Many readers of this know that Marsha is an enthusiastic and (IMHO) quite talented knitter. So when we moved to Santa Fe and decided to volunteer at El Rancho de las Golondrinas, the Spanish Colonial living history museum in the nearby “census-designated place”* of La Cienega, it was a natural that her major “character playing role” interest was to be someone who practices the fiber arts of that historic period.
And as the museum’s website indicates there are plenty of opportunities to “learn [and practice] traditional activities and crafts like colcha embroidery, washing wool with yucca root, carding, spinning on wheels and malacates (spindles), dyeing with vegetable dyes, and weaving on two & four-harness looms.”
Here in northern New Mexico weaving is the preeminent Spanish – and Native American – fiber craft. In fact weaving with locally grown cotton has been happening in the Southwest since about 800 AD – eight centuries before the arrival of any Europeans. The Chimayo Weavers website says, “When the Spanish came to the Southwest, the Pueblo Indians were made to weave as part of their subjugation. The churro sheep brought by the Spanish became the new fiber source, and the striped, longer-than-wide format of the Rio Grande blanket was adopted for Pueblo blankets. In 1680 the Pueblo Revolt occurred, and the Spanish were driven back to El Paso del Norte. When the Spanish returned to New Mexico, more cooperative arrangements were made for peaceful coexistence. Pueblo weaving today consists of mantas, including elaborately embroidered examples, sashes of varying widths and weave structures, and the striped blanket descendants of those woven for Spanish overlords.”
Marsha has already taken her first weaving steps at El Rancho, wefting several inches on the museum’s pedal loom during the recent Fiber Fest. She also plans on learning colcha embroidery, which was popular from the early 1700s to late 1800s in the southwest United States.
According to nordicneedle.net, “the traditional Spanish Colonial colcha designs were influenced by East Indian prints and 18th century crewel. So, the designs included flowers, leaves, birds, often with a central medallion. The stitch that became known as ‘colcha’ was a self-couching stitch [aka Convent Stitch, Klosterstitch, Span Stitch, and Spannstitch.”] I am guessing that the “East Indian prints and 18th century crewel” that influenced colcha designs must have somehow come to northern New Mexico by way of the Camino Real and/or the Santa Fe Trail, which were really the only sources of new ideas for this at-the-time really isolated part of the North American continent.
While the majority of colcha embroidery was done on bedspreads made of “sabanilla”, a loosely-woven wool fabric with a 12- to 22-thread count, it also appeared frequently on runners and altar cloths.
But did the Spanish knit? Indeed yes.
The oldest knitted pieces that have been discovered are some intricately patterned socks (sometimes called Coptic socks) made of white and indigo cotton in Egypt around 1000 - 1400 AD. But the complexity and level of skill exhibited in these pieces of footwear clearly indicate this was not that first knitter’s first ever project.
So it is likely that knitting began closer to the low end of the above date range and was an extension of an earlier fiber art known as “nålbinding” – an hand craft known to have been in existence circa 250 – 420 AD that uses a single needle and produces a very similar-looking product. Knitting likely began when an early nålbinder, possible under deadline to get that birthday present done, picked up a second needle and tada! – a brand new craft is born.
And, according to sheepandstich.com this Egyptian invention then spread to Spain “carried over by Arabs during the Islamic Conquest or brought back by Spaniards during the Crusades – before exploding into the rest of Europe [where initially] it was mostly confined to the very rich, very royal or very religious (as in the Catholic Church).”
To that point, the oldest European knitting relics are some detailed silk pillow covers that date to around 1275 A.D., which were found in the tomb of Prince Fernando de la Cerdo of Spain. Most of the early knit objects in Spain, not surprisingly, were liturgical garments and accessories for the Catholic Church, knitted of very fine yarn and sometimes stitched with gold and silver threads.
By the 14th century knitting had spread to Italy and Germany as evidenced by my personal favorite thing I discovered in this research, the “knitting Madonnas” – paintings depicted the Virgin Mary sitting beside the baby Jesus, needles in hand, slipping, purling, and decreasing.
So why was the BVM knitting? The Cambridge History of Western Textiles believes these paintings indicate that knitting had more become commonplace and even fashionable among upper-class women – “sweetly domestic” according to Donna Kooler in the Encyclopedia of Knitting. As we will quickly see, knitting in the 1500s was very much of a guy-thing, so “it is unlikely that reverent altarpieces of the Madonna and Christ would introduce a revolutionary theme of the Madonna usurping a male-dominated trade.”
As mentioned earlier the hard-core knitters in Spain were the all-male knitting guilds that kept the Spanish men of style, in style. “Men in knee breeches depended upon elegant legs for their fashion status, and baggy stockings were a disaster,” says historian Irena Turnau. In addition to form-fitting stockings members of the guild had to demonstrate their expertise in making felted caps, embroidered gloves, shirts, waistcoats and knitted carpets.
My own las Gomondrinas character is that of a “vecino” farmer or miller (depending upon where I am needed) – neither of which call for the display of my elegant legs in knee length breeches. In fact the trousers I wear are largely indistinguishable from Levi jeans but for the stiffer canvas material, button fly, and lack of belt loops. So I will not be beseeching my favorite vecina for any custom-made leg ware. Marsha has however offered to crochet a red sash to add a little color to my gray, black and white ensemble.
And in return for this kind gift I am going work on finding an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe – our favorite icon (southwest or otherwise) – wefting away on a pedal mill. Or better yet perhaps convent-stiching colcha roses onto the cape of Juan Diego – the recently canonized native Mexican peasant to whom the Virgin appeared in 1531.
