Arizona Legends and Lore
Page 5
When her tenure was over, she had hoped to be reappointed to the position so that she could continue the work she felt so strongly about. But political considerations resulted in the job being given to someone else. There was nothing else to do but to return once again to the isolation and responsibility of the ranch. Sharlot did manage to get published a book of poems called Cactus and Pine.
Then, on August 24, 1912, when Sharlot was forty-two years old, her mother, after a lifetime of illness, died from what appeared to be a culmination of medical difficulties. Without her mother’s support and companionship, Sharlot felt a depth of isolation worse than anything she had ever experienced before. Her father’s distrust of educated people had left their relationship over the years a tenuous one in which her mother acted as a buffer between their alien personalities. And so father and daughter settled into an uneasy association at the ranch.
James Hall on his own had never been able to earn more than a bare existence for his family. Age, instead of sharpening his skills, seemed to rob him of what few he had. Over the next thirteen years that remained of his life, Sharlot was obliged to assume the primary responsibility for their livelihood. Racked with back pain aggravated by heavy ranch work, devoid of emotional support from family, she increasingly withdrew from friends and from the emotional anchor of writing. But, with unblinking clarity of vision, Sharlot occasionally would sit down and type on the faithful Blickensderfer anecdotes filled with moments of humor and pathos.
Dealing with an unending assortment of ranch hands provided her with what she liked to call cheap entertainment. There was one ranch hand who had a fear of water and the use of the same for cleanliness. He never drank water. He never bathed from one year to the next, and never washed his hands. He was also tubercular. Whenever Sharlot would complete dozens of jars of preserves from the fruit trees, he would sneak into the kitchen when she was attending to something else and would eat out of the jars with his fingers. She hated this, but felt it was useless to fire him, as the next hired man would probably be worse. Many of the ranch hands available who would consider working in Lonesome Valley were either alcoholics or drug addicts.
She liked looking forward to the wonderful frontier day celebrations at Prescott. The women would get together and sit around on benches visiting, catching up on the births, deaths, things that had happened during the year, waiting for the time when the men would parade to the rodeo grounds. Hollywood-style cowboy clothes were never seen. Instead the men wore fine shirts, ties, dark trousers, well-polished boots and grey-tan Stetsons ® . Horses were groomed to a high polish. The skill displayed in riding and roping took her breath away. Thunder-showers were always scheduled as part of the day so that everyone could crowd under the roof of the grandstand for additional breathless gossip.
Once one of the biggest long-horned steers broke from the corral and decided to set himself on the grandstand, since that seemed to be a popular and desired location. Everyone started looking for a way to run and most took to hiding under the stands. Everyone was quick with suggestions about who should be given the responsibility of moving the formidable animal, but no one offered to take on the task. Then one of the ranch-women, impatient with the ineffectual chatter, calmly tucked her baby under her arm, picked up her parasol and went over to the steer while everyone held their breath.
At first all that could be heard were the sounds of swatting punctuated by a firm, no-nonsense “git.” Suddenly the steer took to bawling something fierce and, as everyone’s heart skipped a beat, they could hear it gallop off the stands and run back to the corral, hiding itself in the farthest corner. Arizona’s ranch women were fearless. They often had to be. Yet each of the women, in spite of the man-like job they accomplished on the ranch, would not dare to show up at those frontier day celebrations without riding side-saddle and dressed in long riding habits of blue broadcloth or black velvet wearing as much trim and frills as they could muster.
During those years on the ranch it appeared as if Sharlot’s life of adventuring was over. Her future seemed to be stretching out before her as one made up mostly of isolation and monotony.
Then the unforeseen occurred. Ex-governor Thomas Campbell came to the ranch one day in a totally unexpected visit. The Republicans wanted to place Sharlot’s name on the Republican ticket as one of the electors for the Presidential election of Calvin Coolidge. Sharlot was flattered. The idea of a trip to Washington, D.C. awakened in her the excitement she used to feel for traveling. Here was a chance to meet the President of the United States.
On January 18, 1925, she took the train to Washington. Missing from her baggage was a gown that was still in the process of being made for her by a copper company. It was being fashioned out of copper mesh, unique and beautiful, and Sharlot was to wear it to advertise Arizona’s copper wealth. She planned to wear it at the inaugural ceremonies.
Sharlot arrived four days later and was met at the station by Senator Ralph Cameron and his wife. Ida Spaulding Cameron had been a friend of Sharlot’s during her brief time at school in Prescott. They proceeded immediately to the Senate Office Building where she met dozens of senators. A little later, she was introduced to President Coolidge, who showed his interest by asking her questions about Arizona. In the afternoon she went to the Senate Chamber and presented the sealed envelope with Arizona’s votes. She was the first elector and woman to arrive with her state’s votes. When Vice President Albert Cummis reached for her envelope, the newspaper photographers started snapping pictures. The next day Sharlot’s picture was in most of the major newspapers around the country.
