As a baby I knew it wasn’t a real ocean, but I remember “The Beach” in Carlsbad, NM. A lot of unexpected green grass and shade trees grew by a sandy “shore” next to the flowing Pecos River. There were some picnic tables for gatherings and everyone seemed to be wearing a smile. It is a pleasant memory, but I also remember how hot it would get later in the afternoon.
My mother didn’t have any family left in Carlsbad, but it was close to Eunice, NM where we lived back then and it was a nice place to go—for a change of pace.
Actually my mother and her younger sister had been born in Washington State, but they had traveled to Carlsbad as children to visit relatives and friends who lived here during the first part of the 1900’s. Her father took them on a ship down to Central American (~1915) and they crossed the newly built Panama Canal, came up the Gulf of Mexico, and finally traveled inland—to Carlsbad. My mother’s father was a man of the sea and no doubt interested in the newly constructed canal that cut huge amounts of time and mileage out of transport and deliveries of goods. After visiting Carlsbad, they traveled back to the Northwest by train.
When mom saw Bruce Cabot in a movie, she would mention how she knew him as a kid on her first visit to Carlsbad, but she would reveal that his real name was Jacques—back then. Her older half-brother Ed and Jacques had been good friends and were altar boys together in Carlsbad. Mom always said this with a slight curl of the lip and I asked her why she didn’t seem to like him.
“He and Ed used to pee in beer bottles and then try to convince us kids it was real beer,” she said. Mom was too street smart as a kid and wouldn’t fall for it, but it still made her mad.
“Oh well,” I thought to myself, “Boys will be boys,” and then I would quietly laugh at her half-hearted disgust. Secretly I was always pretty impressed that mom knew him. After all, he was the lead man in King Kong in 1933 and John Wayne’s constant companion actor in most of the Duke’s later movies.
In Carlsbad, Jacques’ father had been some sort of French diplomat and my great-grandmother’s father was also French and participated in the same sort of livelihood. Jacques was raised as an orphan since both his parents died early in his life, but he may have been raised with relatives in Carlsbad. There appeared to be a small French/Irish community in Carlsbad at the time and it may be why our two families came together. Maybe we were even slightly related—I don’t know. I believe that the actual house of Bruce Cabot or (Etienne Pelissier Jacques de Bujac [his real name]) and his father (a lawyer) was once a historical site or museum, but I don’t seem to find any current mention of it.
Back in Washington and a few years after their initial visit to Carlsbad—my mother, her sister, and their half-brother Ed would become orphans. Ed was eight years older and didn’t need much attention so he was already happily on his own in Carlsbad.
They would all eventually reach their destination family in Texas with their maternal aunt. However, before this would happen, my mother and her sister would experience a horrible orphanage existence for three months. Their Aunt Helen (Auntie) in Texas had two children of her own, was poor, and was trying to make it through a meager and struggling financial situation—like everyone else at the time. Yet, she opened her arms and took in my mother and aunt. They were all eternally grateful to her. Previously, mom and her sister had been set up in a wonderful convent/boarding school in Washington with enough money to see them through college. They were both treated well by the sweet nuns and flourished in the convent for about seven or eight years.
Unfortunately, a scoundrel lawyer stole all the money from the inheritances of my mother and aunt. Afterward, my mother and her sister were placed into a horrible orphanage in Washington that tried to adopt them out to wealthy strangers. Auntie immediately went through a lawyer (a lawyer who would later be elected governor of Texas) in order to get them out of the orphanage and into her home. After their time in the orphanage, my mother (12) and aunt (10) embraced their freedom and rode the train to Texas to begin their happy new lives with Auntie and Uncle Johnny.
Uncle Johnny was not a blood relative but he was a pretty interesting person. He first met Auntie (the youngest of her family) by accidentally running into her with his bicycle. He said the first time he saw her, she was so beautiful he couldn’t take his eyes off of her—and ran right into her. Well, I guess she wasn’t hurt and was a good sport about it—because she married him.
Uncle Johnny and Auntie never had much money but usually had small stores around Texas and New Mexico, and at one time I think they raised peanuts in Portales. Uncle Johnny once had a small fleet of trucks in Texas to try to produce income—but he was more of a dreamer than a successful entrepeteur. At the beginning of their married life they were living in Carlsbad—long before my mother and aunt showed up. It was during this time that Jim White first discovered the Carlsbad Caverns. Although Uncle Johnny wasn’t in the first official group to go into the caves, he knew Jim White and had explored the caves a bit. Mom remembered how Uncle Johnny would tell them about how Jim White became curious about how so many bats could be coming out from under one bush in the early evening. They began to investigate, moved some bushes and rocks, and found the beginning of the cavern. Uncle Johnny described the images made by American Indians on the walls close to the entrance. Of course the entrance didn’t look anything like it does today but it was all a definite curiosity that begged to be investigated. It was only later on that the large glorious opening to the caverns was made.
