by Karen Osborn
Your Sister,
Abigail
February 26, 1898
Dear Maggie,
We have had two snowfalls in the past week, the latest in the form of a blizzard. This morning I had to thaw out the kettle before I could use it, as the stove had gone cold during the night. I heat with coal, which I haul in sacks. It is a dirty heat. Perhaps before next winter I will purchase a gas stove and see how warm it keeps me.
I am in bed this week with a swollen jaw, my face wrapped in a poultice. As soon as the roads clear, I will find a way to ride to the nearest dentist’s office and have him pull the tooth. Señora Teresa has offered to do it herself, claiming an uncommon strength and ability in such matters. So far I have preferred to wait out the blizzard, but if it goes on much longer I may succumb to her services.
In early December I rode to the city to take Pamela Porter to the train depot and visit the shops. There on the sidewalk as I left the dry goods store, I saw Dr. Mayfield. He was returning from a call, and so we only had a few minutes to converse. I knew him at once, as he was much unchanged, but I could scarcely believe he recognized me, I have grown so old. He thanked me for the painting of the mesa and was kind enough to remember George and Clayton. “You saved their lives,” I told him, and I do believe he blushed.
His wife, he told me, had passed away recently, and I saw how it pained him to speak of her. “Perhaps,” he said as he hurried away, “we could visit one another. I long for a trip through the desert. Life in town grows tiring. You are fortunate to live near the mountains.”
If he writes suggesting a visit, I would welcome him. I do not see the harm in our seeing one another all these years later. As we said goodbye, he squeezed my hand and said I was an independent lady and that all of his life he would admire me for that.
Am I an “independent lady”? I suppose I have lived my life as one, but I am not sure it has made my life any more enjoyable; perhaps interesting, but not more comfortable. It seems to me that I have spent much of my life alone. While it thrills me to ride up into the mountains or along the mesa, with no other human under the wide sky for as far as I can see, the days I spend closed in my house during a winter storm become monotonous. Diversion is most welcome when it comes, even if it is only Señora Teresa come to bring me herbs or some local man searching for a lost burro.
I suppose these are a widow’s sentiments on a long winter’s afternoon. As soon as the snow melts I will go out for a ride along the valley and stop to talk with any neighbor I chance to see. And with my tooth mended, I will return to the school, where I am certain they will have missed me.
Your Sister,
Abigail
July 2, 1898
Dearest Maggie,
Your descriptions of your grandchildren playing with little Ellen are precious. I have put all of it to memory by now and recite it to myself when I am sitting alone in the garden in the evening. Evening is the only time that I can enjoy the garden; the heat that blew across the land in May has settled over the desert, heavy and still. The irrigation ditch is low, and I doubt I will get another cutting of alfalfa. I am sure the fruit on our trees will be quite dry and tasteless.
Here is a letter from George. You can give it to Amy to read when you are done. He sounds ready to come back and settle down. I hope that he will. You are fortunate to be surrounded by your grandchildren, Maggie. Last night as I sat in front of the house gazing at the mesa, its dark, looming form against the sky, I thought of Clayton and how certain he was at one time that Amy, George, and Margaret would marry and settle nearby. He saw us both living into old age surrounded by the family we had brought west to raise. Now he is dead and the children scattered. I wonder what he would do if he were me, alone on the ranch.
But I know what he would do—see to the crops and the orchard, mend what is broken (this I cannot seem to do, and so the cabinet doors do not close properly and there is a cracked window pane), feed the chickens. Clayton would go on with his life here, as I have done, without any of the rest of us.
I remain your sister,
Abigail
May 4, 1898
Dear Mother,
Winter in Wyoming is not like winter in New Mexico. We have had several inches of snow on the ground since December, and there are many nights where it is twenty or more degrees below zero. There were a few warm days last week when the snow melted off the fields, but today it is cold again and there are flurries.
Mr. Dunn plans to send up another few hundred cattle next month, and I will stay long enough to get the fencing done and help with the branding. New Mexico sure does look good to me after this winter, and you can count on seeing me before next fall. There are a number of ranches I know of in northern New Mexico, near the Colorado border, and I will find one to work at. I have thought of giving up cattle driving, as I feel so much older than when I started, but I don’t know of anything that I could do better.
There is another hand, named Matt, who wants to go south, and we will most likely travel together, if he does not turn wild on me and insist on spending weeks in one of those towns. Some of them do that, they are so starved to know anything else besides the open range and horses and cattle. But I always did love that best.
Your Son,
George
March 15, 1899
Dear Maggie,
Tell Amy not to worry; there is nothing more to do. One of Teresa’s daughters, Paula, has offered to help me. She does not expect much payment for this, but I will give her what I can. She is married to José, whom I have hired for five years now to help with the harvest. They have two young children, and Paula is gentle with a baby. If Ramon is the father, as Margaret claims, then the child is Paula’s niece.
