If Only The Walls Could Talk!

Type I Wall Type II Wall

Type III Wall Type IV Wall

If these walls could talk what would they say? We’ve all heard that before, but a Chaco Culture NHP, I really wanted the walls to have the power of communication.

We toured Pueblo Bonito, the largest of the great houses, with Ranger Adrian Jones, who talked of the history of the pueblo. He pointed out the four types of walls found in the canyon.

The walls at Chaco were first just slabs of sandstone laid in such a way as to reinforce each other. The wall was relatively weak and would support only a single story. It was also as rough on the outside as it was in the center of the core. But construction evolved at Chaco over the 3-1/2 centuries it was occupied. Builders began to face the rough Type I wall with a veneer. With each successive style ... there are four types of walls ... the veneers became smoother, stones fit tighter, and there was increasing artistry in the construction. “Ah,” I thought. “I see.” Only I didn’t.

Ranger Jones told us, after building the walls, the Chacoans plastered them inside and out. That sort of made sense, too. Lighter colored plaster increased reflection from light sources. Plaster made a smoother wall. It gave the building a uniform consistency.

Why, then, would the people have gone to so much trouble to build walls with beautiful veneers if they were only going to plaster over them? Were they just building styles that reflected changing generational ideas of how things were done and have no particular significance, including artistry? What was the purpose of investing so much time and energy in something no one would see? Was it sort of like a woman wearing fancy underwear no one but her ever sees just because it makes her feel good? Was there a self-serving satisfaction the builders derived knowing beneath the plaster lay their remarkable work?

Or ... is there something more going on? Is there meaning in the distinctive patterns, meanings we can not know? Something of which we are unaware and can never fathom just from looking at the walls?

I sat and studied the patterns. I might as well have been watching paint dry for all the good it did me in expanding my understanding. I photographed each style in various pueblos and I look at them now ... each style is represented in the blog from Type I to Type IV, left to right ... and all I see is artistic architecture that I might find anywhere someone is working with sandstone. You be the judge and help me understand the why.

Posted by Bud Russo

First Impressions: Chaco Culture NHP

Chaco: the name evokes ancient mystery. Chaco: home to Americans from approximately 850 A.D. until 1150 A.D. Then ... so the early theories go ... they disappeared. Vanished. Of course, they didn’t. In the face of insurmountable drought, they migrated to land where they could live. They became today’s Acoma and Zuni. Those who traveled south to Paquimé live at today’s Casas Grande in Mexico. The Chacoans didn’t disappear. They are with us today.

But the mysteries surrounding Chaco persist. We came to Chaco May 15 to learn what we could about this fascinating remnant of human history. The Ranger, in his recounting, tells us they who how Chaco came to be and when, but they don’t know why.

Chaco canyon runs southeast to northwest. Water drains from higher elevations to the south into the wash that formed the mile wide canyon, cut through hundreds of feet of sandstone. The Chaco River, as the dry bed is known, when wet, drains into the San Juan and finally the Colorado. The sandstone bluffs are the result of sand bedding ancient shallow seas that covered the central part of what today is North America.

Within the canyon proper are a dozen great houses, immense stone pueblos. They range from Wijiji in the southeast about a dozen miles to Pueblo Peñasco in the northwest but high atop the bluff. This was the center of the universe for these people and it was the focus of power that controlled more than 40,000 square miles and more than 100 other pueblos across the Colorado Plateau and San Juan Basin.

With so many villages and so much land, you’d think Chaco was inhabited by tens of thousands of people. That wasn’t so. Total population ranged closer to 2,000 upwards to maybe 8,000 [and that number is contested]. Pueblo Bonito, the largest great house with over 700 rooms, may have been home to less than 200 people.

As I digest all that I saw and experienced, I will write more. But for now I have more questions than answers. I wonder about these people; who they were, why they chose this place to live and for what purpose. I am convinced something special took place here. Life wasn’t static. Society evolved over 3-1/2 centuries, more than 10 generations. The actual meaning of what when on here is lost in time.

No matter how carefully scientists search, no matter how they analyze and compare data, we will never really know the full story of chaco.

Posted by Bud Russo

Lake Valley Clings To Its Colorful Past

If you’d visited Lake Valley in the 1850s, you would have seen mostly flat, grassy plains, low rounded hills, and the majestic Black Range ensconced on the horizon. You might have thought the valley serene, even idyllic.

Then in 1878, a rancher named McEvers or perhaps a prospector named Lufkin found silver ore. It was however low-grade, not much more than 40 ounces or 2-1/2 pounds of silver for every ton of rock dug. Remember, in those days, there were no electric or steam-driven mining machines. Dug meant pick and shovel, a hand-hammered drill, and maybe some dynamite, which had been invented in 1867.

In 1881, J. Whitaker Wright arrive in Lake Valley with George Daly, an Australian immigrant. The two men, along with George Roberts, formed the Sierra Grande Silver Mining Company. Their efforts to exploit the silver was frustrated because there appeared to be none but the low-grade ore.

