In early May of 1951, several children of Caroline Rebecca Jacobson met in Virden, New Mexico to write her life story. Someone expressed the desire to visit the ruins of the old Mexico home. Ivan Richardson suggested, “Why not now?” A date was set for later in May, and planning began.
On Wednesday, May 17, sideboards and tarps arose over Carl’s and Glenn’s pickups, while beneath in a steady stream were stowed away bedrolls, cameras, food, and people. The party consisted of twelve persons: Anne (Richardson) Johnson, Orson and Edna (Richardson) Richins, Madge (Richardson) Germaine, Carl and Flossie (Richardson) Donaldson, Lola (Richardson) Harms, Glenn and Elva (Richardson) Shumway, Chad and Lola Richardson, and Maxene (Richins) Jones (Edna’s daughter whose parents-in-law lived in Colonia Dublan).
About 10:30, the happy din rolled away from Virden amid admonitions and a flutter of handkerchiefs. We lunched in Lordsburg. A brief stop at Hachita brought a flood of poignant memories of the Refugee Camp and subsequent years for some. Anne was delighted to locate the ruins of the birthplace of her eldest child and got pictures.
En route to Antelope Wells forty-five miles south of Hachita we encountered a wind of near gale proportions. Those of us in the back of the pickups, desperately clutching flopping tarps, bonnets or hats and errant tresses, our faces dust-coated, must have presented a “sorry” picture, at least in Flossie’s eyes. Glancing around between car-sick heaves she declared with a mischievous twinkle, “It’s the looks of ya!”
We drew up before the Mexican emigration building across the line with somewhat of a flourish. Drawn to the door by the commotion, the officer in charge exclaimed in wide-eyed amazement, “¿Que Paso?” The personnel proved friendly and cooperative, offering helpful suggestions for obtaining papers for Anne’s birth certificate, which she needed to obtain a travel visa.
Several miles and hours passed with little of special interest transpiring until we came upon a buffalo—the first seen by some. It was on this lap that we became a bit concerned for Anne’s health. A recent attack of pneumonia had so lowered her resistance, that she fell easy prey to severe car-sickness. Her frail appearance and extreme pallor frightened us.
Dusk brought us to the low flat stretch of land north of Colonia Dublan. Rains had made of our road a dozen-laned highway, and without benefit of road signs we often at a loss to know which to choose. After one particularly rough drop Glenn wryly remarked, “If this is a sample of Mexico I think I’ve had enough.”
It was dark when we arrived in Colonia Dublan at the home of “Chico” Jones, Maxene’s father-in-law. He and Sister Jones graciously offered their hospitality insisting that we were to be their guests during our stay. Our dearest plan, however, had been to rough it together under the stars, so with typical Richardson stubbornness, we, too, were insistent and comp[romised by accepting the shelter of the straw stack on his farm two miles away.
Throughout our stay, the Joneses were most helpful. While Brother Jones assisted Anne the next day in obtaining affidavits in lieu of a birth certificate, their son took the rest of us sight-seeing. We visited a cheese and ice cream factory, the remarkable source of their irrigation system, and shopped at Nueve Casas Grandes. This shopping tour in a Mexican town we thoroughly enjoyed as it was the first such experience for many of us and a renewal of early experiences for the others. In the evening Brother Jones took us to a restaurant where we enjoyed an authentic enchilada supper.
Our pleasure up to this point had been great, but was overshadowed by that of the second night. We made a bonfire in the bottom pf an adobe pit and seating ourselves around its perimeter we sang songs and reminisced. Finally, we prepared a long “Brigham-bed” on the soft bean straw and retired, but conditions were not conducive to sleep. The moon brilliant as only a Mexican mon can be shone in on our faces, nostalgic memories flooded our minds and although we were tired, hours slipped by ere sleep overtook us.
As the first rays of the sun touched the sleepers the next morning, cameras were busy recording the novel scene, and then what a pillow fight followed! After a delicious breakfast from the adobe pit and more pictures we broke camp and were off to another wonderful day.
Brother and Sister Jones again were kind and accompanied us to Colonia Juarez. En route, we stopped briefly at Old Casas Grandes. The ancient buildings, worn streets and walks, gnarled old trees, and the plaza all spoke eloquently to us of Father (Charles Edmund Richardson) who had seen them so often on his many visits to this historic town to conduct business as a Mexican lawyer.
