In 1953, I belonged to a Cub Scout pack in Santa Fe.  My mom was the Den Mother and had the responsibility of keeping ten 8 year old boys engaged and focused on Scout activities.  I have to admit that I was more interested in the uniform than I was the various tasks, but since completing the projects got you more patches and made your outfit cooler, I persevered.  That fall, she announced that we were to be Little Glooms during the Fiesta burning of Zozobra.

The burning of Zozobra (Old Man Gloom) is one of the more bizarre public celebrations in America.  Predating Nevada’s Burning Man event by 60 years, he was created by artist Will Shuster in 1924 as an artistic addition to the Santa Fe Fiesta, which was celebrated then over Labor Day weekend.  By the time I was a boy, the event had become the signature beginning of the Fiesta on Friday night.  The week before, we would eagerly await his transport to Ft. Marcy Park and his hoisting to the site of his execution.  My dad would tell us stories about how he had been captured in the mountains above town and was being held until he would be condemned and sentenced to burn.  He represented all of the bad thoughts and events of the year and his demise would clean the slate and give everyone a fresh beginning.  I totally believed him.  I still do.

At dusk on Friday night, the entire town gathered at the park.  Zozobra, 35 feet tall, loomed above everyone, emitting the occasional groan and pointing an accusing finger at his tormenters.  A mariachi band played at his feet.  Illuminated by spotlights, he became increasingly animated and his groans were louder and more frequent.  When it was almost dark, all of the lights, save 1 spotlight, went out and the execution commenced.  A group of about 20 kids, dressed in white sheets as miniature Zozobras, slowly walked up the platform and lined up at Zozobra’s feet.  He roared his disapproval and one could imagine him trying to snatch them up and eat them.  After the Little Glooms were in place, the Fire Dancer, dressed in red, arrived and begin to weave around the monster’s feet, taunting him with fiery torches.  Throughout the dance, the crowd became more and more frenzied, screaming “Burn him!  Burn him!”  After about 10 minutes, the dancer put his torch to the hem of Zozobra’s gown and the giant began to burn.  As the flames rose, his moans and groans became shrieks and screams, until the flames burst from the top of his head and the noise subsided.  By this time, everyone was cheering and the skies behind the charred remains were starred with a magnificent fireworks show.  When it was over, everyone walked down to the Plaza and Fiesta began.

Now, for an 8 year old kid, the opportunity to be a part of this and stand at Zozobra’s feet during his immolation was the equivalent of Christmas morning.  Our moms made our costumes out of white sheets from Bell’s Department Store and, the week before Fiesta, we had 2 dress rehearsals at the park so that we would know where to go.  It was, after all, a bit dangerous with all the flames and fireworks.

Friday evening came and it was showtime!  We all lined up and waited for our cue.  It came, and up the steps we went, with me bringing up the rear.  That’s when it started to go bad.  My sheet was too long and I tripped and fell on the stairs.  This caused the shroud over my head to cover my face so that I couldn’t see where I was to go.  Zozobra by now was making so much noise that I couldn’t hear the adults yelling at me.  When I finally got my act together I was all alone on the stairs.  I looked around, saw the rest of the Glooms and ran toward them.  Bad idea.  Fueled by adrenaline, I fell again.  And a third time.  If Zozobra had wanted to, he could have picked me up and torn me limb from limb.  By the time I got into place the Fire Dancer had appeared and we exited.  I took off my sheet as we left, lest I fall into the flames.  Of course, this made me stand out like a sore thumb among the other Glooms.  I will say that the experience of watching him burn from 50 feet away somewhat made up for the humiliation but the damage had been done.  My stature in the peefee world was rising and I don’t think that the taunting stopped until Easter.

Today, it’s one of my most precious memories.

Note:  The word peefee is unique to Santa Fe and its origins are from the nickname given to a slight, effeminate and very flamboyant waiter named Epifano who worked at the Mayflower Café in the 1930s.  The word came to mean weak, unmanly or timid.

