With a sick wife in Washington, Poston needed a source of steady income. Although he was a man who had met and known the rich and famous of the world, the only appointment that was offered him was the position of Register of Land in Florence, Arizona. Florence had a population of 500 when Poston arrived. He worked in a small adobe room at a modest salary and was to remain there for the next four lonely years. There was little to interest a man who had lived in such exciting capitals as Washington, D.C., and London. He wrote a book. He took to exploring the area.
One day he noticed a hill whose shape was reminiscent of an Egyptian pyramid. On that hill he found the ruins of a stone tower. Poston began to wonder if those ruins were not the product of some ancient Indians, the forebears of the Hohokam, perhaps even the Aztecs, who had brought the religion of Zoroaster and the worship of the sun to Florence thousands of years ago.
If this was so, perhaps the fates had brought him back to Arizona, to this tiny insignificant place, because of his knowledge of that eastern religion. Was he meant to discover, to recreate, to bring back to full flourishing the ancient practices of Sunworshipping? He built a road up to the tower on the hill at his own expense. He wrote to the Shah of Persia to enlist his help in recreating in this Arizona desert a temple to the Shah’s ancestors who worshipped Zoroaster. He wrote articles publicizing his findings, hoping to encourage those who might wish to follow this religion and help support his efforts.
He entertained in a home he had built beside his hill. He invited all his friends to come and celebrate his vision. He would build a temple of the sun at the apex of the hill. Champagne was drunk, gourmet food was eaten, fireworks lit up the midnight sky, the flag to the sun was raised, a new community of worshippers was to begin.
But funds were not forthcoming. The Parsees showed little interest in a temple in a distant desert far across an ocean. His ability to excite others with his vision waned. It was too strange a dream, too mystifying, too far outside the realism of life in Arizona. Discouraged, he resigned from the land office commission.
The next years of Poston’s life found him employed as a customs officer at various settlements along the Mexican border. At one point, he was placed in charge of an agricultural experiment station in Phoenix. But the promise of his early opportunities brought nothing more than a slow and steady decline in prestige, position and the acquisition of money.
Arizona, the place he had helped to birth, gradually forgot about him in his old age. He would eventually live in Phoenix in near squalor until the legislature, having become aware of his straitened circumstances, presented him with a modest pension of $25 a month.
Charles Poston died in June of 1902. At 75 years of age, he was totally alone. The Father of Arizona had been forgotten by all. His body lay unclaimed in Phoenix as attempts were made to locate relatives. Burial in the local potters’ field seemed to be imminent. Then the editor of the Arizona Republican wrote an article asking the pioneers and citizens of Phoenix to help. Hundreds offered to help in the funeral arrangements.
Twenty-three years after his death, the citizens of Arizona decided to honor the man whose own life was so completely intertwined with Arizona’s history. What more fitting honor could be bestowed than to acknowledge his last great vision. A small stone pyramid tomb was created on top of his peaceful hill in Florence. His remains were transferred there. Now Charles Poston can forever rest in the sun that shines so steadily on the land he helped to establish.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Gressinger, A. W., Charles Poston, Sunland Seer , Dale Stuart King, Publisher, Globe, Arizona, 1961.
Hall, Sharlot, “The Father of Arizona,” Arizona, The New State Magazine , Volume II. Number 10, Phoenix, Arizona, August 1912.
Poston, Charles D., “Building a State in Apache Land,” four articles, Overland Monthly , July 1894, August 1894, September 1894, October 1894, Volume XXVI, Numbers 39–42, Overland Publishing Company, San Francisco. Edited by Rounsevelle Wildman.
Smith, Dale, “Sonoran Camelot,” Arizona Trend, Volume 3, Number 12. Phoenix. Arizona, August 1989.
Wagoner, Jay J., Arizona’s Heritage, Peregrine Smith, Inc., Santa Barbara and Salt Lake City, 1977.
Slim Woman and the Navajos
Many years ago, Slim Woman came to the land of the Navajos. It was a strange, beautiful desert land, filled with big red rocks and great, wide, sky-blue places. Slim Woman was only two years old when she arrived in the Southwest, a child of a pioneer family called the Wades. Her family called her Louisa. At night, her mother put little Louisa’s bed on the floor of the cabin below the window, safe from Indian bullets. When she woke up at night there was always the shadow of the guard and his gun. Little Louisa knew they were not safe from the Indians. She knew of their anger at these settlers, who had come to stay and to fence in their Indian land.
Slim Woman loved this land of desert, mountain and meadow. She enjoyed picking wildflowers for her mother. As a little girl, she remembered not only her mother’s pleasure in receiving her gift but also her constant words of caution. “Louisa, never wander far from the house. Children have been kidnapped and killed by the Indians.” Later, Slim Woman was to remember how she had hidden behind her mother’s skirts when friendly Navajos came to the farm. Later Slim Woman would laugh at those early childish fears, for the Indians were to become her friends, her people.
