Who Would You Invite to Dinner & Why

WALK A MILE IN MY SHOES

Dorothy Tarpley

Today I walked the mile plus trail to the Fort Bowie ruins, a National Historic Site. I was accompanied by the Chief of the Chiricahua Apache’s, Cochise, who had come at my invitation. I had read about the Fort, the need for the Fort from a white man’s perspective, and I wanted to hear how Cochise viewed that perspective.

The hike was somewhat strenuous, rocky, up and down hills. There was little shade, lots of spiny bushes, skinny boojum trees and tall grasses. We were alone, no other hikers. I carried drinking water in my modern insulated bottle, Cochise carried his in a leather pouch. He wore a typical Apache band around his head, but nothing to shade the deep wrinkles in his brown face. My bright Sketcher’s tennis shoes looked out of place next to his worn moccasins. Walking a mile in his shoes was the whole point.

White men call Fort Bowie, “The guardian of Apache Pass.” Cochise corrected it to “The confiscation of Apache Pass.” 

“When I was young,” he said, “I walked all over this country, east and west, and saw no other people than the Apaches.”

Apache Spring was the mother lode. Without water, it wouldn’t have been home to the Apaches. Without water, Fort Bowie would not have come into being. Without water, this area would never have become the perfect route for settlers or the Butterfield Overland mail wagons.

As Cochise and I stopped at the various informational placards, highlighting the confrontations with his tribe, he would become very still, bow his head and speak softly in his native tongue. I did not disturb him. We came to the ruins of the stagecoach station. Cochise told me how his people supplied wood to the station workers and never attacked their mail wagons. We came to the small cemetery, peacefully quiet among the tall white markers. Cochise walked to a far corner, away from me. He knelt by a small headstone, raised his arms to the sky, and sang a sad, mournful song. I knew from my reading it was the grave of his two-year-old son who had died of dysentery while being held captive with Cochise’s wife.

As we approached the main ruins of Fort Bowie, Cochise refused to walk the grounds with me. He filled his water pouch at the water spigot and found a shady spot to rest. I knew this was not the place to have a conversation. The ruins were extensive but mostly occasional rock formations hinting at once-standing walls. The concrete reinforcements in place to stabilize what was left were quite ugly and detracted from the actual ruins. We did not stay long.

It was late afternoon as we headed back. Coming to a flat clearing, Cochise removed something from inside his shirt and suggested we stop to eat. I was caught off guard at the suggestion and the fact he had thought to bring refreshment. He spread our simple meal on the cloth that had held it, and we sat cross-legged on the ground. He offered a blessing in his language; I offered one in mine. While we shared this nourishment, Cochise quietly related what led to war with the white man.

In 1861, a band of Apaches raided a nearby ranch, stole some livestock and kidnapped a young boy. The rancher wrongly blamed Cochise and his band of Chiricahua Apaches and demanded military intervention. The Army sent a contingent of men to Apache Pass and lured Cochise into their camp. At this point in the story, Cochise became agitated and emotional, relating how furious and insulted he was to be falsely accused. He was held prisoner by the Army soldiers till he was able to escape. Sadly and unnecessarily, this led to open warfare between whites and his people. It led to the construction of Fort Bowie and ten years of death and destruction to his tribe. It eventually led to the abolishment of the Chiricahua Apache Reservation by the U.S. federal government.

Cochise was through with his rebuttal of the white man’s version of events, of their claim to be “guardians of Apache Pass.” He repeated the words he had spoken at the beginning of our hike. “When I was young I walked all over this country…and saw no other people than the Apaches.”

Dorothy Tarpley

Someone You See Frequently But Don’t Really Know

I was recovering from rotator cuff surgery. My physical therapy was only a short walk from home, over the swinging bridge and a couple of blocks along the Animas River trail. On the very first day of therapy, with my arm in a sling, what appeared to be a homeless man sitting on a bench spoke to me as I walked past.

“I see we are both handicapped.” I stopped, noticing his cane propped up next to him. I laughed and agreed, “Yes, I’m on my way to therapy. I’m nervous about it hurting, as the surgery was so recent.” 

That was about all of our first conversation, and he was not there when I returned home. But I continued therapy for several weeks and had many other opportunities to get to know this man.

His name was Robert, though I never knew his last name. Robert was a Vietnam veteran, and the cane supported a leg injury he received in combat. Not surprisingly, though sadly, Robert’s return to civilian life had not gone smoothly. Vietnam vets were not warmly welcomed back, as he soon found out. He probably suffered from PTSD, finding it difficult to adjust back to a “normal” life. Robert had been homeless for many years, mostly by choice. He was apparently estranged from family.

We always exchanged a little banter as I walked to therapy, and if he was still on his bench as I returned, I’d sit down and have a conversation. He was a big, burly guy, long hair and whiskers, but he seemed relatively well groomed for someone living on the streets. When I questioned him about his lifestyle, Robert shared that he slept comfortably in various places outside, had warm clothes and a sleeping bag, articles that were now positioned nearby. He would sometimes get a bed at the homeless shelter, if there was room, when the weather turned cold and it snowed, but he preferred being outside and not dependent on others. He often showered at the Rec Center and ate regularly at Manna Soup Kitchen. He received a small monthly disability check from the government for his military service.

Robert was the first homeless person I’d gotten to know. He was interesting to visit with, funny and appeared perfectly happy. And it wasn’t all one-sided. Robert was interested in my life as well. It was a comfortable friendship, no strings attached. When my therapy ended, so did our interaction.