Meanwhile, Apaches, led by Nana, decided the ranchers and miners had been in their homeland long enough and began raiding. They burned a rancher’s home and kidnapped his wife and children. George Daly led a group of miners in retaliation. His efforts cost him his life.

It was when they brought Daly’s body back to Lake Valley, the miners found the motherlode at a depth of 40 feet. I am reminded of a scene in Paint Your Wagon, where the vagabond miners are digging a grave for a compadre killed in a wagon accident, only to see gold glittering in the dirt. The response is hilarious if crude. And I wondered if Lake Valley silver was found that way when Daly’s grave was dug.

However, it worked out, miners excavated what became known as the Bridal Chamber and found a vein of silver so pure it was assayed at thousands of ounces per ton. One writer referred to the mine as having walls of pure silver. The Bridal Chamber gave up $2,775,000 in silver, becoming known as the richest silver mine ever found.

Of course, that’s when the trouble began. A rich strike brings more miners to town, sort of like vultures drawn to a corrupting carcass. The quiet town grew to have upwards of 4,000 residents, mostly men. So there were nearly two dozen saloons and a few bordellos. There were also “legitimate” businesses – general stores, hotels, drug store, barber shop, post office, livery, stage line, and assay office. There were also a church, school, and doctor in residence.

In a short time, miners had dug hundreds of shafts looking for more of the elusive silver. To keep cash flowing for mining operations, Wright and Roberts apparently salted areas or convinced naive investors the ore was richer than it was. These promotions made Wright a multimillionaire, while it made paupers out of many investors. By 1882, Robert’s fraudulent promotions threatened the company, and he sold out to Wright. Meanwhile, Wright’s questionable promotions led to a conviction of stock fraud in London in 1902, and he swallowed cyanide, committing suicide in the courtroom.

But I’m ahead of my story. In 1893, President Grover Cleveland changed the standard upon which paper money was based from silver to gold. Not only did silver prices plummet, the change also contributed to the Panic of 1893, a major economic depression that tipped the scales on many Lake Valley businesses. Silver mining was pretty much done by then.

Besides all the mining activities, ranching had remained a major industry in Lake Valley. Cattle in large numbers bring in rustlers in large numbers. Bob Alexander, in his book, Desert Desperadoes, recounts an episode of “door-bustin’ roundups at Lake Valley, Hillsboro, and Kingston.” The roundup was led by Major Albert Fountain and was intent on rooting out and destroying rustlers, led by John Kinney, whose Lake Valley ranch served as headquarters for the outlaws. The gunfights that followed were brutal. One newspaper reported alleged escaped prisoners were shot to pieces.

So went life in Lake Valley, a town in decline. One night in 1895, a man named Abernathy, a disgruntled and perhaps drunk customer of William Cotton’s saloon, set the bar on fire. Tinder dry wood and high winds fanned the flames, which consumed nearly all of Main Street, including the Keller, Miller & Company mercantile. Today, you know exactly where that store stood. Its safe sits in the dirt right where it was after the fire burned itself out.

Like all ghost towns, Lake Valley was never totally abandoned. Its life simply ebbed away every so slowly. Mrs. Blanch Nowlin, who became the local dealer for Conoco, lived in her house on Railroad Avenue until 1982. Pedro and Savina Martinez bought the Belle Hotel next door. He lived there until his death in 1994, having been a Lake Valley resident for 90 years.

During World War II, manganese was mined in the town, but that too was mined out and abandoned in the early 1950s.

I thought about this history as I walked the remains of the town. The Bureau of Land Management is responsible for Lake Valley [along with the still remaining Sierra Grande Mining Company]. The BLM restored the 1907 schoolhouse and turned it into a museum. Mrs. Nowlin’s Conoco store was the original school built in 1880. It’s awaiting a new roof and other restoration. I looked in at the chapel, where Episcopal services were held until the 1970s, and examined the remains of the Keil House and Dr. Beal’s House. The Nowlin and Martinez houses are privately owned and undergoing stabilization, efforts to prevent them from collapsing, so they might be opened to visitors.

Bob Denison, resident BLM manager, took me in his ATV to see the Bridal Chamber and other mines still on private property. I saw what’s left of the manganese ore processor. I saw head frames standing above a few of the 430 mine shafts dug throughout the area. One mine, the Last Chance, is home to bats and monitored by the state, watching for white-nose syndrome. Another, Denison told me, is the den of a mountain lion. None of them ever produced silver as rich as the Bridal Chamber, which has mostly collapsed as its timbers have aged.

Time is not kind to the remnants of our history and, unless someone values Lake Valley at lot more than it is now, it too will fade away, leaving behind decaying piles of lumber and melting mounds of ancient adobe. And that will be too bad because at Lake Valley, we can examine our colorful past and know better the roots from which we have grown.

Posted by Bud Russo

Bataan Memorial Death March 2011

This past weekend, March 27, was the Bataan Memorial Death March at White Sands Missile Range near Las Cruces, New Mexico. The march is a 26-mile marathon and a 15-mile modified hike. This year more than 6,300 people came to honor the veterans who were captured by the Japanese in the Philippines, marched 80 miles north to a prison camp, and later placed in unmarked ships for transport as slave labor in Japan. Their stories are both horrific and heroic; more than half never came home.