Colonia Juarez
The rocky sixteen mile climb to Colonia Juarez brought us at length to the crest of the hills surrounding the town. Here we paused in our journey to drink in the panorama before us—for the oldsters a feeling of nostalgia and for all a realization that here the saints of God had “made the desert to blossom as the rose.” Descending the unique dugway we found ourselves driving down orchard-lined streets, exclaiming here and pointing there—Aunt Sadie’s house, the old store, Harper’s Hotel, the public square with the bandstand, Aunt Daisy’s home, the old church and schoolhouse, the wagon bridge which we crossed, the homes of Anthony W. Ivins, Charles and Mary Conover and the Eyrings, arriving finally at the Juarez Stake Academy. Here we took pictures again, toured the buildings and grounds reliving with Anne the school days of the older members of the Richardson family.
Being pressed for time we reluctantly bid farewell to Juarez and returned to Dublan. Here we had a sumptuous dinner with the Joneses, picked up the necessary papers for Anne’s visa and headed north to where Colonia Diaz had once been standing via the old Pershing highway.
Colonia Diaz
The only town on our route was La Ascensión, some five miles south of Diaz. It had apparently changed very little in forty years. The plaza, with its rose-lined walks, which we photographed, appeared much as we remembered it as did other familiar landmarks. It thrilled us to see the building where Father had transacted much of his legal business. Upon inquiring about the road to Diaz, a Mexican volunteered to ride with us the short distance to the road forks to show us the way. Several were somewhat concerned when he climbed on one of the pickups. Uneasiness grew as he asked a number of questions, then rode on and on, three times changing his story as to his reason for doing so. As we look back on it he was likely just curious. But at the time there was a little fear and the feeling was to recur later that night.
Overview Map of the Colonies Excursion
Sweet, Sweet Home
How eager the older members [of our party] had awaited the appearance of the familiar outlines of the eastern horizon and of the Boco Grande mountains, and here the realization passed expectation.
When we entered Main Street the real fun began. As Ivan aptly put it, “The curtain then arose and the great show started!”—the spectators being those who had never been there before. These just watched in sympathetic amusement.
The actors were so carried away with their role that they spoke and acted in complete abandon. Maxene was heard to say, “I never knew my Aunts before!” In ecstasy, they ohh-ed and ahh-ed, shouted and gesticulated, scurried first to this spot, then to that, and laughing through tears, identifying one landmark and then another, their enthusiasm persisting throughout the entire tour.
As few houses were found standing (these being occupied), the various homes were located mostly by means of the stumps of cedar posts, mounds of brick and adobe, and occasional clumps of tamaracks, of mulberry or scraggly cottonwood. The birthplace of each family member was noted and photographed—and other homes were identified. Here is where Fredericksons lived, there Miles Pearce, Kim Lemon, and Will Adams! Louritz Mortensen’s home was found to be the only one still wearing its original roof. There was Aunt Eliza Whiting’s home, the old store, the post office, and now the mound that was Aunt Rene’s home with the coyote rock. Aunt Tressie’s house was partly standing and inhabited. Between these stood the old mulberry tree—the rendezvous of Aunt Rene’s, Aunt Tressie’s, and Aunt Beckie’s children. After a picture, we raced to the first little home Father had built in Mexico—the scene of Mother’s honeymoon and the birthplace of Anne. Across the street, we went to the ruins of Grandpa Jacobson’s house, and we took another picture.
The Little White Church
Now as the sun was low, we hurried down Main Street past the homes of the three Johnson families, the opera house, and on to the dear old church-school house. We lingered over the mere traces of those loved rooms, and the memories the evoked. Loa rang the brass bell, Madge played “Auntie High Over,” “Steal Sticks,” and “Hop Scotch,” and Flossie marched with a Sunday School Class along the shady walks of the park to the tune of “Soldier Boy, Where Are You Going?” Edna showed us two-year-old Vernon walking into her Sunday School Class wearing only Elva’s tiny red umbrella and a triumphant smile. Anne thrilled again to the visit of her fiancé, Elmer Johnson, who stole into her schoolroom for a moment’ respite after a busy day of teaching. Carl challenged Orson, “Meet me at recess down behind Peterson’s corral! We’ll have it out there,” as so many boys had done in the long ago. The sheer joy of the moment was dulled only by the ache of realization that such experiences were irretrievable.
Aunt Hattie Jacobson’s home was next, then the old Donaldson place (still in use), scene of Carl’s childhood. How times had shrunk distance! The old mulberry Carl remembered to have been “way off down there,” must have been magically moved, for it now stood within a few rods of the house. Those long, long rows he used to irrigate had shrunk to half their former length. Carl ran boyishly about gathering samples of soil, bits of pottery, and other souvenirs until urged that we must be on our way in order to make camp before dark. Tears welled in our eyes, as with a clasping of hands, his eyes swept the place, and he exclaimed, “Oh just let me look a minute more!”