There is really nothing that I need. Pamela Porter knit a blanket, sweater, and cap, and I have been furnished nicely by several other good neighbors and friends. Señora Teresa comes often to visit and makes much of the “bella bebé.” We are a couple of old women easily delighted by any accomplishment the wee thing manages.
Margaret disappeared a few weeks after the baby’s arrival. She had asked me for money to pay for a train ticket to California, but I would not give it to her. She had no real plans, just the thought of getting away. It still amazes me that she could leave her infant daughter. Señora Teresa tells me that Ramon is working for a rancher in Mexico. She is afraid he is stealing cattle for this man and says Ramon hopes to marry the rancher’s daughter. He seems to have no interest in the child. I suppose he could have his marriage to Margaret annulled with proper payment.
It is a warm spring, the river already flooding its banks with melted snow and ice rushing down from the mountains. The branches of the fruit trees are like pale-green feathers, the new leaves having just unfolded. I could not resist breaking off several to put in a vase so that I can watch the buds blossom. They sit in the back bedroom, in which I have set up an easel. As soon as they open I will do a painting of them, using a stretched canvas and the paints Amy sent me for Christmas.
Your Sister,
Abigail
May 24, 1899
Dear Maggie,
As I have written several times to Amy, I am in excellent health and Paula is quite reliable. I still find time for my work at the school and my sketching, and I attend church and social gatherings. Last year I harvested the apple trees myself, helped with the alfalfa, and managed a small garden. I see no reason for this year to be any different.
There is gossip, of course, but I hold my head quite high and refuse to acknowledge it. Three mornings a week I work with the advanced students at the mission school on their writing. I also teach drawing. I read the newspapers, the books Miss Alden lends me, whatever I can find. And when I do find myself with a free hour or more, I take out my sketch pad and pencils or I paint. Mr. Roosevelt came to our territory and is reported to have said that if New Mexico wants statehood, we can count on him to go back to Washington and do everything to help us. I am hopeful we will soon become
a state.
As you can see, I am quite active, and as ever, my feet are firmly planted.
Yours,
Abigail
December 24, 1899
Dear Maggie,
It is nearly Christmas Day, and the ground has been frozen hard as bone since Thanksgiving. It has been a difficult winter already, the wind like a wedge against the house until the door remains shut most of the day, and I am a bent shape beside the stove, a cup of broth or tea in my hands. This is a holiday, and so I shall try not to be forlorn, but after writing that he would be back in time to spend Christmas with me, George has not posted a word.
Would that I were in Virginia with you and Amy, but then who would feed Elsie, the cow I recently purchased, or Ginger, a large brown dog who arrived here last fall, slinking around the place like a shadow. And of course, Anna is too young to travel, and as competent as Paula is, I could not leave any baby who has been placed into my care. There is nothing for me but to stay by the stove until it is again time to brace myself against the wind and milk Elsie. Fortunately, Teresa keeps me supplied with baked goods. She is known for the rolls and sweet bread she makes each holiday season. Ginger stays curled by the fire at my feet as I eat these delicacies. I do love her company.
In his letter George wrote that he had stopped in Colorado to visit a rancher he had worked with. While there, he was asked to accompany a posse on a roundup of some horse thieves. They chased those bandits nearly to the mountains before they caught them. I wrote to him suggesting that perhaps he could get on somewhere as a sheriff. It seems to me this would be steadier work than cattle ranching, and he might get to sleep in a bed more often. But I don’t doubt it would be dangerous.
Yours,
Abigail
December 29, 1899
Dear Maggie,
George got here two days after Christmas. He came riding up on the prettiest horse I ever saw, almost pure black, with white feet and a white mark on its neck. The ranch he has been hired to run stretches out for nearly twenty miles north of here, near the Colorado line. There is a cabin provided for him, but it was evident that George preferred spending most nights, except the coldest, sleeping outside near the cattle.
“After fourteen years, I would think sleeping on the ground would lose its appeal,” I said to him. But he only explained to me again that he does it so that he can hear if the cattle run off. It would not surprise me if George slept that way without the cattle, for it has become so much a habit.
Yesterday I took George to town and bought him two more sets of clothes and a wool blanket. I have ordered him a new pair of leather boots, as the ones he wears have more holes than leather, and I have told him he will have to stay and visit me until they get here.
Your Sister,
Abigail
February 13, 1900
Dear Maggie,
George left the very last day of January. He had said he would leave by the fourteenth day, but that week we had a terrible blizzard, and with the wind blowing the snow up against everything, you could not make out a building two feet in front of you. The snow fell like this for three days, and then the wind wouldn’t quit for ten. It was all kinds of silver when we went outside that next week, the sun gleaming across the snow, melting just enough of it to make a sparkling glaze.
One morning after we got Elsie milked and the chickens fed, George brought out our horses and wanted me to ride with him to the mesa his father had loved. It is treacherous to ride in the snow with a sheen of ice across the top of it, but the sun was a big ball in the wide blue of the sky, and I never could resist a ride to the mesa.
