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Published in 2019 by Homebound Publications
Cover & Interior Designed by Leslie M. Browning
Cover Illustration: Native Design by © Dimas Adi
Cover Illustration: River/Wave Design by © Meranna
Interior Illustration (Title Page) by © Meranna
Interior Illustration (Section Page) by © Transia Design
Rosary Illustration by © F-dor
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Homebound Publications is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
1
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
–River by Joni Mitchell
2
River of Love
Rollin’ on The River
Art of moving on
without letting go
River of Life
Trust the Spirit
Faith simply allows
Love to flow in and out
The Divine Dance
circle in–out–receive
Release fear and doubt
that stops and resists
the One Flow of Love
In The River
no need to push it Relax–in God’s current carried by surprise
The River, the Flow, the Lover
Delicious ambiguity
Love–stronger than death
Love–who we are
Let the moment unfold into
what it is–
as it is
Just This…
1
Prologue
Great Blue Heron
The measure of Love is to Love without measure. –St. Augustine
I soar into the blessed, brillante, bluebird sky, and bolt through thin, layers of silvery, mares’ tail clouds. “Whew! My flying is rusty. I’m Juan de la Cruz (John of the Cross) Chávez, a wraith—a celestial being. I fly-by and drop in on my past life family to make sure all is muy bueno. It’s a chance to see my granddaughter Rose Ramirez who’s visiting her mother Alma, my daughter.
When Rose was in high school, this was a popular party spot on the Arkansas River. I watched over her, easily with a wingspan of six feet and a birds-eye view of all the activities. My camouflaged, blue-green color blended in with The River, rendering me almost invisible.
A strange word—Arkansas, pronounced Arkansaw, derived from the Quapaw Indian word akakaze meaning “land of downriver people.” The River carries the weight of the past. Rose is drawn to esta tierra encantada—this enchanted land.
I met my wife Eugenia, at a community dance, in a small town in Nuevo Méjico. I was eighteen; she was sixteen—I’d spend eternity Loving her. Her father was a prominent lawyer, and I was a poor shepherd’s son. I tried unsuccessfully to convince him that I’d be a good provider. My father found me a job at a large sheep ranch in Red Cañon, Colorado. The town straddled the easterly flowing Arkansas River. We married in secret and moved to our new life in the foothills of the majestic Rocky Mountains.
I worked as a sheepherder for a ranch owned by the Ku Klux Klan’s Exalted Cyclops of the Klavern, allegedly, that’s why I’m murdered. The three angry and jealous ruffians from Mexico couldn’t stand that I had a happy family life and modest fortune. I helped them with a beat-up friend, as I dressed his wounds, they slipped rat poison into my glass of wine. I was the author of my misfortune, a victim of my kindheartedness.
I left behind my beautiful wife Eugenia with three, small children to raise. We had eight grown children; four married daughters with families and four sons, proudly, serving in the armed forces during World War II.
A terrible time to disappear from mi querida’s—my darling’s life, with no savings to care for our daughters Alma, seven, Adele, five, and youngest boy, John, three. I hovered for over a year to ensure no harm came to them. I cursed the wicked murderers.
I fly west toward the Arkansas River where we lived off River Street. Our casita de la río vista—the house with The River view was a quick stroll on a rocky, ribbon path to the shimmery bluish-green water. A small, two-bedroom, brick house on a large lot with a garden for the big family. The softball diamond-sized side lot perfect for neighborhood games.
The house now is long gone, but tender memories transport me to happier times. The Chávez Ranchito bursts with children’s squeals, lively laughter and loud conversations of family, friends, and neighbors. The coffee warming on el fogón—the old, wood burning stove, continuously stoked with palillto’s—wood.
We always had room at the table especially during holidays the front porch double doors open wide welcoming with tamales, tortillas, papas—potatoes and frijoles—beans. Washed down with strong coffee while sharing dichos y cuentos—wisdom laced tales with Eugenia.
She’d lure them onto the edge of their seats while spinning supernatural yarns. Then curtly announced: “Time for midnight mass, grab your coats and jump in the truck.” Tough as steel and delicate as a butterfly.
A lay member of the Carmelite Discalced Order of the Catholic Church, her life work was assisting those in need. A healer and midwife who used herbal concoctions.
Red Cañon was the headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s. The white supremacist terrorist group had a resurgence. A wave of anti-immigrant sentiment fueled by bigotry against Jews, Catholics, and Blacks. The Klan surfaced after the Roman Catholic Church announced plans to build an Abbey monastery. Their motive was to block the unwelcomed Catholics. The town’s nickname was Klanyon City.
The Catholic Church enlisted a devout, Catholic gold miner as the front man to purchase the 90 acres of apple orchard land. He took along seven monks and passed them off as his sons.
I sail over Sacred