The Wade family was a part of that river of settlers who flowed unceasingly across the continent. They chose to settle in a mountainous area near the southwestern tip of Colorado next to the Mancos River. It was there that Louisa Wade grew to be a slim, lively teenager. She worked hard at all the household tasks that frontier girls did, but whenever there was time, she would go to the dances of the small farming community. She would join any gathering where there was the promise of some group singing. She loved being on a horse and never missed a chance to join friends for a Sunday afternoon ride. Often John would come too. John was the son of a neighboring farmer. He was a quiet, kindly Quaker who was attracted to Louisa’s fun-loving ways.
Now there had been cowboys in from the range for her to choose among for a husband, and there had been the boys from her high school, but in her heart there had always been John Wetherill. How wonderful it was to watch him ride, so tall and at ease in the saddle. John, more than any other man she knew, told her wonderful stories about the places he had explored as a boy and as a young man, the hidden trails that led to canyons where there were mysterious Indian buildings. He told her about the Desert People with their flocks of sheep, who wandered in this vast and empty land.
The more John told her, the greater became her desire to see these places for herself. She wanted to visit the part of this country where there were no white men. She wanted to see their hogans, the dwelling places of these Navajos, who dressed in velvet blouses and wore lovely silver jewelry. How she wished to know that land of wind and searing light, of great high rocks and shining moonlit water.
In 1896, after a year’s engagement, Louisa Wade, full of bright courage, married John Wetherill. It was the beginning of a marriage that was to last a lifetime. It would be this couple’s destiny to discover astounding ancient Indian ruins, as well as one of the greatest natural wonders of the world. Eventually they would be recognized as the first pioneers who saw the need to understand and preserve the complex and wonderful culture of the Navajo people of Arizona. Louisa Wade Wetherill’s curiosity about the Navajos was to culminate in her becoming a vital and necessary link between two cultures whose lifestyles and goals were alien to each other.
The first years of their marriage were filled with hard times. Louisa and John tried to follow in their parents’ footsteps and earn their living by farming. Success eluded them. One year, the crops died from not enough rain. Another year, the cold killed the crops before they were ready for harvest. Then disease destroyed still more. During this time, a son, Benjamin, was born and then Georgia, a daughter. The farm could not produce enough for the young family
to survive. All their hard work had accomplished nothing. They had to find another way to earn their livelihood.
It was John’s brother who suggested that they start a trading post for the Indians. “The Navajos need coffee, flour, sugar and supplies,” he said. “They will trade beautifully-woven blankets, skins and lovely necklaces and bracelets made of silver.” Would it be safe? wondered Louisa. Did they really have a choice? What was preferable: slowly dying of starvation or being finished off in a quick raid? They would have to take the chance.
They had to try something. So, in 1900, the young couple undertook the management of their first Navajo trading post.
This began a 45-year journey of being with the Navajos, living with them, learning from them and growing to love them.
At first, even a frontier girl like Louisa was not prepared for how hard a life it was, trying to run a trading post far from the community of her youth. The Indian lands of New Mexico near Gallup were very isolated from all white people. Often her husband would be gone for days and weeks at a time, getting supplies or guiding scientists to newly-discovered ancient Indian ruins.
At this time, her son was only four years old; her daughter was just two. Her 16-year-old brother was her only companion and protection when John was away. Constantly she was surrounded by these strange Indians speaking only their own odd-sounding language. She could not understand them. They kept their distance from her. Yet she soon lost her fear of these wandering people, these skillful artisans who moved silently in and out of the trading post. The days while John was away blended one into another. It was a dream-like time. There were chores to do, the children to take care of, the trading to be accomplished.
At first the only words Louisa learned were the Navajo trade words, the words for numbers, blankets, silver, bracelet, goatskin, coffee and sugar. At first she saw no reason to learn more.
Then one day, not long after they had settled, her brother became ill. Louisa shuddered with fear as she recognized the signs of pneumonia. John was on an expedition at least 70 miles away. She was alone with two little children and a brother sick with a disease that often resulted in death.
She tried to communicate with the Navajos her need for help. Her trade words proved useless. They did not understand her directions for finding her husband or getting the necessary medicines. They became embarrassed at her tears and trembling face and moved their families to a respectful distance from the trading post. There they sat and waited for whatever fate would bring. And so the nightmare began: completely-surrounded by Navajo people, she was desperately and totally alone.
Louisa Wade Wetherill (Courtesy of the Wetherill Family Collection)
A few days later, two white men rode into the trading post.
“Please,” she begged them, “stay here; I’ve no one to help me.”
“We’re no good at nursing the sick, ma’am,” they said, “and we’re pushing hard to cover the miles to where we need to go.”
Nothing she said could persuade them to stay. They did finally promise to take a letter to her father and mother asking them to come. But it would take so long for a letter to be delivered, she despaired at getting help in time.
Each night she sat exhausted by her brother’s bed and watched him getting weaker and weaker. Louisa, only 22 years old, felt overwhelmed. It was too much, too hard to handle all alone. Frustrated, angry tears poured down her face as she realized that she wasn’t alone. She was completely surrounded by a people who did not understand what she so desperately wanted to communicate. They did not understand what she needed.