Sharlot Hall in her copper inaugural gown (Courtesy Sharlot Hall Museum Archives, Prescott)
In the evening, Sharlot attended a reception at the White House and met the President again and also had a chance to meet Mrs. Coolidge. She felt as if she was in a dream as she moved slowly along with the nearly four thousand people who were attending the reception. There she was walking through the rooms of the most famous building in the United States, rooms that had seen so much history in the making. She shook President Coolidge’s hand. She liked the keen humor in his eyes and the quiver of a smile on his lips. He did not seem the cold and grave man some made him out to be.
With Ida Cameron as her hostess, guide, mentor and promoter, the next few weeks found Sharlot the object of considerable attention. She was photographed everywhere she went, entertained in high style at the Congressional Club, the Senate Luncheon Club and the Pen Women’s League. At each of these occasions she was asked to speak about Arizona and to read some of her poetry. After its arrival, she often wore her copper mesh gown and matching handbag. She even wore a cunningly contrived hat ornamented with tiny cactus. Sharlot came to boost the possibilities of Arizona and ended up becoming the toast of the town.
The actual inauguration took place on March 4. She was able to view the parade from some windows in the post office. Sharlot was delighted to note that Mrs. Coolidge was wearing an Arizona necklace of silver and turquoise that Sharlot had brought with her as a present from the people of Prescott.
In spite of the whirlwind excitement of her visit, Sharlot, the scholar, did not neglect the opportunity to spend many exceedingly happy days working in the Library of Congress. Here indeed was a library to cheer the heart of any dedicated historian. She devoted her research to finding out more about a beloved Arizona pioneer, Buckey O’Neill. With renewed vigor she began writing an in-depth article about his life.
After the inauguration, Sharlot went to New York and Boston to visit friends. It was her intention to take a long, leisurely trip back to Arizona with stops in Chicago and Kansas to give talks and readings of her poetry. But she received news that her father’s health had taken a turn for the worst. She cut short her trip to return and provide him with what comfort she could during the last months of his life. He died in June. Sharlot was fifty-five years old. She wondered if now she was finally free to leave the isolation of the ranch out in Lonesome Valley.
It appeared to her that her dream of a museum was never going to become a reality unless she somehow did it herself. Sharlot then decided to approach the Prescott City Council and request a lifetime lease of the building and land. In return, she would at her own expense restore the mansion and would place her entire collection of artifacts that she had gathered over the last forty years within the created museum.
The City Council granted her the lease as well as free water, electricity, police and fire protection for the rest of her life. She sold the ranch with the intention of moving herself and her ten thousand dollar collection of artifacts into the mansion. But the mansion as it stood was unlivable. The filler between the logs had long disappeared from lack of upkeep and the winds blew inside. The roof did not keep out the rain. In time she was able to repair enough to move her furniture into a bedroom upstairs which also served as a workroom. She displayed her collections on the main floor.
Eventually, after several starts and stops in the restoration process, Sharlot was able to formally open the mansion as a museum to visitors. Arizona’s current state historian was the first to sign the visitor’s register. All kinds of visitors came to see the exhibits and to meet the fascinating lady who had created the museum. Sharlot even had a visit from the mayor of New York City, Fiorello La Guardia.
In her declining years Sharlot spent her time adding by any means she could to the collection of artifacts. She helped get the remains of that wonderful old pioneer, Pauline Weaver, back to Arizona to be reburied on the grounds. She saved the rosebush that one of the wives of a territorial governor had carefully nurtured and brought out west. She spoke to groups of school children, showing them each of the items in the collection and how they were used by the pioneers. She told them the stories of those early days. She enjoyed watching the eyes of those who were turning her words into pictures, glimpsing a time in the world that was long past.
Sharlot Hall had dared to go against the tide of her times. She endured the criticism of people who judged her way of life harshly. Having a husband, they whispered none too quietly, would have taken care of her back pain. Very few ever knew of her longstanding but discreet relationship with Matt Riordan whom she had met through Charles Lummis. His grown daughters would not countenance a divorce from his long-separated wife. Sharlot always met Matt in out-of-the-way places in California. He was the father she never had, the companion, the friend, the lover.
Then there were those who thought she devoted an excessive amount of time to her parents, who blithely labeled her strange and neurotic. But how could she desert her parents? Her mother, after many bouts of illness and pain, had become addicted to morphine. Her father’s progressively helpless physical condition dwindled into spells of mental illness.
Perhaps her poem “Cash-In” best describes the twilight days of her life, her determination to live to the fullest, to drink to the last drop the wine of life, and at times to view life through a cynically-humorous lens.
O, Life is a game of poker,
And I’ve played it straight to the end;
But the last chip’s down on the table
And I’m done with the game, my friend.
The deck was stacked by the Dealer
Before he would let me in
The cards were marked, and I knew it
There was never a chance to win.
But I bluffed the game to the finish -
Till He nodded and called my hand,
Palms empty and crossed—my lips smiling still
I knew the Dealer would understand. 3
Sharlot Mabridth Hall died on April 9, 1943. She was seventy-two years old.
Territorial Governor’s Mansion, Prescott, Arizona (Courtesy Sharlot Hall Museum)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Abbey, Sue, Interview with archivist, Sharlot Hall Museum, Prescott, Arizona, April 1988.
