We Were Here

I am going to be ok.

The signs are everywhere.

Relief rolls over me as I settle into my seat near the window of the dimly lit bar and pull out my laptop.

I am nursing a $1 beer from a plastic cup as I watch snow fall on “The Blue Cow”. I am eye level with a stuffed armadillo, wearing a cowboy hat and holding a Loan Star Beer in its up-turned feet.

I text my mother a quick rundown of the current scene in response to her asking whether I've settled into my new place. Her reply, "Only you would see these things as a sign that your life is going right..."

The responsible, oldest child from a moderately dysfunctional home, I had a weekend job immediately upon turning 16, kept up my grades, joined the military straight out of high school and then straight to college after my enlistment. Always a plan, always a next step.

I recognize that the current predicament in which I find my 30- year -old self has veered so far from the course that my 20- year -old self painstakingly plotted, that it is hard to believe this is a chapter of the same life.

My best friend is texting to ask about the new room I'm renting. I copy and paste her the same synopsis I sent mom. "Its a sign! I'm so freaking happy for you. This is going to be so good. I can't wait to come up and see the place." I smile and thank God for my tribe.

Drinking cheap beer with a stuffed armadillo for company. An empty bank account, a failed marriage, and everything I own in the back of my Nissan Sentra. I’m watching the snow fall against the glow of a blue-neon cow, alone in a tiny mountain resort town and I know I am going to be ok. I’m going to be amazing.

An hour later I give up on wasting time online and start back to the bed and breakfast where I've secured a room for the remainder of the winter season. It really is a miracle that I found the place, found the town really. The one adorable mountain town in Colorado that makes its money on Summer Tourists and not snow bunnies.

I am not anxious to return to my quirky new home and the task of unpacking and settling in. I've spent the past 2 months living with my best friend and her two year old daughter. It was my safe, happy but never quiet place. I was immediately overwhelmed by the peaceful solitude of my new place. Like the proverbial kid dropped off at camp watching mom and dad drive away. Excited by the prospect of the new adventure, terrified at the prospect of taking the first step.

I spot the only establishment outside of the bar still open at 5pm on a Sunday. A cluttered, unassuming antique store on my walk "home". I couldn't have asked for a better distraction.

Nestled on the main street, it looks out of place among the trendy boutiques and restaurants. I am both intrigued and impressed that this eclectic hole in the wall has held its place in the middle of what is clearly prime real estate.

There are no posted hours but the door is open and lights are on so I timidly step in side. I'm surprised to see the owner of the only local Bed&Breakfast, and my new land lord, peeking up over the pile of old news papers on the counter.

I say, "hello", and ask if they are open as Lila beckons me in with the same mix of enthusiasm and blunt pragmatism that I've become accustomed to over our past two weeks of correspondence. "The door is open and the lights are on aren't they? I'm not going to lock you in and I'll tell you to get out when I'm ready to close. Have fun, poke around and tell me if you find something good, I'll tell you if its for sale or not."

More storage place for old things than a store, the street facing facade and main room look to be straight off the set of an old western. Built in the mid 1800's, I'm sure it served as something like a general store or apothecary. The shopkeeper and family no doubt lived upstairs and ran their business from the elaborately decorated front room that opened up right onto the main thoroughfare.

Stepping through the threshold from the front room into what would have been the family kitchen, I can almost smell the stew bubbling on the wood burning cook stove that hasn't moved from it's place in 120 years. The ornate front door and elaborate fireplace in the front of the building are completely at odds with the solidly comfortable and practical nature that I find in the rest of the space.

A lover of all things "old" I feel awash with mingled excitement and sadness as I quietly explore the space. I feel like an intruder whose walked into some one's home uninvited.

Lila calls out to say the light switch is on the back wall if I want to go up stairs, there's lots to "get into" if I'm not afraid of dust.

My cheeks flush when she calls to me again to ask if I'm ok and assure me that there is nothing up there that's ever grabbed anyone. I'm half way up the staircase and realize Lila is sorting through boxes just on the other side of the wall, where she can obviously hear my slow timid steps up the creaking stair case.

Safely at the top of the narrow stair case, I find myself on a platform joining 3 small, but packed bedrooms. One facing the river to the back of the property and two that over look the street. While the kitchen is a perfectly preserved sample of 19th century domesticity, the scene before me now is as overwhelming as it is fascinating. The rooms on the second floor seem to serve as period appropriate storage units for anything that may have been produced and procured in the years during and since the home was last occupied.