The last time I saw Robert, I was walking with my husband and another couple on the river trail. We were headed to town for breakfast. Robert was bent over in obvious pain and decidedly disheveled. I stopped and asked if he was okay, if he needed help. He then related how he had been beaten up by a couple of guys who had robbed him. His cane had been thrown some distance away. As I retrieved the cane, a police officer arrived and began ministering to Robert. It was obvious they knew each other and a relief to see that he would be cared for. I handed Robert his cane and expressed how sorry I was, then continued on my way. I later learned that Robert had accepted a living situation at one of the small apartment conversions at an older motel, but I never saw him again.

I’ve just finished reading “Rough Sleepers,” by Tracy Kidder. It is my April Durango book club selection. A rough sleeper is a homeless person that avoids shelters and chooses to sleep outside. The non-fiction book is about Dr. Jim O’Connell’s lifetime work of bringing healing, in all its forms, to homeless people. He brings humanity to those that live on the streets and to a cause that most of us would rather ignore. It brought back my memories of Robert.

The homeless problem has gotten so much bigger in Durango. Lots of fancy plans and platitudes but little actual solutions. There is more panhandling, the homeless are indifferent to the mess and trash they generate. There are many more young people, especially male, that certainly appear capable of getting a job, and they all seem to have a dog. The shelter won’t accommodate anyone that drinks or does drugs, which statistics show is the majority of them. Mental health is a roadblock, and many homeless suffer from it. Homelessness is even more of a problem in big cities. Los Angeles is practically beyond any kind of solution.

The homeless camp that had sprung up in Durango had been a partial solution for the growing homeless population. But it was on Forest Service land and determined to be a fire hazard, so it was disbanded by the authorities. The cleanup cost Durango taxpayers thousands, and no alternate site has been offered. “Not in my back yard” is one big stumbling block.

Reading this book and my remembrance of Robert has reminded me that these are our fellow human beings, and it puts a face to the homeless. I don’t have the answers to homelessness, mental illness, drug and alcohol addiction, but maybe I can befriend another Robert, someone I see frequently but don’t really know.

By Dorothy Tarpley

      They were just farm kids, each from large families, typical back then. The more kids, the more help on the farm. They didn’t know whether to consider if they were rich or poor, as everyone they knew were hard working farm families. Everyone seemed about equal.

      Walter McCracken and Dolly Brown were classmates at the small rural school. They were both good students and often helped out with the younger children. In fact, Walter hoped to be a teacher someday. Education was important to their families, so even though they were often needed at home, their parents made sure that schooling came first. Walter walked Dolly home from school most every day.

      Summers were a different story. From dawn to dusk there was work to be done. Walter’s mother always had a hot breakfast ready for the men before they headed to the fields. Walter’s first chore had always been to milk the cows, and he had a knack for keeping the farm equipment repaired. Dolly’s summer days were just as busy, feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs, working in the garden, cooking and canning and helping care for her siblings. Summer evenings, after dinner was done, Walter often walked the short distance to Dolly’s. They would meet at her garden gate in the growing dusk, he still in his work clothes, she still wearing her apron. A rural courtship.

      Walter did become a teacher in his small Oklahoma town. He and Dolly married and secured their own small farm. They were used to hard work and happily shared the burdens of farming and living on Walter’s small salary. Their first child was born, a daughter, Mildred, and soon after, a son, Wilson. Life was satisfying, they were a happy family, and they loved each other deeply.

      Dolly was again pregnant. It was a much more difficult pregnancy than the other two. Mildred, now 4, and Wilson, now 2, required much of Dolly’s time and attention, though they were good, sweet children. Mildred, especially, wanted to be mama’s helper. It was late fall, and there was much to be done before winter set in. Walter put in another full day when he returned from teaching, taking care of the animals and the crops, readying the farm for the cold days ahead. Dolly canned and stockpiled the summer garden harvest to feed them through the winter. The children were included in this day-to-day routine, Mildred now gathering eggs with mama and Wilson tagging along to the barn with papa.

      And then Dolly went into labor. Walter summoned two of his sisters to assist, as there were no doctors or hospitals in the area. It was common for women to give birth at home, as Dolly had done with Mildred and Wilson. But the difficult pregnancy was now a difficult labor, which continued for many hours. Walter put the children to bed, comforting them that they would have a new brother or sister when they woke up.

     Dolly was growing weaker and was losing a great deal of blood. When finally she delivered both a baby girl and a baby boy, it became clear that Dolly was not going to survive. Walter’s sisters attended to the twin babies; Walter knelt by his wife till she took her final breath. It was November 30, 1914.

      When Mildred woke, she called out for her mama. Papa came to her quickly and wrapped her in his arms. He told Mildred that she had both a new sister and a new brother, Laurene and Lawrence, the names Walter and Dolly had chosen for their boy or girl. Then papa gently told his oldest child that mama was now an angel in heaven. Mildred’s last memory of her mama was seeing her layed out, as if asleep.

Walter was overwhelmed with grief, suddenly a widower with the responsibility of four children. The twins, Laurene and Lawrence, were separated for a while, one each to the two sisters that had assisted at their birth. Four year old Mildred talked a great deal about her mother, not understanding why her mother had become an angel and why she left. Young Wilson had been so fond of his mother that he would hardly ever let his papa do anything for him, but since her death, he had seemed to take a double love for his papa and hardly cried.

Walter remarried when the twins were almost three years old. Maude Hill was a teacher at the same school where he taught. Walter and Maude would have one more child, a son, Donald. Maude was a wonderful mother to the five children, loving them equally and making a happy home. Walter was promoted to Superintendent of his small school district, enabling them to move to a larger farm.

Walter and Maude were my grandparents. The twin, Laurene, was my Mother.  Mildred, Mother’s older sister, would marry and also have twins. Dolly is buried in a small country cemetery near the original farm. There is an angel engraved on her headstone.

The picture is titled “Rural Courtship.”