Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  Fred was surprised since his long absence to see the many changes in the town's landscape. Viewing Highway 83 earlier from the window of the bus, he thought the towns and the area looked ghostly. He had seen so many faded-out advertising signs, decaying, old, unpainted, boarded-up buildings, and vacant gas stations. He also saw the skeletons of old antique cars and shells of old trucks, left to the corruption of the elements. Vendors, who once had "ma and pa" small-shop groceries, had now gone by the wayside, becoming victims of the new federally built highway just north of Mercedes.

  The afternoon had already reached its final peak. The day had become a pewter-haze of heat waves, undulating along the hot pavement, giving the town an aloof, sleepy illusion that seemed to hang over the entire area. The sun was a bright glow, dropping slowly down, touching its rays over and beyond the few remaining palm trees. The old man was glad that he had not come during the hottest time of the year, known to the locals as the canícula. Those dog days had come and gone, along with their natural eternal misery—Texas dust.

  *****

  Fred looked toward the west, but it was to the west that he would have to struggle a quarter of a mile to the house where he had lived after his twelfth birthday. The mansion had been left to his only sister, Victoria, who was now dead. It was a house that, if its walls could speak, would tell of its own private skeletons in the closet. Had he not been sick and disoriented by age, he would have come earlier, if only he had known sooner of his sister's ill health. He had received the message of her passing almost a month ago. Oh God, he thought, it has been an exhausting trip and so many memories linger among the ethereal corners of this town.

  Regressing back in his mind, it was political motives and certain so-called citizens who had incriminated him and sealed his fate, completely destroying his life and his dreams for the future. Dear Lord, he thought, it has been so many years. He shuddered to think of that moment in time was the turning point in his ambitious career. He had been caught in a circle of political injustice and a spider web of conspiracy, creating a devastating impact on his family, especially his diplomat father— Ambassador of Goodwill, and Senator—who was left with a searing emotional scar that could never be erased. Because of his racially mixed blood and his upstanding character, Fred fled from the United States into Mexico, where he had remained for so many years, where questions were never asked.

  His homecoming was to pay his respects and visit Victoria's grave. His beloved sister had been beautiful, and yet so cunning in her own ruthless manner, but she had stood by him and fought for his name and dignity throughout his absence. It was Victoria who always seemed to understand his odd pattern of life. She comprehended his prodigal habits and unpredictable behavior. The Juelson's matriarch was dead, and Fred's future.

  *****

  Overtaken by a tremendous nostalgia, Fred's mind now regressed back to an era in time, a different dimension, and crossing over among the constellations of his youth. His weary eyes stared at the swaying palm trees as tears welled and blocked his view. He began experiencing a fuller unity with his soul and slowly went into a deep, sleeping trance.

  In his vision, he became as a child of ten, seeing the many joyous seasons of his youth. A strong pang of remorse ran throughout his soul, with unspeakable words going back to his childhood at Spanish Acres, his roots, the kingdom of his dreams. He remembered everything so vividly, registering the miracle of his existence, paralleling himself with other known organisms in this vast universe.

  The dawn of each day, with its innocent mornings, were like no other, as the gentleness of the early sun's rays crept over the great gulf of flatland, swirling mists and uncovering the earth. Out in the cactus brushwood, there was a sense of serenity, of oneness with the earthly universe, and it laughed with the joy of discovery. The blinding glare flirted with Fred's shadows embraced his perceptions, then laughed at his smiles; and yet, millions of atoms stirred in awe of the vast stillness. His clouds were always little desires of white cotton candy.

  But how great were the sunsets, like nowhere else. The sun at dusk was like the gentle kiss of twilight. And at no other place on earth did the evening star shine so large and bright.