After a quick survey of my options, I settle on the room in the back with the biggest window. I click the old push button light switch with no response. Oh well, an excuse for future trips to this treasure trove during day light hours. I turn back to the front two bedrooms across the hall. Identical in size and layout, I am drawn more to the room on my left. More crowded and less organized than my first choice but the ancient knob and tube powered lights pop to life when I push the button.

I run my hands over old clothes, a beautiful copper kettle that I pick up immediately, deciding it is an obviously foolish purchase, as I presently have no kitchen, I reluctantly put it back where I found it. I gently lift a dusty old pill box hat from the 1940's and suddenly miss my grandmother so much that my eyes prick with tears. I place it gingerly on my head and admire myself in the hazy mirror of the wooden wardrobe. I look great in it. I was made for the fashion of another time. I'm brave but not brave in a reviving fashion trends kind of way. I collect old hats and clothes that I think make me look pretty and hope they come back in vogue making me look fashion forward and smart. I'm debating whether I can justify spending some of my meager savings on this longshot fashion investment when a pile of books on a roll top desk catch my eye in the reflection.

I place the hat back in it's place and pick my way over boxes to the desk. A tiny, purse sized address book full of had scrawled names and addresses, a library book stamped from a local school circa 1940 and a well worn but simple, plain black book, with no cover markings or print on its spine.

Intrigued l, I turn to the first entry, my jaw drops in surprised delight. November 17,1888 in an ornate, but easily legible scroll in the upper right hand corner of the page. My birthday - minus 90 years.

I'm only a little embarrassed to acknowledge my immediate impulse to stuff the journal in my coat for fear of Lila telling me it is "not for sale". I skim the book just enough to see it is a handwritten journal before carefully picking my way through the jumble and back down to the front room, clicking lights off as I go.

Lila is bent over cursing to herself as she rummages a box when I interrupt to ask her about the book. "Lord, take it if you want it. You can leave it at the house or bring it back when you're done with it if it turns out to be crap." Her expression and tone imply that if I am pathetic enough to read the 100 year old journal of a stranger I probably had more money than sense, anyway, but as long as I could pay her rent she didn't care.

I nearly jog the rest of the way to the house. I resolve not to read any part of the journal before I can commit my full attention to the task. “Moving in” to my new space consists of dragging two suitcases and a plastic garbage bag stuffed with my favorite pillow and other random items to my second- floor room of the "Morrison Inn".

There are no keys, as the doors are never locked. There is no lease to sign. There is a black box anchored to the wall where I am to leave the rent on the first of each month that I intend to stay. There will be no other guests as she closes the Bed and Breakfast for the winter. If we get along ok, I am welcome here until May.

I organize my toiletries and hang my work clothes with the urgency and enthusiasm of a child finishing chores in exchange for extra time in front of the TV.

By 7:30 I have moved a floor lamp from across the room to my bed side and climbed into a cozy position, glass of red wine in hand. I am actually nervous and can't quite say why. In the mood for self- indulgence not self-evaluation, I decide not to think any more today and gently open the black book.

November 17,1888

For the memory of Hazel, Elizabeth, Sallie and Jack. We were here, you were happiness. I vowed avenge you. Before my memories have left me and you are gone forever, I write so that you will live on.

Holy shit, I am so here for this.

By midnight, I am at once exhausted and invigorated.

Cursing the house for lack of Wi-Fi, I pull on my Uggs and venture back across the street to the now crowded bar around 9pm. Perched at the same tiny table in the corner next to the armadillo, I'm googling names, places and events that have held me captivated all evening.

Amelia Alexander's words offer more than an anecdotal glimpse of a bygone era. The intimacy and grace of her writing bring her people to life in a way that is almost magical.

A little more than half way through the journal. I can hear Hazel's infections laugh, and Elizabeth's bell like voice, taste Sallie's cooking and feel the sense of protective love radiating from Jack's gaze as he smiles at her across their kitchen table. It's as if I see them in memory rather than through words on a page.

The fact that this unlikely group lived out the pages of the book so near my home town is mind boggling. I refuse to read ahead, even though I am burning with curiosity to know the circumstances that brought this book along the same path to our common destination.

History was always my favorite subject in school. I even chose American History as an elective in college. I'd grown up reading every historical marker I encountered. Exploring and photographing old buildings and homes at every opportunity. Deep in the heart of West Texas, there were "Wild West" era forts and train depots and grand old courthouses in the center of even the smallest town. An amateur historian himself, my grandfather indulged my curiosity at every opportunity. With every mention of a familiar place I am more intrigued.

Lila and I connected right away over our common connection to family roots in Texas, so I am convinced that the book must be some heirloom that made it's way here with her and her family when they bought this property in the 1950's. I decide not to ask her until I've read more.