There was a long time, maybe an hour or more, where we rode with just the sound of the snow crunching under the horses’ hooves. Then George started to talk about his father, and how close they were when George was growing up. They spent hours together in the fields, riding out to repair the ditches, and Clayton sometimes took George with him on his trips to the mines. I never realized how often George still thinks of his father and how hard it was with Clayton dying when George was just a young man.
When we got to the mesa, it rose up, all powdered white with the dark of the piñon trees showing through. George got off his horse and helped me down, and we stood for a long time, looking up at the strange shape the mesa makes against the sky. The sun was right over our heads, its heat touching everything, and I heard the dripping of water. I thought of Clayton and how he would have enjoyed the ride, but also I thought about the mesa and the desert, how it had been home to me for so long and was as familiar as an old coat or boots.
George is gone now, and I don’t know when I will see him again. The baby is well, as hearty as any Paula has ever seen. Perhaps this is due to Teresa’s concoctions. She mixes them up in large glass bottles and has me feed them to the little thing.
I have no fears about the child’s health; I only worry about what will be done with her. George was angry that she had been given into my care, but I reminded him that I have not yet turned sixty; I am not so old that I cannot care for a child. When I look into her innocent face, it seems a sin that she should have to bear the worst of her mother’s indiscretions.
I remain your sister,
Abigail
June 26, 1900
Dear Maggie,
Amy’s visit was wonderful. Little Ellen is simply delicious. I could not put her down and got accused of spoiling her at every turn. However, I grew much concerned about Amy. I have never seen her look so tired. Please, Maggie, watch her for me and see to it she goes to the doctor as I advised. Everett seems a kind husband, but he is caught up in his own affairs, more so than ever now that he is running for public office. And Amy is not one to worry others if she is feeling poorly.
During their stay, I instructed Paula to take complete care of Anna so that I would not chance Amy’s worry and criticism. Still, she asked me to give up the child. Her concern is all for my good, she assures me. She does not want to see my old age burdened with raising another child. But I cannot give the baby up, and I have money enough from Clayton’s investments and the sale of the land to pay for her care here.
The days were perfect while they were here—a clear crisp sky and just the right temperature for riding or sitting out in the garden. Ellen followed Ginger about, and together they chased the chickens. I will miss them.
Your Sister,
Abigail
Chapter 8
December 13, 1900
Dear Maggie,
We had a light dusting of snow last night, and this morning when I looked outside, I was pleased to see the world had moved in such a pretty way towards winter. You must believe me when I tell you I look forward to winter as part of what rotates the seasons and moves the world forward. I do not live in dread of the cold or fear being alone, stranded on my ranch. Indeed, I am not here alone any longer. I have the child to care for. In addition, Paula and José come to the house almost daily to help me with the chores.
In some ways you are right; the child is an inconvenience. I doubt I shall be invited anywhere this year during the holidays. The Porters, the Sloaners, the Deerings, the Browns, all of them find it awkward. They fear if I came for a visit, I might carry Anna with me, as indeed I should, for she is my responsibility. But never mind, I shall spend the season in my own home with little Anna. I find her a delight.
Once a week I leave the child with Teresa or Paula and make the trip to the Methodist school. It is still a pleasure to work beside Miss Alden, and I do enjoy the children. Recently, I had the opportunity to visit with several of the Indian children on their reservation and was able to observe some of the native art work. Their drawings and paintings lack skill in composition, but their use of color in all art work, including weavings and pottery, is quite superior to any I have been able to produce with my oils.
I have read that compulsory school attendance is the law now, but I do not see any indication of it being enforced here. The priests are as active as ever in keeping chil
dren from an education. I have heard there are some who insist on teaching in the public schools, and you can imagine that every subject would have a religious overtone. They do not understand the meaning of secular, and they seek absolute control of the curriculum.
I read also what they are saying of us in the east, that if New Mexico is made a state, the priesthood would so dominate as to make successful government impossible. They cite the general lawlessness, also, and depict us as the “Siberia of America.” In some ways I must admit their impressions are accurate; however, I still believe our difficulties will be overcome with statehood. Our struggle remains arduous, and no one knows how much longer statehood will elude us.
But do not worry about me. The valley is peaceful, and I am not too afraid to take care of myself. I am an excellent shot with Clayton’s gun.
I send you the blessings of the season,
Abigail
February 20, 1901
Dear Maggie,
This has been an easy winter, and despite my protestations of independence, I am glad of it. We have not been snowbound once, and last week I rode out along the river and heard the water running freely, as it does in the spring when all the ice has melted. Such weather could bode ill for the summer months, as a mild winter and early spring often precede a summer of drought and excessive heat, but right now I honestly do not care. I am only grateful that winter seems past and it has been an easy one.
I have received a correspondence from Dr. Mayfield, requesting the use of one of my sketches for a book he is compiling on the west. I have not had much time to sketch lately but will find some moments, as I would like to give him a number of recent drawings to choose from. He offers to collect the drawing himself, claiming he would enjoy the trip. Maggie, I have sent a note with instructions on finding our farm. I do not care what anyone who knows of this will think. I look forward so to his visit.