  And then there were the long, hot summers, dog days, lazy days, wading in the creeks: heavenly bathing and swimming in the resaca, and jumping from a long rope into the water; running wildly barefooted through the cool, soft earth; chasing baby raccoons and watching them play; listening to the cooing of the morning doves and the singing of the playful mockingbirds—all etched indelibly in his memory. He remembered the longstanding, asinine jokes that brought tears of laughter to his eyes, and digging in burrows for tarantulas and throwing them to each another—shocking! He remembered playing with lizards and horny toads, and the simplicity of tadpoles in the streams after an early spring rain. The rhythmic singing of the cicadas was always a mystery, with their wide blunt head, droning their songs and laying eggs that would not hatch for thirteen years.

  But it was always amazing to him when the miracle of the fireflies came in the spring. The little fairies, he called them, sparkling love potions in a fantasy world of lost enchantment, radiating like the Fourth of July, like burning lanterns illuminating the darkest firmament, only for the sake of love and courtship. How wonderful were his memories full of foolishness, friendship, and exciting explorations. He was captivated by the multicolors of the rainbow. Why did the flowers bloom? Why did the moon shine at night? His world was full of magic, mysteries, and beautiful miracles. He was a knight in shining armor, the time of his innocence. Ivanhoe was his hero, the cathedral of his adolescent. Hell! With a pocketknife and a horse he could conquer almost anything. He was an important king in those days, chasing dreams in the kingdom of his youth, reveling in the happiness of his infallible life—innocent and unworried. He was rich in those days, and no child could have asked for more. And as for Hell, it was a fictional fable.

  It had all been so long ago. But the visions and memories he possessed and treasured would live with him forever. He became as a child again, remembering, regressing back and back…

  When I despair, I remember that all through history

  The ways of truth and love have always won.

  There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time

  They can seem invincible, but in the end, they always .

  Think of it, always...

  Mahatma Gandhi

  CHAPTER 1

  Spanish Acres - 1910

  The summer had been extremely hot and had come early like a young she-witch in heat, lingering and passionately cursing all that she touched. It had been an elongated dry season, with strong tide-winds off the Gulf continually blowing, contributing to the miserable, unbearable heat. A little rain was in sight, especially in the thorny, parched thickets of South Texas, the region where the majestic Rio Grande River divided two countries, carving its way from the northern Rocky Mountains and meandering in its long journey south. It was the river that had defied the times and the elements—magnificent as it was, ultimately dropping down below sea level, crashing its white breakers and disappearing forever into the immense Gulf of Mexico.

  The ranchers in the adjoining areas speculated with great concern that perhaps a long drought was at hand. They had not seen a drop of moisture for several months and the countryside depended on water. The lower Rio Grande Valley was a fertile land that God had given and now had seemingly forgotten, always holding humanity at bay amidst untamed animals, insects, scorpions, rattlers, mesquite, and cactus.

  The new century was welcomed with its new technologies, but at the same time overwhelming to the population with the coming of electricity and automobiles, making people nervous. It ended the horse-and-buggy era, and it was feared blacksmiths would be put out of work. The Industrial Revolution had begun and it brought the concept of western thought, controlled by a money-oriented universal view. Orville and Wilbur Wright had made their first successful airplane flight, and the construction of
the Panama Canal had just begun. William H. Taft had just been elected President. Haley's Comet had appeared brightly on the horizon as an appalling warning sign. The Mexican people, with superstitious awe, saw it as an evil message—"a bad omen," they would say, gazing toward the heavens. They gossiped in anticipation, making the sign of the cross and remarking: "Dios mío! What is this world coming to?"

  The year had been interspersed with sparks and whispers from stargazers, witches, great prophets, and psychics predicting an upcoming event—a war so devastating that the whole world and all of the mankind would be affected. The mood was now becoming threatening, and folks gazed toward the heavens for signs. What was this great prophecy?

  On a hot, blistering day in the latter part of August of the same year, Don Federico Juelson was heading back to his ranch called Spanish Acres, the famous cattle ranch known throughout the land as one of the most prosperous in the region, several miles north of the village of La Villa.