Dreading an early morning I make my way back to the house and crawl into my toasty warm bed under the watchful gaze of 53 bird paintings. I still think there is no hope of turning off my racing mind long enough to get any sleep. My 8am alarm is pinging away on the bedside table before I even realize I've closed my eyes.

This new commute is glorious. For the past month I've been leaving the house at 6am to make the 90 mile drive to my job in Lakewood, Co from Colorado Springs. Until my first paycheck was in hand, I could barely afford the gas to make the round-trip every day, let alone find a place to rent near by.

Concerned about me driving back and forth with bad weather in the forecast, my boss offered a $500 advance on my paycheck. I've never cried at work, but that was a near thing.

That afternoon, I was out to visit a client site in an adorable, out of the way town just in the foothills between the steeper Rocky Mountains and the Eastern Plains and took a wrong turn that dead ended a few houses past the Inn. There was a hand written "room for rent" sign on the door so I parked and knocked. A week later, I was unpacked, 10 short, scenic minutes from work.

I have decided not to allow myself more than 2-3 pages a night, in an effort to make the adventure last longer. It reads like a novel but is written in dated, sporadically timed page entries like a journal. The adventure so far, has offered a roller coaster of grief, empathy, hateful ignorance, injustice, vindication and perseverance and more than anything, love. I am coming to dread learning what ultimately unravels to inspire the ominous foreword.

The beginning is heart wrenching, but the light at the end of the tunnel seems to grow brighter every day for the writer.

When the fever first struck, Amelia assumed it was just fatigue from weeks of travel and adventuring with a small child, Amelia convinces James to disembark their train for an extended stay in a West Texas Town on the Santa Fe Rail Line. James and the baby's symptoms quickly worsen and claim their lives within days. In a haze, Amelia buries her family in the local cemetery. A week later an ignorant and callous hotelier essentially threw the young grieving widow out on the street assuming that without her husband, she had no ability to pay. Fortuitously the madam of a local bordello witnesses the exchange. A keen eye and appreciation for the finer things in life, Genevieve Malone assessed that Amelia's thin and bedraggled appearance was at odds with her fine clothing, exquisite jewelry and sturdy luggage.

Amelia had been stung by the hypocrisy of the local "proper church ladies" when seeking help for her husband and child as their conditions worsened. Their unwillingness to risk illness on their own families by taking them in, she could understand. Their unwillingness to offer support in the form of the most basic necessities a hot meal, cool water, clean linens, made it clear that she was an unwelcomed outsider, doomed to face her unfolding tragedy alone.

Now the same dour faced towns folk pretended not to watch as she was ousted in tears on the streets of a harsh and unfamiliar town. The person who came to her rescue was a lavishly dressed red haired woman with a gentle but strong voice. Amelia barely heard the woman as she introduced herself as Ms. Genevieve Malone, owner of a comfortable local establishment that would be honored to accommodate her for the duration of her stay in the area. Amelia was being coaxed out of her sweat stained clothes - how long had she been in the same clothes?- and into a steaming bath before she had time or energy to question where she was.

Amelia soaked in a tub of warm, rose scented water while a young woman washed and combed her hair, humming and singing gently as she did so. Later, she would come to know Elizabeth as one of the bravest most passionate women she would ever meet, blessed with the voice of an angel and the temperament of a mother grizzly bear.

As she slowly came out of her fog, Amelia took a moment to consider what the long term social consequences of a stay in a brothel may be. It only took another moment to concluded that she simply didn't care.

She was well educated and had grown up well provided for, but her father had not been a wealthy man. When she stole the heart of a man from high-society with a very wealthy family, his parents and siblings had been polite but never warm. Her husband had adored her and no one else mattered.

Rare for his time and upbringing, he treated her as an equal and encouraged her thirst for knowledge and travel. He loved spoiling her with fine jewelry and clothing, which to her surprise, she became quite accustomed to. Aside from her stunning rich-orange Imperial Topaz engagement ring, which never left her hand, she saved other jewelry for special occasion. James teased that he liked buying gems and it would cause a scandal if he gave it to some one else. She teased back that this was why she had given him a daughter, 10 more fingers to buy rings for. He bought his daughter's first necklace when she was 4 months old, a stunning peridot pendant. Her mother would wear it until she was old enough. Now Amelia wears all of the jewelry, all of the time. A homage to the two of them, the only remaining evidence they had ever been in the world. Had been her whole world.

Back in the 21st Century, my days were busy but evenings were empty and slow. I was happy when the weather starting improving and daylight hours were lasting longer. I took long hikes through the mountains after work and always found myself mulling over the stories that sent me to sleep each night.