Uncle Johnny continued on throughout his life to explore caves and prospect for gold. He and his son would rig up a travel trailer, pack it up, and head to Colorado to pan for gold in streams. They would both collect enough gold dust in a small vial and it would be just enough to get them through the winter. In the summer they would pan again and collect more dust. It was just them and their dogs having fun all year long. He would also occasionally get permission to collect stalactites and stalagmites from certain caves and then sell them to places that made novelty and tourist items. He knew a lot about geology from his experience and close personal interaction with different cave systems.
He used to visit us once in a while but I don’t remember him very much. In 1964 we got a call that he had passed away peacefully—while prospecting with his son. They would bury him in Carlsbad. Within two days we were there and I got to see the caverns for the first time. I needed to get away from the grieving elders for a while and figured it would be a nice way to remember Uncle Johnny. I was glad we did. Right after my excursion, I was sitting in the living room filled with older people who came to pay their respects to the surviving family members and to Uncle Johnny.
One older fellow was dressed in his Sunday best cowboy suit and he sat down next to me. He was elderly and hard of hearing but very friendly and talkative.
“Young Lady, did you go see the Caverns yet?” he asked me in a thunderous tone. He sounded so accusatory that I was glad I had already visited them, else he would have chastised me for not yet going.
“I sure did,” I said, “It was really something.”
He smiled and sat back in his seat, satisfied that I had done the proper thing.
“Did you see the Big Room?” he bellowed.
“I did.”
A few minutes later, after most people had left the room, he leaned forward to make sure no one else could hear what he was about to say. I was sure they could still hear him in the next room, but I didn’t want to tax his sensitivity.
“I know where there is a room, bigger than the Big Room and I am the only one who knows how to get there!” he said with conviction. “It’s hard to get to, but I know how!” He sat back in his chair and smiled; convinced he had just passed along an important secret.
He continued to talk and I remained polite, thinking he was reliving his youth and trying to entertain me a bit with an exaggerated story about the old days. I thought that surely the Carlsbad Caverns had been thoroughly explored and mapped out by then.
About twenty years later, I was listening to the morning news and heard a report about the Carlsbad Caverns. I swear to God, almost the exact same words were used . . . “They have just found a new place in the Caverns that is ‘A ROOM, BIGGER THAN THE BIG ROOM’.”
“What?” I said out loud. I looked at the TV screen and watched slender spelunkers in the cavern moving gingerly through tight rocks and squeezing hard to get past narrow stalagmites and other obstacles to gain access into a larger cavern. Again familiar words, “HARD TO GET TO” sounded from the screen.
I was suddenly grateful that I had been patient with that old man and remembered what he said. Bless his heart. He knew exactly what he was talking about!
A few years after Uncle Johnny passed, mom mentioned that he once visited us when we lived in Tucson, Arizona. In those days we moved around a lot throughout the Southwest. I didn’t remember much about Uncle Johnny, but mom said he had been exploring and prospecting in Arizona and stopped to visit with us for a bit. I suppose that all cave systems are different and have their own specific signature within their formations and chemical properties. Uncle Johnny seemed to know this and told my mom that he thought he had finally found the exit to the Carlsbad Caverns near a certain place in Arizona. Mom and I both racked our brains for years trying to remember what city in Arizona he had mentioned when he made this discovery—but we never had any luck. Geologists will say that this can’t be true, but maybe only time will tell where Carlsbad Caverns really ends.
Just like time eventually vindicated the old gentleman cowboy and his room, bigger than the Big Room.
My mom lived in very interesting times, including her life before the age of twelve in the Northwest. She had been around many famous individuals during her life but she said she never acted like a “fan.” She always maintained a sort of aristocratic aloofness, but treated everyone pleasantly and with a bit of nurturing friendliness. We could never go into any strange and foreign city without someone recognizing mom out of a crowd. She was self-effacing, but physically memorable and had a lot of personal magnetism. Often I was with her when a famous person would come up, shake her hand, and easily have a short conversation with her. Mom was always pleasant to them of course, but after they were out of hearing range, mom would often turn to me and say, “Who was that?”
If I knew, I would tell her something like, “Mom, that man that just shook your hand has been to the Moon and back! That was Harrison Schmidt!” Admittedly, Schmidt was running for office, but he picked her out of a crowd and introduced himself.
