak.  The front room, with its high ceilings, over stuffed furniture and black coal stove, was fragrant with the scent of ham and beans, Daddy's favorite meal.

          The sounds of my mother and brother’s voices were coming from the kitchen.  I entered the well-lit room with its old cupboards and long windows.  The soft rose color of the walls and white ceiling added to its quaintness and gave the impression of warm cheerfulness.  When Mommy had first mentioned painting the kitchen rose, Daddy had been skeptical; but once the paint dried, he proclaimed it a success.

          Mommy stood over the stove stirring the pot of beans; steam drifted into the air.  My only brother sat on the floor near the narrow windows with toys surrounding him.

          “You’re right on time, honey.” Mommy said as she turned, “Wash your hands and set the table.  Daddy will be home in a few minutes.”

          I scrubbed my hands over the large, white sink.  The blue and white plates were set at each chair and I arranged the silverware on top of white napkins.

          Mommy opened the oven door and removed a pan of hot cornbread.  We talked as we went about our work.  I felt a deep love for my mother.  She was eighteen years my senior and I thought she was the prettiest mom there was.  Her light brown eyes reflected the auburn of her hair, which she curled back from her face.  Tiny lines of fatigue were etched around her eyes.  She fought health problems since coming to Montana.  She would overcome one malady and soon come down with another.  She often spoke of her mother and family living in New Mexico and I could sense her homesickness.

          With the table set, I wandered over to the stove and pinched off a corner of the hot cornbread.  

          “Why don’t you do your Sunday school lesson while we’re waiting,” Mommy suggested as she shooed me away from the bread.

          I took the quarterly from our “catch all” drawer, pushed back one of the plates at the table and began reading.  We had become active in the Presbyterian Church since coming to Philipsburg, and Mommy had recently taken on the responsibility of Sunday school Superintendent.  My lesson in the quarterly was the Bible account of Jesus blessing the children.  I believed in Jesus.  I knew He was God’s Son, and my Sunday school teacher said He was a friend to every child.

          I looked up at the sound of the car pulling into the driveway.  Heavy footsteps were heard on the back porch as Daddy opened the door.  He was dressed in his work clothes.  His over six-foot frame filled the entrance.  As usual, his ruggedness reminded me of the out of doors.  Daddy's given name was Marion M. Williams, but because of his slender build, he had been dubbed with the nickname, “Slim”.

          He sat his aluminum lunch pail on the counter and gave Mommy a peck on the cheek.

          “Hi George,” he teased in my direction.  His nickname for me came because of a boy who walked me home from school one day.

          Daddy was not one to show affection.  He would give me  a  whisker burn when he had a stubble on his chin, or a tickle now and then. He was very strict.  He gave spankings with his hand. Mom had been upset when he left welts on my brother's legs. He expected to be obeyed. I sighed in relief that it was summer. Daddy thought I wasn't good in math. Some school nights he would keep me up until 11PM going over math problems. My teacher had told them I was doing fine in math, but Daddy didn't believe it.( I was anxious when it came to math.)

          I shared a double bed with my two year old brother. He always slept against me and I had trouble getting to sleep. I had told my parents but nothing had changed. One night, Daddy came into the bedroom, Bronco was laying against me. I closed my eyes and played possum (acting like I was asleep) "SLAP"! Daddy slapped my face and walked out of the room. I didn't tell Mommy.

  Daddy was a quiet man.  Mom said he always thought before he spoke.  Both he and I had brown hair and hazel eyes.  I was told often that I looked like him.  I did not know that our brown hair and hazel eyes were coincidental.  In a couple of years I would be faced with a painful truth.

          Daddy headed for the bathroom to wash up, but two chubby arms grabbed him from behind. 

          “Let go son, your dad has to get washed up,” he said as he pealed Bronco off.

          Lawrence Marion was my brother’s name, but Daddy had nicknamed him “Bronco” as a baby.  Kneeling on his hands and knees, he would rock back and forth causing his whole crib to shake.  Dad said he reminded him of a bucking bronco.

          Dad had experience when it came to “bucking broncos.”

In Magdalena, New Mexico, where his parents still lived, he was known as the last of the cowboys.  He had worked in that ranch country with the dream of owning his own ranch; but with the responsibilities of a family, he had set his dreams aside and moved north, finding a job as a lineman for the Public Service Company of Montana.

          The first summer we moved to Montana we lived outside Butte. My parents rented a cabin with a bathroom and kitchen. At night we slept in a tent. One night I woke up with a cat sitting on my chest.

Mommy chased the cat out. I always liked cats but Daddy didn't like them.

Before winter, we rented a house. Daddy got another job and we moved to Philipsburg.

         
     Our heads were bowed, grace was said and ham and beans filled our plates.  The day’s happenings were shared around the family table.

          “Please pass the cornbread,” I requested.

          Manners were very important in our home.  Please, thank you, yes sir, no ma’am, had been taught me since I was a small child.  Dad believed in children being mannerly and respectful.

          Dad mixed his usual dessert of peanut butter and molasses.  When he had just the right consistency, he spread the mixture onto bread.  I tried to copy him, but my palate only tolerated molasses.  I much preferred maple syrup.

          After the table was cleared and the dishes washed, dried and put away, we headed for the front room and the new mahogany, console radio. I sat on the floor close to the Radio.  I didn’t want to miss any of my favorite programs.  Mom turned the knob and “Father Knows Best” filled the air.  We would listen to “Gun smoke”, the antics of “Fibber Magee and Molly,” and occasionally to a religious program, “The Hour of Decision,” with the Reverend Billy Graham.

          I wrapped my arms contentedly around my knees.  A gentle breeze blew through the open screen door.   We didn't know that the Philipsburg evenings were coming to an end and we would be returning to our roots...New Mexico.

BRONCO AND GLORIA 1949 FORD