I understand more every day why Amelia was compelled to leave behind her own story for Elizabeth, Hazel, Sallie and Jack. People in their world would look past them and do their best to pretend they weren't there. History would do the same.

Elizabeth and Hazel shared similar stories of selfish patriarchy that ended in tragedy. Both married off young to men more than 20 years their senior for the financial or business benefit of their fathers. After failing to produce a child after 5 years of marriage, 20 year old Hazel was left at the near by fort, her husband never returning for her. Another common story in the life of women at the time. Who would ever know that she was fluent in French, was as skilled a midwife as any trained physician and had a smile that could light a room with the infectious laugh to match. She had been her mother's pride and joy and the blue eyed sweetheart of every boy she'd met since she was 5.

Elizabeth's marriage had a similar beginning, but she was the one who had left her husband. So young and innocent she had been completely unwilling to share her new husband's bed. He was patient for a time however it was made clear that it was no longer an option, so she stole away by cover of night. When her parents refused to take her back in, she simply ran away. Talented and beautiful in a mysterious kind of way, she supported herself performing in dance halls and cabarets. Genevieve took her in after finding her raped and beaten nearly to death in the street behind her building. Once recovered, she trained herself to become exceptionally deadly with a blade and would not hesitate to use it for her own defense or in defense or anyone else in need.

Anyone who knew Sallie and Jack's story labeled them adulterers. Anyone who took the time to know them rather than the facts of their story knew no man ever loved a woman more and no woman deserved more love. Jack had fallen in love with Sallie working as a hand on her husband's ranch. He wouldn't even speak to her directly for fear of his inability to hold in his feelings. Her husband had always been hateful but when their only son left to join the army he became increasingly abusive. Jack made a habit of keeping close and one night it saved Sallie's life. Unable to wed legally, the two were happy just to be together working side by side in a place where no one asked questions and they could fuss over and take care of the house and "girls".

An interesting omission to the stories was "customers". The group is introduced as prostitutes, albeit by necessity not choice, but prostitutes just the same. There is never any mention of such business conducted through any of the journal after 6 months of entries.

Amelia was clearly wealthy, but never claims to be supporting the household and the other women would have little means aside from prostitution to support the modest, but comfortable lifestyle described.

Additionally, after the first two entries, the madam of the house, Ms. Genevieve Malone is never mentioned.

The journal was written from the perspective of nearly 50 years in the future and I wonder if the author is simply choosing to record her most precious memories from life shared with her "chosen family". I mean, does one really need to describe what happens in a brothel? By contrast, quaint family dinners and home made Christmas ornaments are more surprising for the setting.

The shift happens in the reading as suddenly as it must have in life. The end is as violent as it is surprising. There was not time to react and mercifully little time for fear when the men kick in the door to the kitchen just as the group is sitting down for supper on a beautiful autumn night in early October. Amelia only heard Elizabeth's screams following the first of 4 gunshots. For the rest of her life she would never forgive herself for staying locked out of sight in the out-house, frozen by fear while her world was obliterated for a second time.

There were only 4 more pages following the telling of that night.

Amelia would discover the murders were meant to send a message to Genevieve and her outlaw husband. Apparently, the pair owned 3 brothels spread across west Texas between Abilene and the Mexican border, each serving as a means for laundering the money from Mr. Malone's illegal exploits. The assassins were cohorts who felt they had been double crossed. They killed all inhabitants at each house as gesture of warning and retaliation.

The last page in the journal was simply a list, akin to a macabre address book. The page was titled, "Your Turn Today"

6 names, including aliases, date of death, detailed location of burial and to conclude each entry, description of a piece of jewelry.

The first two names on the list were Genevive and Carson Malone. Buried, Jacksonville Oregon, 6-i & j, December, 1902. Amilie's Peridot.

I felt more than a little guilty carrying the box of my personal items out of my office at the conclusion of my last day on the job. The opportunity had been such a blessing and they desperately wanted me to stay. Even encouraged me to just take a sabbatical and they would hold my position so I could come back after a few weeks off. In the end I decided the right thing for me was to move on altogether when my time at the "Inn" concluded.

I felt strong and energetic, the best version of myself that had ever existed, and ready for a new adventure. I had accepted an entry level job believing it would get me closer to the job of my dreams at an advertising firm in Las Angeles. I had negotiated a start date that would give me 6 weeks to take some time off and get settled.

Jacksonville, Oregon would be my last stop on before heading down the coast to California. First thing tomorrow morning, I would head for Angus Cemetery, Alto, New Mexico to visit the final resting place of one Martin Nelson, shot 1886, Citrine Broach.

Citrine is my birthstone after all. I am certain it is a sign.