Spring Fed Water From A Colorado Indian in 1949

Curtis Cline and his children,
 Margaret, Gene, and C. F.

The picture to the left is not very clear, and a bit out of focus.  However, the memory is clear in my mind.  My family had been traveling about a week when this picture was taken.  As I remember it, we had stopped to get something to drink at an interesting looking western-style store. Inside the store, Gene was attracted to some native made musical instruments.  You know, the ones that native American's played.  I remember looking at some small and medium-sized drums that were decorated nicely.  It was a store with all the tourist type items for sale.  I remember buying a Pepsi, and a snack and the others got much the same, but I don't know if we bought anything else or not.  I think my Mom bought a cedar-lined keepsake box.  I remember the store had the large Hunter ceiling fans that made it cool inside the store, so we looked a little longer than usual. 

We did not see the Indian fountain until we came out of the store.  The native American Indian seemed huge to a five-year-old girl.  He was bending on his knees with a large bowl just above the large water basin.  Out of the middle of the container, a fast-moving body of water was gushing out.  First, C. F. was interested in going over to take a good look, then I wanted to see it too.  A local man was standing there and told us the water was from a fresh mountain-fed spring.  When my Dad hear that, he had to try the water.  Then Gene and C. F. tasted the water.  As I was the youngest, I had to wait until they had all tasted the water before I got a drink.  None of them said very much until I started to drink the water.  Then they all started laughing, saying it tasted terrible.  My Dad said it felt like Alka-Seltzer.  I liked the water, so I asked them what they meant because it tasted good to me.  They all three laughed at me and said I was crazy.  Later, I learned it was an artesian well, which is often under pressure between two rock beds.  The pressure makes the water "sparkle" like seltzer water.  I liked it then, and I still drink it today, and from time to time remember the first time I drank sparkling water was in Colorado with my family.

We all crawled back into the station wagon and headed off for the Royal Gorge Bridge.  Between 1929 and 2003, it was the world's highest suspension bridge.  My Dad was always intrigued by the "biggest and the best" of things.  Once we got to the massive bridge, most of us were intimidated by its size and thousand-foot drop from the bridge to get out of the station wagon.  In 1931, a 3 ft narrow gauge incline railway was built to the bottom of the gorge through a narrow cleft just west of the north end of the bridge.  We all thought it was a bit too risky for us to take that railway to the bottom.  My Dad insisted that we drive over the Royal Gorge Bridge.  We then returned over it to the lovely park area to eat our supper.  It was a fantastic sight to see.  I will always remember how it swayed when we drove over it, and I was thrilled to get back to the starting side.  

At one time, my parents had a brown scrapbook full of photographs from the trip.  The photos were inserted into the little black triangular tabs that held them in place.  There were several dozen photos in the album and now all I can find are seven, with this being one of those seven.  This is just another memory of my family trip to Colorado in 1949.   

 

Dreaming Under A Wisteria Covered Arbor in the 1950s

This is one of my paintings.
It is named
"Under the Wisteria Covered Arbor."

The year was 1949 and I was five years old.  My family and I returned from Colorado that July to Sikeston, Missouri.  My Father found Missouri to be very hot after being in Colorado for several weeks.  One summer evening after our return, we all sat outside and talked about our wonderful vacation.  The next day, he built an arbor next to the double windows outside the master bedroom.  He thought it would make the home’s master bedroom cooler in summer.

I watched my father build the arbor.  He planted small wisteria plants at the foot of each post.  He was a man six feet tall with an average build and powerful hands.  My Father’s bald head showed signs of sweat from the summer heat.  His sky blue eyes sparkled with delight as he told me that next year the wisteria plants would bloom with purple flowers.  I enjoyed spending time with my father.  He was usually happy and always in a hurry to get things done.  He enjoyed working and, whenever possible, he took me with him.

After two summers, the wisteria vine grew until it spread to cover the top of the arbor.  The wisteria made a screen from the hot sun above.  The long purple clusters of flowers cascaded down from the top of the arbor.   I loved the sweet smell and pretty sight of the wisteria in bloom each spring.  With time, the soft blooms dropped to the ground to form a beautiful blanket of purple.

Each summer I took delight in sitting under the wisteria-covered arbor.  My parents subscribed to the National Geographic magazine that told in words and pictures of places unfamiliar to me.  I would fantasize about being in far away places and experiencing the glory of learning new things, eating unusual foods and hearing foreign languages.  The wisteria-covered arbor became a haven to escape from hot boring summers.