--Mike Lord

Because the state of New Mexico is so big, it was usually important for me to take short trips on my days off and visit places I’d never been before. On a nice day in 1972, I was on my way to Raton and passed through Cimarron. I saw the St. James Hotel Sign and a sort of historical marker and something about a museum under it.

My internal guidance system (a hunch) had me decreasing my speed, pulling to the right, and slowing down even more as I pulled off the highway and onto the short street. Driving much slower now (which always feels weird after driving on a highway), I saw the museum/hotel that was behind the sign. It was pretty much nothing from the outside and sort of run down around the corners. No ornate beams were placed on the building and no Santa Fe chic colors and designs poured over it. It was just a sort of square-looking building. This was 1972 and the building was probably between owners. This did not deter me from going in however, because everyone knows you can find the neatest things under a little bit of dust.

I walked into the lobby and discovered that the bar was the only part of the place that was currently an active business. There wasn’t much furniture or hotel trappings around and apparently no lodging guests. A guided tour was just finishing up. The tour guide of this little group was also the bartender and was anxious to get back to her customers. I could tell her feet were hurting her too. She probably had a chair in the bar she could sit on for a while and I’m sure some of her patrons needed a refill by now anyway. I worried I would not see anything.

“Oh, am I too late for a tour?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “I just finished up for the day with this last grou . . . Oh, and you’re by yourself. Well, you’re welcomed to take the tour yourself, if you don’t mind going alone.” She shot me an odd look like I might not want to go by myself.

“No problem, I’d love to do that,” I said, glad I was going to be able to look around.

She gave me quick directions for both floors and told me not to go into any of the rooms, just look through the glass installed on all the room doors. She told me one room was always closed and not to mess with it. Then she turned and muttered something about needing to get back to her bar.

I was in heaven. It was mid afternoon, the sun was bright, and I almost had the entire place to myself.

I’d like to mention at this point that I am far from being a country western buff. I am not into county music, never paid attention to old west history, and I don’t do or wear anything that might be considered countrified. Not that I look down on others who do, its just not my style.

However, as soon as I walked across that old lobby floor, I felt I had entered into another dimension of time. I was back in the old west. All during my self-tour, I smelled the rich tobacco from cigars, and the mixed aromas of whiskey, food, and coffee wafted around me. Old smells and fragrances often imprison themselves in the structures of old buildings, but it was a pleasant odor and it belonged there. The hotel bar and any other people could have been 100 miles years away.

I looked through the window doors of each room of the hotel to visually linger on the luscious Victorian furniture placed loving—as it once might have been. Most of the walls were various colors and patterns of floral velvet brocade. The furniture was more abundant in the hotel rooms. It was Victorian with the obligatory extra twists and delicate turns in the structures of its wood and metal frames. Long drapes hung from high windows and puddled slightly on the floor. A small ornate fireplace was in each room. I wondered what people looked like when they stayed there in years past—what they wore, what they said, and what they laughed about.

I knew it was only my imagination, but I could hear saloon music and occasionally hear someone yell when they won (or lost) a card game downstairs. I could almost hear and feel the rustle of long skirts.

On the walls by each door, there were several framed photographs of famous people who had stayed in the rooms. People like Bat Masterson, Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Belle Starr, Buffalo Bill Cody, Wyatt Earp, and many others. Zane Grey had written a novel while staying here. The great western artist Frederick Remington also stayed at least once, while creating some of his artwork.

Eventually, I realized that a spirit of a very pleasant woman who was extremely proud of the hotel was gently guiding me on my little tour. I can’t say that I blamed her. I would have loved to owned and lived in that beautiful old building. Of course I didn’t “see” this spirit woman but I could certainly felt her gracious presence. I constantly smelled the fragrance of roses. Years later I would find out that this presence was most likely the spirit of Mary Lambert. She was the wife of Henri Lambert who originally built the St. James. He had once been a famous chef to Abraham Lincoln and to General Grant. Mary is known for taking gentle and considerate care of her visitors and the scent of rose perfume always confirms her nearness.

