~Rose Of The Rio Grande ~

by

Jeannine D. Van Eperen

The rickety, old Continental bus coughed and hiccupped as it snaked up the steep mountain grade. The narrow dirt road wound endlessly between pine and aspen ever upward, then suddenly the trees were gone, revealing only a wide expanse of wasteland, and land falling away beside the road, revealing vistas of the valley far below.

Rose felt shaky, almost in panic, the only passenger left on the ancient bus, when the land finally flattened and she saw a small village in the distance, its adobe buildings blending into the brown desert surrounding her. The hot August sun was blazing brightly in a cloudless blue sky, and Rose’s throat and mouth were parched from thirst. She felt grimy from the dust that rose from the narrow road and sifted into the bus through the open windows.

The year of 1933 found the country in the midst of economic chaos, millions were unemployed, many more destitute. Rose’s family had lost all of their money and property in the Wall Street Crash of 1929. Her father suffered a debilitating heart attack and died after learning his company was bankrupt, his savings wiped out that year, but Rose’s mother insisted Rose finish her last year of college at the Teacher’s Institute of Illinois. “It is already paid for,” her mother said. “And perhaps schools are still hiring teachers.” Rose graduated that following June but jobs were scarce. Anyone who had a job hung onto it for dear life, so Rose floundered, taking whatever job she managed to find as did her mother--usually temporary jobs. No longer did Rose live in a neat brick bungalow in Evanston, but in a tiny, two-room apartment in Chicago that she shared with her mother.

Rose worked for a few weeks during the Christmas seasons at Marshall Field’s selling first ribbons, then gloves, and then chocolates before the Christmas rush ended and there was no more work. Her mother found a few weeks from time to time working in a factory making envelopes. When she was lucky, Rose was called in as a replacement teacher for a day or two, but no offer of a permanent job came her way, until now.

When Rose was told about the job she now traveled to, she was afraid to let her spirits rise. Surely, with the shortage of teaching jobs, many applied for it. Somehow, providence smiled at her and she was selected. It was a red-letter day in her life, and she was pleased, gratified that her prayers were answered.

Her mother was not in favor of her daughter traveling so far away to a place so alien from Chicago, and even inquired, “Is New Mexico part of the United States?”

Rose laughed and calmed her mother’s fears as best she could, assuring her that it wasn’t a foreign country but had been a state since 1912. “It is a church run school in a small village. Housing is provided, and I should be able to send something home each month for you, Mama,” Rose said bravely, pushing her own fears to the recesses of her mind. “I must take the position. There is no other choice.”

So here she sat alone, fighting fear of the unknown, tired beyond words from days of traveling, changing from one bus to another, from bus to train, and from train to bus, from the verdant green countryside of Illinois and Missouri, through the dust bowls of Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, and into the arid wasteland of New Mexico. Now she had left the plains, and ventured ever higher into pine-filled mountains, with air crystal clear, sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky, and for all she knew or could see she may as well be in a foreign country. Many signs she saw were in Spanish, and most of the people who came on and off the bus spoke Spanish. Rose fought down a frightened giggle. She had to get hold of herself. After traveling so far, it would not do to panic.

The narrow road winded between low, flat-roofed, adobe buildings and led into the large, dirt, square plaza.

“Rio Encanto, señorita,” the driver said.

Rose hesitated momentarily, and looked from side to side, lamenting her decision to wander into the unknown. The square appeared deserted except for a horse tied to a hitching post, just like in Western movies she’d seen. Breathing deeply for courage, she stood up and walked down the narrow aisle, and stepped off of the bus. The driver put her luggage on a wooden porch, indicating to her that she was at the bus depot. Rose looked at the small mercantile and saw a cardboard sign, “Bus,” in the window. She thanked the driver and offered him a gratuity. She had little money left, but felt he deserved a quarter. From what she heard of a conversation he had with another passenger, he was the father of seven.

A group of laughing children ran into the plaza, looked at the bus and dashed away. With a smile, Rose thought, I’ve arrived. Children are the same the world over. These were some of the children she’d soon teach.

Rose reached down to check that she had all three of her suitcases, and the paper sack containing a dress she bought in Albuquerque. The sales woman at the shop in the Alvarado Hotel assured her, it was the style the women wore in New Mexico. Rose could ill afford the three dollars it cost, but she had not bought a new dress in three years, and the temptation was too great.

When Rose looked up again, she and the bus were completely surrounded. Men and women gathered around jabbering in their own language and peering at her. Turquoise jewelry hung in abundance around their necks and arms. Small dark-haired, dark-eyed children danced around, laughing and pointing.

An inquisitive Indian woman stuck her face directly in front of Rose’s. Rose shrank back. Several of the woman’s teeth were missing and blackened gums gaped from between full lips. The garlic on the woman’s breath escaped from her open mouth and permeated the hot air around her.

As Rose took a step back, she noticed that the woman had two of the largest hunks of turquoise Rose had ever seen hanging from her ears, fastened through the lobes with store twine. In fascination Rose stared at the woman’s ears, forgetting her fears for the moment.

The woman reached over and gingerly touched Rose’s hair. “Muy bonita,” the woman murmured.

Across the plaza, the church door opened and a portly, happy-faced priest came out. Another male figure, holding a Stetson, stood behind the priest, but did not follow the priest down the stairs. After saying a few words to the men and women, the priest greeted Rose.

“Welcome, my child.”

“This is Rio Encanto?”

“Yes, Rio Encanto.” The priest smiled. “I’m Father Miguel.”

Rose shook hands with the jovial-looking priest, but her eyes glanced up and saw that the man in the church doorway still watched. An amused grin spread across his handsome face. I must look a sight, she thought as her hands trembled as she pushed her bedraggled, curly, red hair back from her face and under her navy cloche hat where it belonged. With a slight smile she said, “I am at the right place then.”

“If you are looking for Rio Encanto, you have found it. How may I direct you? I saw you standing here. I have been waiting for someone, but it looks like I must wait another day or two for Mr. Shaw.”

“Mr. Shaw?” Rose frowned. “I’m Miss Rozanne Shaw, Father Miguel, and I’ve been hired as a teacher here. Where may I find Michael Romero?”

“I am Miguel Romero.” The priest frowned. He shook his head. “There is some mistake. I am expecting a Ross Shaw from Chicago.”

Rose giggled nervously. “No, Father. Rose Shaw from Chicago.” She smiled brightly. “Here I am.”

The priest shook his head, and said soberly, “I didn’t expect a young woman.”

Rozanne drew herself up. After traveling so many days and so far, she wasn’t about to be given the brush-off and sent packing. “I have my signed contract in my purse, Father, and I intend to teach school here. I’m not used to turning back.”