Everyone around her paled by comparison (including me) and people only noticed her. I was often in her shadow—but it was a comfortable shadow and I loved being in it.
Mom would tell me about when she was a little girl and how she would stand on the bridge in Portland, Oregon and watch the Russian ships sail beneath. She said the ships always seemed to have large female captains, roughly barking orders to the crew. She told me once she and her little sister went to an outdoor fair where they were demonstrating airplanes in the field (circa 1923). She said this female pilot saw her, walked over, and asked mom and her sister if they would like to fly in an airplane. Mom jumped at the opportunity, as she was always ready for adventure. All three of them went up and flew in this relatively new machine—a bi-wing)—after that, my mother forever loved planes (never a pilot, but always a happy passenger and observer). I’m not sure, but after checking times, dates, and her biography—this female pilot might have been Amelia Earhart. Imagine that!
Eunice is a small city south of Hobbs. There isn’t much to it, but my mother spent her twenties and thirties here doing everything from being a waitress, modeling clothes, working in the Post Office, writing articles for the newspaper, to finally becoming a wife and mother. She endured many hardships as a single woman, but never let on that she was anything less than comfortable. She needed a job and money for basic needs so she found herself in Eunice for a small job offer and stayed for several years. She was young, pretty, and had many suitors.
After work one day, her boyfriend took her to his office building to meet the night watchman and his cute little dog. There was probably never much to do in Eunice, so this held out a promise of unexpected entertainment. Several men were already there and sat around on the floor, most were half-crouched on one knee drinking a beer and politely waiting for the show to begin. Mom was introduced to all of them including her boyfriend’s boss, Mr. Hughes. The guard had a little doll’s bed by his desk. On cue, the small dog would do tricks and then kneel down to say his prayers before getting into bed. He would then have his master cover him up with the little blanket and the little dog would go to sleep. All the guys in the room laughed, even Mr. Hughes, as they quietly watched. I once asked mom where the building was located in Eunice and she said, “It was the Hughes Tools Warehouse.”
I almost swallowed my tongue.
“You mean Howard Hughes?” I asked incredulously.
Mom looked thoughtful, and replied, “Well, yes, Mr. Hughes.”
I remembered reading somewhere that Howard Hughes had always been referred to as Mr. Hughes, even by people much older than himself. What other Mr. Hughes would be the boss of Hughes Tools? I asked mom what he looked like, how he dressed, and how he acted—and it all added up. Many men and women of that era and general location knew Howard Hughes differently from the man in Hollywood that others only read about. Hughes was usually very quiet and unassuming and blended in very well with working men in the area. Mom finally realized who he was all those many years ago. However, she would never have acted any differently.
My sister and I had always been amazed at how much the actress Ava Gardner reminded us of mom even before we knew about the Hughes thing. When we saw her in a movie, Ava’s movements, her facial features, and the way she spoke—everything was exactly like our mom. When Ava grew older, she and mom resembled each other even more closely. After finding out about the Howard Hughes encounter, my sister and I would tease mom, telling her she must have given Howard Hughes the idea to make Ava Gardner a star, and also one of his girlfriends. Later, I found a very odd coincidence about Howard Hughes, Ava Gardner, and my mom—although born in different years—all three of them were all born on December 24, Christmas Eve.
Mom also had some crazy male cousins she wouldn’t talk about much, but I always thought they were sort of interesting. I suppose their antics were mostly schemes to impress and collect women, but I never met any of them so I am only guessing. One set of cousins actually took care of Clark Gable’s horses at his home in California. From little bits of information here and there, I believe the cousin’s may have used that job description as a line to entice girls to visit them. Another cousin had a covered wagon, driven by oxen. He had a long beard, dressed in buckskin, and claimed (falsely) that he was the direct descendent of Kit Carson. He would go around the California and the Southwest and do western performances and sideshows.
Its all been sort of a beautiful dance—how we all move around and connect somehow to each other—and to various places on the earth (and even in the earth—like a cavern). I am fortunate to have so many connections to different parts of New Mexico through my relatives and ancestors. Perhaps the many oddly coincidental things that happen to me indicate I am exactly where I should be—at the exactly correct moment in time. It feels like a generational waltz, going around and around in circles until I was the lucky generation to be living someplace as interesting and important as the North Central mountains of New Mexico.
Fate or history abducts us, in order to implant a firm validation of our existence in this world—a Karmic affirmation between physical location and soul. Or, in other words—this is where God wants me to be.
—Raven DeVille