When I left that day, I thanked the lady in the bar and left. I knew I had just touched the past. I was glad I had been able to see this old museum. I was afraid it would gradually fall into disrepair and finally fade into a dry husk of roofless brick and foundation—with all of its rich history blown away by the wind.

I was very wrong about the conclusion of this wonderful old place. Gosh—I love it when I am wrong about things like this!

Someone bought the hotel and it bloomed again . . .

In 1991, my mother called me and quickly told me to turn on the TV. She said my English teacher from Española High School was on a program. It was an episode of  “Unsolved Mysteries” with Robert Stack. Sure enough, there she was—psychic Jackie Littlejohn, and she had been brought into the St. James Hotel to communicate with the spirits. Now, I have to explain that I (and a few of my friends) were lucky enough to get into her classes back in the late 1960’s—it took a little bit of work, but we frantically swapped classes at the start of the year and took lunch at 1:30 in the afternoon—but we got in. We definitely studied English, but this rebel teacher came with a bonus, she also fit into her teaching schedule lectures about various religious beliefs, the occult, transcendental meditation, study of the Third Eye, and various other subjects that the general public would not hear about for at least a decade. Mrs. Littlejohn was a Cherokee Indian from Oklahoma who took great pride in her colorful Santa Fe style clothing when she taught classes. She often wore long skirts, colorful shawls, and usually wore her long black hair with thick bangs and drenched herself in turquoise jewelry and exotic fragrances. The first part of the class was English and the second half was learning things like; how to astral project your non-material body or the meanings of color. I was always too cowardly to astral project myself, but I always liked to listen to others who felt they had accomplished the feat. Sometimes an Ouija board was brought in—before we knew how destructive those things could be. Our class would read Tuesday Lobsang Rampa’s books and occasionally meditate by the river. It was wonderful until the High School principal found out. Then we would go to Mrs. Littlejohn’s house in Santa Fe on Saturdays to listen to lectures and meditate. If we were a little noisy and restless, she would loudly say, “When the student is ready, the master is willing.” We would all quiet down and listen. She eventually left teaching and took on psychic work full time.

And there she was in the St. James— doing one of the things she did best—commune with spirits. I was surprised she had not been drawn to it sooner, as I had been. She gave the owner valuable protection information that I continue to quietly see in use—to this day. Years after my visit the hotel blossomed again when a man who actually grew up in Cimarron bought the old hotel and restored it in the early 1990’s. He and his wife did just that. They also had a lovely collection of exotic birds in the hotel lobby. Parrots, Cockatoos, and Love Birds filled the lobby with constant chirps and squeals.

The owner was an engineer at the Lab in Los Alamos and didn’t believe in the paranormal, he eventually had to concede that a lot of unexplained things happened—things that he saw with his own eyes. He saw glasses hovering in mid air and then gently placed back onto the shelf, he saw at least one spirit, and he was a witness to many unexplained activities. The spirits of the hotel didn’t mind him so much because they remembered him as a little boy who used to play in the hotel. Unfortunately, some of the spirits did not like his wife because as she was remodeling, she decided to rid the hotel of supernatural entities by ordering them out! The spirits became angry, even knocking her to the ground a few times. Later on if she did something they didn’t like, the anger would came out again. If the room of T.J. Wright was bothered or opened to irreverent intruders, a price would be extracted. The next morning, one of the lobby birds would be dead. Necropsy reports by the veterinarian never found anything physically wrong with the birds before their death.

At one time, the hotel would host a “Murder Weekend” in which people would book a room and take part in a preplanned act with other guests. The guests would get a summons in the mail, one week before their visit to the hotel, detailing their script and costume; a saloon girl, a gun fighter, a sheriff, etc. All acts were centered on the old Cimarron history and characters. The murder weekend guests would arrive on Friday night, have dinner and then one of them would be found “dead” later that same evening. The rest of the guests had until Sunday morning to figure out who the “murderer” was. Although I never participated, I sent many couples up there who claimed it was a great experience. During these special weekends, the hotel ghosts and paranormal activity usually became more active than usual, especially with the guests in costumes staying in the haunted rooms of the old section.

