Last Monday evening a storm came
roaring through as we were intently watching an episode of Walander
(subtitled). It arrived suddenly and
with only a few moments of warning. The
power popped off and on three times before my house settled into a permanent
darkness. Since I am not on city water,
this means I was also without water which is the more difficult of the two. . .
no water = no bathrooms! This condition
lasted for 3 days!
With all of this time on my
hands, what could I do? A two drawer
file cabinet that had a hodge-podge of genealogy records and photos called
to me. I did not need water or electricity
to sort and organize and the room had two large windows for light. Piled haphazardly inside were a few forgotten photos, a college
scrapbook, newspaper clippings, and lots of letters from my high school and
college years. Buried in the middle of
all this was a letter written in 1936 by Anna McDonnell to my mother when she
was twelve years old. Anna was always
known as “Auntie” and I have written about her before here, and here. In the letter, Auntie recounts an experience
that she had sixteen years earlier while o vacation in New Mexico.
Warning! This letter is quite lengthy and the
opinions, characterizations, and terminology are strictly those of my long dead
great aunt and the 1920 time period she lived in.
November 5th,
1936
Written
from memory at the
Request
of my Niece-
Dear Gloria you asked me to write an
account of the “Legend of Isleta” an Indian Village about thirteen miles from Albuquerque,
New Mexico.
In the summer of 1920 I was visiting at
Mountain View Ranch, the beautiful home of some former Chicago friends. My hostess, Mrs. Booth, told me that about a
month before my arrival in Albuquerque, there had been an official investigation
made, regarding the body of a Missionary Priest (do not remember his name) who
has been murdered by a hostile tribe of Indians, some three hundred and fifty
years ago, and whose body kept coming to the surface of the earth, as if in
supplication for some one to take notice and give him a decent Christian
burial.
The last time his body came to the surface
was in the Spring of 1920, the year I was there, so the little French Priest
who was pastor of the church at Isleta called the Indians together and asked
the oldest one of them, who was supposed to be around a 115 years if he could
remember any other time the body had come to the surface. He said he remembered
well – said that it was about 80 years before, adding that the was one of the Indians
who helped bury the body at that time, and could show them right where it had
been placed. It was this legend that
prompted the little priest to conduct the investigation which took place
shortly before my arrival there.
My friends at the Mountain View Ranch,
being non-Catholic, thought it would be of interest to me to drive out to
Isleta and see the church where the phenomenon took place. Accordingly one bright day we drove out the
old Indian trail to Isleta – we followed a mud road for 13 miles, as there were
no paved ones leading there. Once we
struck a rut in the road and were given such a jar that I had the back of my
head injured, and it was about two years before I got over the effects of that
bump.
When we arrived at the Old Mission Church,
we saw a sight I shall never forget – there were about 100 Indiana women and
girls engaged in building an Adobe mud fence, about four feet high, around the
church yard. They were dressed in their native costume, with Red Plaid Shawls
and White felt wrappings around their legs.
A few men were standing around overseeing the job, one of whom was their
Governor. He was a tall stately Indian,
who made the laws for the village and ho was responsible to the state of New
Mexico for seeing that the laws were kept.
Page
2
When we got out of the machine, the
Indians eyed us critically – so I approached the Governor and asked permission
to go into the church – upon assuring him I was a Catholic he allowed us to
pass through the gate. It was a surprise
to me to find no pews in the church – however, I was told that the Indian
custom is to sit on the floor and listen to the “White Father” during the
service. The walls of the church were
decorated very fantastically, and it would be a strange place indeed if it were
not for the Sanctuary Lanm burning before the Tabernacle, warning all comers
that the Divine Savior was present there.
After
a hurried inspection of the church my companions went back to the car to wait
while I made a visit to the pastor. On
crossing the church yard I encountered a young Indian girl, so I asked her if
the Padre was home – she told me he was and she showed me to a door that opened
through a high board wall and bade me enter.
The wall was about 8 foot high and painted white and hid from view the
pastor’s home on the other side. The
church yard was a desert sand, without a blade of grass anywhere – the Indians
used the church yard for their burial ground and many are the dead Indians
beneath that burning sand. You can
imagine my surprise, upon passing through that door to find on the other side a
beautiful Oasis – there were trellises covered with roses and the White Magil,
or Wood Dove was flitting about from place to place. There was a long veranda the full length of
the house, and walking up and down the veranda, with his arms folded was a
young Indian as if keeping guard. The house,
which I presume was originally built for a fort, was but one story high, and
the narrow horizontal windows were located near the roof, to afford a safe
lookout, if any enemies were near.
I asked the young man if he would please
notify the Padre that I would like to speak to him – he lead me into a
comfortable room with a large fire place and andirons that were indeed
antique. A warm Navajo rug was spread in
front of the fire place – the furniture was plain, but good, and the place had
all the appearance of comfort and refinement, such a contrast to the Indians on
the other side of the wall, in their native costume.
When the pastor came into the room I
introduced myself, telling him I was from Chicago, and that I would like to
learn something definite about the occurance that took place when the priest’s body
was reburied in his church. He was very
courteous and after asking me to be seated told me of the “Legend of Isleta”
Some 350 years ago the Mission Fathers of
the Catholic Church worked very hard to advance civilization among the
Indians. Father (blank) was a favorite
with a tribe he had converted, but while they were traveling overland, near
Santa Fe, they were attacked by a hostile tribe and their beloved Padre was
struck by a poisoned arrow, causing his death.
After the battle the survivors carried the body of the dead priest along
with them a distance of 60 or 70 mes – they settled at the place now known as
Isleta a short distance from the Rio Grande river. They cut down a huge
cottonwood tree, hewed out the center and placed the body of the martyred
priest inside. They then buried him
beneath the sands where they formed their village.
Because of the 4 page length of the letter, I will post the last two pages tomorrow. See you then . . . .
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