The Fourth of July

 

A bowl of Beans, a slice of Cheese, and a pod of Chile

The Fourth of July

Traditions

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            A bit of holiday sentimentality was the fare at lunch.

            The realization was right out of a childhood that now seems so long ago. The original setting could have been on any number of Gila River tables, but the one that first comes to mind was at the mouth of Mangus in the kitchen of my Aunt Mary.

            Hers was house always full of people. From early morning and well into the evening, it was a revolving turnstile of voices and people. There were happy voices. There were loud voices. It was a setting where negativity was just not carried out and it was her presence that formed the nucleus.

            The central theme is a bowl of beans which, of course, are frijoles.

            Along with beans was a big slice of cheese and a fresh pod of green chile. That was it, but it was what we were taught to eat as if it was from the finest of restaurants. It you were a little bitty guy, you were sat at the table, the bowl was placed in front of you, and you were told to eat. If you were older, you’d find somewhere to land and no longer needed to be told to eat.

            The chile would come from the big garden that lay between the house and the hillside to the south. Like all those big McCauley gardens this one was a wonderland for everybody but especially any city dweller that had never been subjected to a predominately homegrown or local sourced pantry larder. In the evenings, you’d walk through those rows of vegetables with your left-hand cupping salt that was poured from a Morton box before you walked through the gate. It was the condiment of choice as the grazing began.

            Radishes and onions were the easiest targets, but the variety was extensive, and nothing was off limits. There would be a constant den of conversation there, too. At some point in time, an adult, usually Uncle Hap, would come out of the watermelon vines with a prize that had to eaten right then and there.

            Here, let’s try this.

            Cut with a pocketknife it would split like only a ripe watermelon can split and the process would begin. It was always a mystery how a fresh picked watermelon could be so cool after a hot day, but that was always part of the wonder. The other was the dead ripe sweetness of that selected treasure. When it was done, the pocketknife was wiped clean on your Levi’s and put back into your pocket.

            The chile that was ready was taken to the house and put in the refrigerator to eat with that bowl of beans when it was time.

            The cheese, always longhorn, was cut from the big, red wrapped wheel that came from Roy Clark’s at Riverside, Robert Clark’s at Gila or, more likely, Mully’s at Cliff at the Trading Company. In appearance, it was nearly identical to the roll of bologna that shared room above the vegetable drawer in the ice box. It was the longhorn, though, that gained favor with the bowl of beans and that pod of chile.

            There was always a bit of apprehension when one of those big blocks of cheese was first cut, though. Longhorn was not always the longhorn of preference. Whether it was age or its source there was good cheese and then there was some not so good cheese. As kids, we were as expert as any adult on that matter.

            It was huh, maybe we’d better cook with that cheese if it didn’t pass muster, or Ah, man that is good if it did.

As for the chile, there was a world of difference in heat indices and the McCauleys invariably erred to the side of hot. When it was really hot, we were taught to cut the veins out (or an adult would do it), but there was honor in eating hot chile, and you’d avoid at all costs being dropped into the category of sissy. It was a rite of passage when you could eat hot chile with the adults and we endeavored to do that from the earliest age.

So, it was that backdrop that made that bowl of beans so appealing today. The only departure was the chile wasn’t fresh from the garden, and that bodes … correction.

The Fourth of July

There is a common theme of being a Gila River child of the ‘50s and the Fourth of July.

Ours was a world of family, church, and rural, traditional engagement. Certainly, there was another element (witness three bars in 200 yards of mercantile row and the chronicles of Dick Hays contention that Cliff had the second highest per capita consumption of whiskey in the entire world), but there wasn’t a better place anywhere to grow up.

There was an independence and loyalty that is absent today.

Welfare (relief was the word used) was only whispered and its connotation was one of shame rather than societal privilege. Food stamps would have been acknowledged as either green or gold bond and those could be redeemed in Silver City for a toaster or a set of cheap dishes.

Cash was king and Cotton Strasser at American National was the man to see if a car had to be financed. The price of gasoline was $.27 and only the very few filled their vehicles full with ethel. Miracle Whip was preferred over mayonnaise because of price and French dressing was the only salad topping if salad was even served.

Everything was fried in grease.

Recaps were the dominating rubber on the ground and Mr. Parrish in town did a big business. He’d sell you a used bicycle, too. We all got to realize that behind his stern demeanor, he was a good man. His humor would burst forth when he let his guard down.

Dr. Watts would ask you if you were keeping your room clean and it was you he was talking to not your mother standing by the door. He was interested in your growth of mental health, and you didn’t even know what that meant.

There was no such thing as illicit drugs. Bobby Jackson was an institution on the corner of Broadway and Bullard. Pausing from his stooped over constant motion, he’d dispense prescriptions and common sense from his pharmacy counter while you carefully and once again inspected the jackelope hanging high on the north wall.

If you had the money and inclination, you could buy dynamite across the street at Cosgrove’s. Their magazine was in Chloride Flats and not once did some idiot misuse the privilege.

On the 4^th, we’d be gathered at the Sheriff’s Posse arena for the afternoon performance of the Frontier Days Rodeo. Local cowboys dominated all events. Cousins, uncles, and friends were the contestants. By the start of the bull riding, the skies would open up and the first rain of the monsoon would come. Hoops and hollers would emanate from the stands and the arena alike as hats were removed to celebrate the gift. Real cowboys had been changing leathers and ordering parts from Burdick and Burdick keeping thirsty cattle watered knowing this day and this rain would come.

It was reason enough to celebrate!

            After the evening performance there would be a dance at the arena and probably one at the Murray Hotel as well. Everybody danced.

            When it was time to go home, the whole world was a bit more cheery. It would be business as usual and that was just fine … that bowl of beans, slice of cheese, and pod of chile was just as familiar as the last time you had it. 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Dick place Cliff in second place amongst whiskey consumption for a reason. He didn’t know where the highest consumption occurred, but across the world there had to be one place somewhere that drank more!”