Then one night, when things looked completely hopeless, she heard the sound of a wagon. Out of that cold winter night came a white trader she knew. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” she cried. “I think my brother is dying and there’s been no one here to help me.”
The trader, realizing that Louisa was very near collapse, stayed with her. He managed to explain to the Indians the directions and urgency for getting to her husband. In a few days, her husband and parents arrived. They brought medicine and soon her brother began to get well.
For Louisa Wetherill, that experience was a turning point in her life. Never again would she allow herself to be so helpless, so alone. She made a promise then and there that she would learn the language of the Navajos; she would make them her friends. From now on, no matter how far she was from a white settlement, as long as she was among the Navajo Indians, the barrier of language would never again isolate her from them.
She found an old Indian woman who spoke some English. It was not an easy task she had set for herself. Navajo is a difficult language. Each change of tone, each change of breath gives new meaning to a word. In fact the Navajo language is so complicated that it was successfully used as a code language during both World Wars. In time Louisa began to learn and to understand.
The Indians were soon astonished with her skill. No white person, certainly no white woman had ever learned to speak Navajo so well, for the language was replete with allegory and poetic allusion. Was it possible for such a thing to happen? Some thought that she could not learn their style of speaking that quickly if she were totally white. Many began to believe that she must have some Navajo blood or the spirit of some long lost Indian woman in her to be able to speak with such ease. The Navajos began to feel that she must be one of the People herself. They called her Slim Woman, Asthon Sosi, in their language. They began to trust her, to tell her of their lives.
Slim Woman was captivated with all she heard and saw. What a fascinating people were these Navajos! She admired the dignity and kindness which they brought to their lives. She found herself thinking more and more like them, understanding them, sympathizing with their chosen way of life. She loved to sit and listen to their stories, particularly the children’s stories which not only told how to recognize animals, but with great subtlety and gentle humor told of the acceptable ways of behaving in living one’s life. Sometimes she would share her feelings about these Indians with her gentle Quaker husband. “John, many of the settlers have treated these people with great carelessness and selfishness. They have not tried to understand.”
For the next five years, John and Louisa Wetherill worked at various trading posts in the northwestern section of New Mexico, never with particular financial success. But, they managed to make a living. They were learning. John became a skillful guide to an endless stream of scientists who were suddenly coming from all over the world to view the half-forgotten ruins of the ancient people, to marvel at the complexity of these lost civilizations, to ponder the mystery of why they had disappeared.
Then John and Louisa decided to penetrate even deeper into this isolated land. They planned to move just a few miles north of Arizona, to Oljato, the Indian name for the place of moonlight water, near the great valley of monuments. At first John and Louisa’s brother were to go alone and scout the area, for they had heard rumors that the Indians there were hostile. If conditions were found to be acceptable, Louisa and the children would make the move. But, the Indians told them they could not come this far into their land. “Turn back,” said Hoskinini-begay, son of the chief, for they were weary of the white people who had rounded up so many of their clan, forcing them to march to a place in New Mexico far from their homes. There, in Bosque Redondo, many had died.
John Wetherill, so gentle in his Quaker ways, proposed instead that the Indians join him and partake in a rabbit feast. Surprised by the offer of sharing food, the Indians agreed. At the feast, John gave them coffee and sugar and baked bread from his supplies of flour. He missed Louisa’s skill at their language as he haltingly explained to Hoskinini’s people that these were some of the supplies that they could provide to the tribe. At last, when the feast was done, John Wetherill was given permission to continue the journey into the Navajo Nation. They eventually settled in Kayenta, the moonlight’s water, the the land where clouds and flocks of sheep drift in peace.
It was in this compelling
Monument Valley that John and Louisa were to remain for the greater part of their lives. Relatives of Slim Woman say they often remember her sitting under a tree in the summer with as many as a hundred Indians about her, listening to the stories, laughing and talking as happily as anyone there. The Navajos had accepted Louisa as one of their own. She was called granddaughter by Chief Hoskinini. The old ones of the tribe called her daughter and sister. The young called her mother.
But the great adventures of their journey to this land had only just begun. John could now begin to do the type of exploring that he had done as a young man and boy. Whenever he could, he would investigate this vast unknown region surrounding the now-established trading post. He was happiest when he could take a horse and a few supplies and wander, viewing a country never before seen by white man since the time of the Spanish explorers.
Years before, his brother had been the first white man to see the huge silent apartment dwellings of the Mesa Verde in Colorado. Soon after that, John visited those great ruins. The mystery of those silent houses touched feelings deep within him. He felt certain there were other forgotten houses of the Old People to be found in hidden canyons. Louisa agreed with him. She told him of the legends she had heard which mentioned other ancient dwellings, as well as bones of giant animals. John was determined to find all of this, to learn all he could about these people who had disappeared so very long ago.
The quiet Quaker systematically began to search the many canyons and hidden recesses of this fascinating land. Everytime he returned to the trading post, he would share with Louisa all that he had seen. His wanderings eventually led him to discover many pueblo ruins, as well as one of the finest ancient Indian communal dwellings built in a huge cliff cave to be found anywhere in Arizona.
Arizona Legends and Lore Page 12