       I felt stifled in Sikeston.  My mother wanted to take me with her fishing but I found sitting looking at the dirty water anything but interesting.  The weather was hot in the summer and cold in the winter.  I never understood what enjoyment my mother obtained in fishing unless it was her way of escaping from a life in which she appeared to find limited pleasure.  
   Most of the National Geographic magazines showed beautiful photographs of Africa, China, Europe, South America and other foreign countries.  There was one article that wrote about Medieval German states, and it had stunning photographs of men and women dressed in period costumes, standing in front of Medieval structures.  I dreamed of going there someday.  They also published an article on New York City and its many attractions.  Oh my!  I promised myself that someday I would go to New York City and see those sites displayed in the magazine. 

       Einstein said, “Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's coming attractions.”  I imagined myself in some of those places viewed and read about when under my arbor.  I traveled to New York City twelve or more times on business.  Due to my work schedule, I didn't have a chance to visit all the sites to see, but I did get to see a few.  To me, it is the energy I felt when walking on the streets, or riding in an elevator, or talking with my business associates that stimulated me on my visits there.  I considered writing about the many places I have visited, but thought the focus of this Blog should be on "Imagination."  I am a goal setter.  If you don't plan for the future, you will accomplish much less than you are capable of achieving.  In the fall of my life, I have learned that relationships matter and you should imagine positive things for yourself because it could be the "preview of  life's  coming attractions.”

Arapaho Chief for Hire in 1949

 C. F. Cline with Arapaho Chief in
in Colorado Springs, Colorado - 1949.

My brother C. F. Cline was a Boy Scout and was always an admiring of Native Americans.  On a trip to Colorado in 1949, the family stopped to eat at a restaurant where there were several tourist type exhibits in the same area.  When we came out of the restaurant from eating, C. F. saw a "real live Indian" nearby.  The sign said "Your picture taken with an Arapaho Chief - 50¢."  That was a good bit of money for a photograph in 1949, but C. F. didn't stop until our Dad agreed to let him have his picture taken with the older Arapaho Indian.  We had the old chief's name at one time, but I have no idea where to look for it.  According to C. F., the Boy Scouts had a level called the Order of the Arrow.  Supposedly there were tough requirements to be nominated for the Order of the Arrow, and scouts took it quite seriously.  The best I recall, Boy Scouts used the language and their version of the "Indian culture" in the Order of the Arrow ceremony.  I believe he saw it once while attending summer camp and was always intrigued with Native Americans ever since that summer.  He blessed us by telling us all about it for many miles.  Anytime we stopped to eat or visit a historic site, C. F. showed that photograph to everyone he met, and he talked about Indians and their culture for most of the trip back home.  

Eight people in close quarters with one of the passenger talking about a single subject mile after mile did get on our nerves.  I was sure glad to have the "ViewFinder" and slides we bought at the Garden of the Gods to look at when C. F. was showing his big chief photo.  We did other things to help make the time go by when on the road, such as "count the states license plates"  to see who could come up with twenty-five  different state licenses first.  You had to write them down too.  Since I had not gone to school and couldn't write, I had my Mom writing down the states for me.  My brother Gene said C. F. added plates of cars that did not exist.  The trip taught me the world was a lot bigger than Sikeston, Missouri.  Overall, it was an enjoyable vacation.  

The Arapaho were a tribe of Native Americans historically living on the plains of Colorado and Wyoming. They were close allies of the Cheyenne tribe.  There were two different branches of Arapaho.  When the American government forced them into reservations, the tribe members that primarily lived in Wyoming were sent to a reservation in Montana.  The Southern Arapaho, mostly residing in Colorado, was transferred to an Oklahoma reservation.  Today, the Southern Arapaho live with the Southern Cheyenne in Oklahoma.
From the picture of C. F. and his Indiana friend, you can see that not all Arapaho were captured and forced into a reservation.  We saw twenty or so Arapaho when we traveled around Colorado.  I thought they were very handsome with their high cheekbones and pronounced noses.  I regret that the White man failed to honor its treaties with the Native Americans so they could have remained on the land where they were born.  That is in the past, let us today respect each other for who we are and try to get along with the blessings of diversity.  America is a better country for the diversity of her people.  I wish I could hear C.F. talk about our trip to Colorado one more time, but that is not possible now.