  The intensity of the white rays was beating down on him as if a dozen of cactus needles pierced throughout his entire body. It had become a day of wilting heat, worse than any other so far. The sky had become an almond silver haze, with almost no color. It was an unusual day for this part of the country, for there was no wind. Rivulets of perspiration poured down his back and forehead, and his bronzed face glistened as his soaked jacket clung to his flesh. The strong daily breeze that had been there as long as he could remember did not exist today. He kept thinking that perhaps it was a great cosmic, solar turbulence in the dense air, and he became conscious more of a puzzle that stirred his imagination as though by some weird tide—it was eerie. There was no doubt, the day was strange. There was no breeze, only the awed silence. But, nature did funny things; nature was unstable, lacking consistency in this part of the country, and often gave no reasonable logic. Stillness always came before the storm.

  "Vámonos, muchachos!" he commanded. "The sun is already at high noon, and it's too hot for branding. Turn the mavericks loose. We'll finish up tomorrow." Don Federico mounted his horse, turned his head, and gave his foreman an order. "Have some of the boys ride up to the southeast side and check to see if the barbed wire is still holding on that fence that needs fixing. I do not want any trouble with Don Esquibel because of my livestock getting onto his land."

  Roy Dale nodded, tipped his hat in acknowledgment, and then replied, "We'll shore do, patrón."

  The air was becoming oppressive, and without the breeze, the heat was unbearable. Don Federico's beautiful black stallion, El Chulo, moved restlessly under him. "J.D., come on boy!" he called out for his five-year-old German shepherd wandering in the jungle of dense cacti. The odor of smothered mesquite embers lingered in the stillness amidst the silence of the vast desolate, prickly undergrowth, along with the stench of burned cowhides hanging heavy in the stagnate air. The branding irons and the water wagon were left standing for the following day.

  Half an hour on the trail back home the Don stopped for a moment and grabbed his water canteen. He rested long enough to wipe the sweat off his forehead, took several sips, and got off his horse. He then took off his Stetson, filled it with water, and gave some to El Chulo. The magnificent animal had been given to him as a gift several years ago by his wife's parents living in Monterrey, Mexico. He then patted his horse's neck as a sign of reassurance and rubbed his forehead. "It won't be long, boy. We'll be home, soon," he whispered. El Chulo snorted, nodded his head and stomped the ground with one hoof as if he understood what was being said.

  While Don Federico mounted his horse, J.D. appeared out of nowhere, stood at attention for a moment, and then barked. The black and tan dog wagged his tail and stood still as if waiting for a command from his master. His bright eyes and pointed ears always displayed a cheerful disposition. His quick, boundless energy and his curious wit were always getting him into mischief. He barked again.

  "Okay, I hear you," answered Don Federico. "Where you been? Chasing rabbits, I suppose. Well, that's okay. Head for home, boy! Let's go home, boys!" he said loud and clear. J.D. gave a sharp yelp and jumped yards in front of him, taking the narrow path that leads to the hacienda. Don Federico adjusted his gauntlets, took hold of the reins, and tapped his horse with his stirrups. "C’mon let's go!" he shouted. "Let's head for home!"

  It had been like this all of his life—the hardest weather in the world, with only two seasons. The hot summers were like opening the ovens of Hell, devouring everything that lived with their scorching heat. The other season was the short winter months, which were much different from winters up north. In this region, it poured rain. But amidst it all, there was a special, magnetic, scenic beauty that only the eye of the beholder could capture. The lowing of the cattle, the flash of a fleeing whitetail deer, the howling of a lonely coyote, the dangerous confrontation with the javelinas or wild boars, and the twittering of the mockingbirds never tired him. And in the early spring, when the arroyos ran swift and full with runoff, the blooming of the cactus flowers was a magical, botanical splendor.

  Thousands of longhorn and whiteface cattle roamed, carrying the brand "J." It was, perhaps, the only good thing that could be produced in this torrid area. Many called it, "The hind-end of all creation." Although Don Federico's heart was saddened by the memory that both his parents were now dead, this piece of land was now his legacy and birthright, his own private world.