One woman who stayed at the hotel told me that she was filling the bathtub to take a warm bath in Mary Lambert’s room. When she started to get in, she noticed it was too hot and started to step out making little “Oh, hot, hot, hot” sounds. She said suddenly she smelled roses around her. I believe this was the Mary Lambert spirit, concerned about her guest’s welfare—the unseen ghost popped up to make sure the situation was not serious and to offer sympathy. This would have been just like her—exactly like the sweet little tour she had given me—during my visit a long time ago. She was a beautiful presence to be around. However, if you stay in her room, remember to bring along a little extra bottle of perfume, as she tends to keep these for herself. Several lady guests have reported missing perfume after staying. Well after all, it is probably very difficult to shop in the afterlife and fragrance is her calling card!

A note: After reading about many different ghostly encounters all over the world, I have noticed that most female ghosts usually have the name Mary (Maria, Miriam, etc.). The male ghosts are often John (Juan, Jean, Sean, etc.). The angry ghost of T.J. Wright at the St. James in Cimarron is also named John (note the J. in his initials). I don’t know why this is—I just thought it was very curious. There is a lot of magic connected to these two common names, making them both exceptionally strong and important. For example, Brujas (witches) cannot make a magic protective circle without having someone named Juan standing with them inside the enclosed space.

The angry spirit of T.J. Wright occupies his own room, and the room is rarely entered by people, and rightly so. It is said that he was in a poker game in which the hotel owner put the St. James into the ante pot. T.J. Wright won the game, but as he stood up, the owner shot him dead. In some ways, I really can’t blame Mr. Wright for being a little pissed off and a bit possessive of the hotel and especially his room! Coming from many years spent in the hotel industry, I can tell you that just running a hotel (much less owning a hotel) gives you a heavy crown of power in a kingdom of sorts. It is a 24/7, no holiday job in which everyone’s comfort is your duty. You want everything to go right and you especially want all your subjects to get along, be well fed, happy, safe, and warm in their beds. Just like children, hotel guests create activity, high drama, and a lot of laughs. So give Mr. Wright a break and let him rest easy, he has a lot to grieve over, he might have been a wonderful hotel owner.

John F. used to be a state police officer and worked around Cimarron many years ago. He became acquainted with an elderly man (also involved with law enforcement) who grew up around the St. James Hotel. When the old man was young, he remembered how the lobby of the hotel was often used as a temporary morgue for the victims of a violent era (probably in the late 1800’s). He took it upon himself to quickly sketch the dead victims including bullet wounds and other injuries. He used it for court evidence later on. He had an entire book of these sketches and a huge amount of stories. When the elderly man died, the sketchbook went to his son who was from out of state. John F. (an artist himself) wished he had tried harder to get the old man’s sketchbook and notes, since it was such an important piece of history. John was afraid the son did not appreciate just how unique the sketchbook really was.

There are several types of paranormal phenomena and images of ghosts seen around the St. James Hotel. One is a small impish creature around the bar area. Another ghost seen in the bar is an older, blond, long-haired man with a pockmarked face—known as “Woody” from Taos. He is sometimes seen sitting at a table in the bar—but only for a moment, before he disappears.

From the latest website it looks as though the hotel is renovated even further and loved as much (I hope) by new people and management. I understand they are often crowded, so reservations are probably a must.

I hope the St. James Hotel in Cimarron stays busy, active, loved, and appreciated forever.

“The only thing that matters in this life is love. That's what it comes down to. That's all.”

quote from Jacqueline Littlejohn Capricorn ~1930–October 19, 2002. Thank you Mrs. Littlejohn, requiescat in pace.

—Raven DeVille