Arizona Republication Newspaper , June 16, 1910, “Gathering Material, Miss Sharlot Hall Will
Have a Busy Summer.”
Crowe, Rosalie and Tod, Diane, Arizona Women’s Hall of Fame, Arizona Historical Society Museum Monograph, Phoenix, Arizona, 1985.
Fishbough, William, Library of Mesmerism and Psychology , Vol. 1. Fowler and Wells, Publisher, New York, 1852.
Genung, Charles B., “My First Year in Arizona,” typewritten letter from diary box, Sharlot Hall Museum (no date).
Hall, Sharlot, Letter to Charles Lummis, 1899.
Hall, Sharlot, Typewritten notes on Frontier Days, 1926, Sharlot Hall Museum.
Hall, Sharlot, Cactus and Pine, Songs of the Southwest , Sherman and French, Boston, 1910.
Hall, Sharlot, “The Father of Arizona,” The New State Magazine , Vol. II, No. 10, Phoenix, Arizona, August 1912, pages 6–10.
Hall, Sharlot, Sharlot Hall on the Arizona Strip , Northland Press, Flagstaff, Arizona, 1975.
Harte, Brett, Book of Poems , James Osgood and Company, Boston, 1871.
Kipling, Rudyard, Letter to Sharlot Hall from Nauhakha, Windam County, Vermont (no date).
MacKenzie, Josephine, Poems of a Ranchwoman , Sharlot Hall Historical Society, 1953.
Maxwell, Margaret E., A Passion for Freedom, The Life of Sharlot Hall , The University of Arizona Press, Tucson, Arizona, 1982.
The Saga of the Superstition Mountains
As seen from Phoenix some thirty-five miles away, the Superstition Mountains jut out from a flat desert plain. Visible on the horizon, their massive, rugged profile prompts the viewer to wonder what stories these spectacular mountains have to tell.
For years they have acted as a backdrop to some of the most exciting and dramatic treasure tales to come out of Arizona. Thousands of men and women, whether treasure-hunting novices or professionals, have come from all over the world, lured by these stories to hunt for gold. Some people have spent the better part of their lives and much of their money looking for the fabled treasure. Their searching has sometimes ended in death. Others continue to roam the mountains, eternally caught in a hypnotic enchantment, enslaved by the quest, the dream of finding treasure, magnificent fabulous treasure which would open all doors to the fulfillment of every wish.
The author has attempted to put together from the facts, figures and legends, a saga about these fascinating mountains. The records and research show many gaps and conflicting information. Yet the saga, like a series of siren songs, draws one ever closer to those gigantic pilings of perilous rocks, allowing the listener to feel the allure but never, never the danger.
The Thunder God’s Mountain
Millions of years ago, Arizona was a low, flat land covered by a huge inland sea. Underneath that beguilingly calm sea was a slowly cooling crust of earth. Cracks developed in that subterranean crust from the pressures of unknown forces. The sea water rushed into the molten interior, creating steam of such magnitude that it began a cataclysmic chain reaction. Lava and volcanic matter spewed up through the sea thousands of feet into the air.
When this fiery volcanic mass cooled, it hardened into a stupefying series of cliffs and peaks, twisting canyons and impenetrable mazes of rocks. In time, the volcanic matter produced such a vast assortment of cacti and thorny shrubs that in places neither man nor beast could pass easily.
Native Americans believed this land was a sacred place. They called it the home of the Thunder God and his people. They knew that in this mountainous area the Thunder God owned a great treasure.
Over four hundred years ago, the famous Spanish expl
orer, Francisco Coronado, came to this land looking for gold. He wanted the Indians to guide him and his men in their search for this treasure, but the Indians refused. They said that all who trespassed on the sacred land of the Thunder God would be punished. Coronado and his men laughed at the medicine men’s stories and started exploring on their own. Soon strange things began to happen. Some of the men fell off cliffs, some broke bones, others simply disappeared.
Coronado’s party of explorers grew fearful. It was eerie the way the storm clouds always gathered there. Never had they witnessed such violent rainstorms! The name he decided to give the place reflected their emerging fear. He called the place Monte Superstition. That is how the Superstition Mountains came to be named.
For the next three hundred years, these mountains stood in solitude, revered only for their sacred splendor. Then in the early 1840s, on a Sonoran cattle rancho owned by the wealthy, arrogant Don Miguel Peralta, a series of events would once again bring the Superstition Mountains into prominence.
Don Miguel had the reputation of being a capricious, selfish man. He was virtually an absolute ruler of his cattle kingdom as well as dictator of the five hundred people who worked under him.
Although Don Miguel had three sons, Pedro, Ramon and the young Miguel, his only interest outside of himself was his beautiful daughter, Rosita Maria. Men for miles around the rancho were bewitched by her breathtaking beauty and fell madly in love with her. But Rosita Maria, used to constant attention and having her own way, was spoiled and soon became bored with them all. Only Carlos, handsome, aloof, exceedingly polite Carlos, piqued her curiosity.