  The dispute over the southwestern boundary had caused the war between Mexico and the United States, which was terminated with the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848. An ordinance of secession was passed on February 1, 1861, but Texas was restored to the Union on March 30, 1870. When all of the squabblings ended and the dust had settled, the boundary line became the Rio Grande River, which divided the two countries, the beginning of ‘roots of indifference.’

  Don Federico's father, George Albert Juelson, was half Scotch-Irish. The other part was shrouded in mystery that was never disclosed. Eloquent, arrogant, and proud, George Juelson would never talk about his licentious past and would get violently angry, and downright quarrelsome when questioned. Nobody dared to ask him; nobody would talk about his background. All that was known about his father was that he had been a general in the northern states, had grown tired of the military actions and abhorred the government rules, orders, and regulations.

  George Juelson had left the Cumberland Gap area of the U.S. before the Civil War had broken out. He wandered into Texas with a Saratoga trunk full of money in search of adventure after hearing wild tales of the south border region. Stories about the Alamo, and his heroes, Daniel Boone, Sam Houston, and Stephen Austin had always intrigued him and became his siren call. He was a visionary, skillful, and with his intelligence would no doubt have a great destiny. Ah! It was those brilliant early mornings and those luminous evenings, the freedom of vast virgin spaces, land unconquered—this meant everything to him.

  Southern Texas was truly a man's country. "A place where you could be your own man, and do what you pleased," George Juelson would say. "Hell! You could even belch, fart out loud, and take a shit out in the middle of the open spaces, and nobody would give a damn," he exclaimed. Heaven's country with good Mexican-American people—and wasn't this part of Texas attached to the United States? That in itself was playing your cards right.

  It was not long after George Juelson settled in this strange untamed world that he began courting the pious, aristocratic Maria Elena Ballon. Within two years they were married. She was twenty years his junior and came with a drop or two of sophisticated Spanish blueblood. From her dowry, given to her by her grandparents, La Señora Ballon drew several land grants just north of the Llano Grande. The majority of the land covered many acres north of La Villa in Hidalgo County and into adjoining Cameron and Willacy County.

  Coming into a wealthy landowner's family, Maria Elena Ballon was born on a large ranch north of Brownsville and had studied at the Convent of the Incarnate Word Academy. Her great-grandfather, Antonio Ballon, was a
nobleman, a military man under the Spanish conquistadors. And by serving the King of Spain, he was awarded allotments of large tracts of land called porciones. Antonio Ballon's family helped colonize the area in 1800, and they owned thousands of acres in the early days.

  George Juelson had acquired other parcels of land by wild gambling, which he enjoyed doing as a hobby, and by buying cheap land. Many had called him an entrepreneur because of his aggressive nature, and his shrewd instincts in building a cattle empire and a name for himself and for his future children. He was a man not weighed down by tradition or confined by religion, and it was one of the many reasons he had left the northern states to begin a new, excitingly different life and to be free.

  The trail in front of Don Federico had become hazy. He found himself on top of an undulating hill and riding down from the sloping hill, he began dodging limbs, riding side to side, back and forth, trusting his horse to traverse the right track, evading the deep arroyos. The heart of mesquite country, the area was called the great brasada by the Mexican vaqueros. It was an uncivilized jungle full of an armada of dense cejas, thorn thickets; the retama chino, the wild currant; the argarita; and ocotillos. The prickly pear grew as tall as a man on a horse, alongside el chaparral prieto, rattail Spanish dagger, Junco, and so much more that required minimal moisture.

  A man unfamiliar with the terrain and not knowing his direction could easily become distracted and lost. Many a vaquero had lost his life in the thorny area, and for days, sometimes months and years, their bodies were never found. In late 1882, the remains of a Catholic Oblate priest, Father Kerelum, were found by some of the vaqueros rounding up stray cattle. It was apparent that the old priest had gotten disoriented, had poor eyesight and lost his way in the untamed and harsh brasada.