Back in the pickup, Orson remarked, “Well, I guess I’m just an old stick. I’m not that sentimental.” However, within the hour his behavior proved him wrong. When we reached the Richins’ Ranch, a new-found exuberance overcame his conservatism, and he was exclaiming over this and that: “The pasture was down there! Lightning struck that very tree! Here is a piece from our old set of dishes! This is where we raised a bumper crop of potatoes!”
On the way to the Richins’ Ranch and Dusty Dale (Richardson ranch), we paused at the cemetery. It was in sad disrepair, and the Mexicans had moved many of the markers to their more recent graves, so that it was impossible to definitely locate those of our dear ones.
Then again, distance shrank. the cemetery was not far from either the town or the Ranch. But what’s this? The size of the mesquites had diminished—and the “ooses” (yuccas)! We were to learn that the latter phenomenon was literal as a result of a prairie fire which swept the country a number of years following the Exodus.
Then we entered the high-posted gate to Dusty Dale! Many [of the party] were of the opinion that it was the same gate through which they passed forty years before. At any rate, it was in the right location and led to the correct premises. There were the ruins of the precious old home! only the two half basement rooms of the east remained, and were occupied by a family of friendly, sympathetic Mexicans. Father’s windmill nearest the house we found to be still in use. This we photographed, along with the gate and ruins of the house. How good the water tasted! Then we poked into the rubble that was Aunt Sarah’s neat dwelling, and began making plans for the night.
A Hallowed Occasion
Desiring privacy, we decided to camp at the Richins Ranch rather than at Dusty Dale, where we had thought. Arriving, we set fire to the stump of a tree beside the mound that was once Orson’s home. Round this fire we grouped for supper, and here we lived the finest experience of the trip, climaxing all else.
The homecoming of the hours just passed, those dearest of spots, and the emotions they had stirred, the hallowed cemetery, where rested so many of our number, and the ranch home, symbolic of the integrity and industry of our parents, all combined to build up a most solemn sacred atmosphere.
Following supper, this spirit was much intensified. Hymns rose into the still night—”Oh, My Father,” “Count Your Blessings,” “We Thank Thee, O God, For A Prophet,” Glenns’ solo, “The Lord’s Prayer,” and others. By turns, each arose voicing gratitude for our heritage, love, encouragement, and prayers for the success of Anne’s approaching mission, and steadfastness of each in filling Life’s Mission. The spirit of our parents seemed to pervade our group. Almost did we know of their presence as if in fulfillment of a forty-year-old tryst. Arms of protection seemed placed about us—especially did we sense and appreciate this as the fear of the day recurred—that accompanying the episode with our would-be Mexican guide. For again and again as the evening progressed, we heard approaching hoofbeats. They seemed to race to the edge of our little clearing, pause, then retreat. The menace was even flung into the midst of our evening prayer. But a calmness followed prayer so that we retired to our Brigham-bed feeling assured that all would be well.
The first rays of Saturday’s sun called us to the final challenging day of our homecoming. Could food ever taste so good! Breakfast finished, we hurried back to Dusty Dale for a final savoring of the scenes of our youth, to a quest for treasures, and the taking of more pictures.
At the site of the old lumber house, Lola found a rusty toy horse, and from a nearby fence took a knot of barbed wire, tied as only Father was known to tie wire. Toward the east around the rubble of the brick building that had housed Father’s pump, we found the cement slab upon which the engine had rested. Outlines of surface tanks still remained, and a depression that had once been one of those typical old watering holes. We exclaimed over once familiar flowers, and their half-forgotten fragrance, and gathered souvenirs of greasewood and sage.
The unwelcome call, Time to go,” from the menfolk brought the girls back to a rude reality. One lingering, all-inclusive glance, and bonnets went on. Reluctantly, we climbed into the pickups, then all too soon the scene faded away again to a mere memory.
At La Ascensión, we stopped briefly for directions for our proposed return route. This took us along the Pala Tada, then northwest over the rough hills to Antelope Wells. Missing Hachita, we routed our return course through the Animas Valley for a brief visit to the Richins farms there, and several homes.
What a unique experience had been ours! Imagine, if possible, literally stepping back into the past. This trip was a near to such an impossible phenomenon as anything could be. It was a superlative—the only thing needed to perfect it was the presence of the rest of the family, of which we so often spoke. No other time, not even a repeat, could be quite the same. Great changes were even then under way. The country around Colonia Diaz had been purchased by large companies and was becoming under cultivation. Land was being cleared of ruins, and wells, we were told that the old landmarks would soon be erased.
Neither the march of time, nor of progress, however, can obliterate the dear memory of our excursion. Always it will be treasured, drawing us close, helping us live worthy of eternal associations, beyond.
Source: Based on “The Return.” Richardson Shuttle, volume 2, number 5, July 1956, pp. 12-13.