We know of the feelings of these men from a poem Frank Hewlett wrote:

We are the battling bastards of Bataan;

No mamas. No papas. No Uncle Sam;

No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces;

No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces,

And nobody gives a damn.

Nobody gives a damn.

This was my second year at the memorial, mostly because of Cheryl’s earlier efforts. It was through her I met Col. Ben Skardon, one of the survivors. Ben is 93 years old and was among the 15 veterans of Bataan who attended the memorial. And it must be noted, a survivor who doesn’t embody the feelings expressed in Hewlett’s poem

The opening ceremony was at the crack of dawn. The eastern sky was salmon-pink. The Organ Mountains to the west were lighted just enough to show some detail. The military ceremony included a well-sung rendition of our national anthem and the presentation of colors. The surviving veterans were introduced. Then the MC called the role. She first asked three of the survivors to respond and they did with strong, proud voices. They she called the names of the veterans who passed into history since last year’s march. Between the names there was not a sound with the exception of the wind. I hoped others were quiet because they, as I, were gritting their teeth to keep the sobs from following the tears down my cheeks. After the last name was read, the bugler plays Taps.These men are ... and were ... true American heros and there can never be enough said or done on their behalf to honor the sacrifice they made.

And while Frank Hewlett may have thought nobody gave a damn, I can testify every one of the 6,300 people in attendance Sunday morning deeply care and show they do give a damn. Moreover, the survivors have become role models for the young men and women serving in the military. They know the risks they take and I hope they find strength and solace in knowing these veterans.

The survivors sit or stand at the starting line and the runners/hikers stop by to shake their hands and thank them for their service to America. They are greeted by so many, their hands must hurt, but it’s a pain they love to feel.

When the last runner/hiker had passed by, we ... family and friends constituting Ben’s Brigade ... joined the Colonel, who has become a celebrity because he joins in the hike. We marched out into the desert and along the dirt roads for 8-1/2 miles. Last year, Col. Skardon walked me into the ground after three miles. I was determined to stay with him this year and had trained, although not nearly enough. I took point and kept it, feeling like I was guarding the Colonel’s honor, until we reached our destination.

At some point in the future, Col. Skardon, too, will pass into history, and I intend to continue to honor him by hiking in my bright orange shirt with Ben’s picture as a young officer and the name Ben’s Brigade blazoned across my chest. I’ll do it proudly.

By Bud Russo

Branigan Cultural Center Hosts Archaeology Day

Can you dig it? April 2 is Archaeology Day at the Branigan Cultural Center in Las Cruces. Kids of all ages can learn how to make arrowheads, grind corn, make a rope, weave fabric, coil a clay pot, create paint ... all the while learning about the importance of archaeology to unearthing the past. No charge for getting you hands dirty from 10 am to 2 pm. Archeology Day is sponsored by the Branigan, BLM, CARTA, City of Las Cruces, National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, Mesilla Valley Weavers Guild, and NMSU. More info at www.las-cruces.org/museums or call (575) 541-2154.

Posted by Bud Russo

When "The Stones Speak" We Just Have To Listen

The Stones Speak

Nancy King

Atelier Books, Ltd, 2009

ISBN 978-1-934690-18-5

Ever hear the phrase, “If only the walls could talk”? Usually someone says that when they’re in a room where a prior conversation has taken place and the speaker desires to know what was said.

That’s sort of the idea behind Nancy King’s novel, “The Stones Speak.” King who holds a PhD and has written a number of non-fiction books about drama, language, and storytelling, has produced a spell-binding story about Naomi, a dancer who auditions for a troupe soon to tour Europe. She is selected as the only dancer and gets involved with Eric.

When a man, like Eric, invites an impressional woman, like Naomi, to travel alone with him to Europe, nothing good can come of it. And nothing does. The philanderer abandons the now-pregnant Naomi in Italy and she is forced to return home, humiliated.

So that’s where the story starts and, as it plays out, we slowly find out what happened to Naomi after her return to the U.S. We see her struggles in relationships where she lives in Santa Fe, a woman in her mid-60s, and we finally come to understand her as the story is resolved.

There is enough conflict in the story to keep you turning pages and enough resolution to satisfy anyone desirous of a “they lived happily ever after” ending ... although this one is not saccharin-filled.

If you’re looking for an evening or two, sitting on the patio enjoying our early spring weather, you couldn’t pick a better companion than “The Stones Speak.”

Posted by Bud Russo

Museum of Art Features "Organized Spontaneous" Sing

On Saturady (Feb 26) a 100-voice choir presented an “organized spontaneous” sing at the Las Cruces Museum of Art. The choir consisted of members from NMSU Choirs’ University Singers, Masterworks Chorus, Mesilla Valley Chorale, New Desert Harmony Singers, and Oñate High School Choir. Interspersed around the exhibit of Michael Naranjo sculptures, they slowly gathered together to perform. Here’s one of the selections ... City Called Heaven ... with Guo Ying as soloist.

Las Cruces is certainly blessed with talent and wonderful music.

Posted by Bud Russo