Since moving out here we have seen Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe's image just about everywhere, e.g. tattooed onto the backs, arms, and legs of women and men – or decorating the hoods of highly polished low-rider cars. So why not doing a little colcha?
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
El Casa de las Golondrinas
When the swallows started clinging to our front door screen and looking longingly into the house we became a little concerned. We have after all, like most of you, seen Alfred Hitchcock’s movie “The Birds” – or at least some of the scarier, more ominous scenes from it.
We had already figured that a pair of the fork-tailed, fast-flying, insect-eating birds were looking to set up some form of joint residency with us during their summer stay in the Santa Fe area. One of the recent conversations on “Nextdoor”, the private Internet social network for our neighborhood centered around how to “cure” the birds from “building mud nests near ceiling of entry.” Suggestions included hanging glittery tape and/or CDs, “bird netting laced through 2 thin drapery tension rods”, red Christmas wrapping ribbon, incense sticks, and “Amazon Bird Blind tape, hung around the porch.” On the other side – there always is at least one other side on the Nextdoor app – many folks cited the bird’s mosquito-eating benefit, said the nest would only be there a few weeks, and to let it be and “just clean up the poop on [your] front step.”
Our instinct was to go with the latter “live and let live” approach – especially since we are volunteers at an historic rancho and living history museum named El Rancho de las Golondrinas – “The Swallows Ranch.” Not to put too much faith into what could be a simple punctuation error, but we noticed it did not say “swallow’s” with an apostrophe, which would have implied avian ownership. So we figured the little golondrinas, which also have nests in various populated places around the ranch, were the type of co-residents who wouldn’t be too demanding.
Before the whole screen scene we were noticing the pair of them hanging out atop a two foot tall plastic owl that came with the house and dangles from the ceiling in the outermost corner of the portal entry – about six feet from our house’s front door. The purpose of the statue as we understand it is to scare pigeons and other birds away from our garden or property. It sure isn’t decorative. Obviously however “other birds” do not include golondrinas. We couldn’t see up high enough to tell what the little guys were doing up there – but they we there, and we were here – and that all seemed just fine.
Suddenly we noticed them clinging to our screen – which incidentally is not a swinging door but instead a sliding barrier that curls up into one side of the doorway when not in use, and is held in place by magnet when fully unfurled. Then, looking more carefully, Marsha realized they seemed to be coveting the dried flower and straw wreath that hung on the outside of the wooden front door itself – and, when opened, stood at a right angle to the mesh insect excluder – clearly visible and teasingly close. Perhaps that was the source of their building materials we mused. But when we ourselves looked closely at the apparent object of their affection we could see the concave beginnings of what would ultimately become a tiny mud and straw nest on the main entry to our house.
This potential situation brought to mind a similar story about an aunt and uncle of Marsha’s who retired to Green Valley, Arizona that resulted in them bypassing that means of entry for the duration of the bird’s building, birthing, and ultimate empty-nesting.
Not to be cruel and since the nest was far enough along to recognize its possibility but not so complete as to be yet usable, we took down the wreath. And to our relief the little house-builders seem to have simply transferred their nesting spot to the top of the head of the decoy owl – previously their on deck area – and from which they now look down less wistfully at the activities in our front entryway, and no longer need to cling like predatory home invaders eagerly waiting for their next chance.
So for this summer at least, welcome to El Casa de las Golondrinas – without the apostrophe, we hope.
We had already figured that a pair of the fork-tailed, fast-flying, insect-eating birds were looking to set up some form of joint residency with us during their summer stay in the Santa Fe area. One of the recent conversations on “Nextdoor”, the private Internet social network for our neighborhood centered around how to “cure” the birds from “building mud nests near ceiling of entry.” Suggestions included hanging glittery tape and/or CDs, “bird netting laced through 2 thin drapery tension rods”, red Christmas wrapping ribbon, incense sticks, and “Amazon Bird Blind tape, hung around the porch.” On the other side – there always is at least one other side on the Nextdoor app – many folks cited the bird’s mosquito-eating benefit, said the nest would only be there a few weeks, and to let it be and “just clean up the poop on [your] front step.”
Our instinct was to go with the latter “live and let live” approach – especially since we are volunteers at an historic rancho and living history museum named El Rancho de las Golondrinas – “The Swallows Ranch.” Not to put too much faith into what could be a simple punctuation error, but we noticed it did not say “swallow’s” with an apostrophe, which would have implied avian ownership. So we figured the little golondrinas, which also have nests in various populated places around the ranch, were the type of co-residents who wouldn’t be too demanding.
Before the whole screen scene we were noticing the pair of them hanging out atop a two foot tall plastic owl that came with the house and dangles from the ceiling in the outermost corner of the portal entry – about six feet from our house’s front door. The purpose of the statue as we understand it is to scare pigeons and other birds away from our garden or property. It sure isn’t decorative. Obviously however “other birds” do not include golondrinas. We couldn’t see up high enough to tell what the little guys were doing up there – but they we there, and we were here – and that all seemed just fine.
Suddenly we noticed them clinging to our screen – which incidentally is not a swinging door but instead a sliding barrier that curls up into one side of the doorway when not in use, and is held in place by magnet when fully unfurled. Then, looking more carefully, Marsha realized they seemed to be coveting the dried flower and straw wreath that hung on the outside of the wooden front door itself – and, when opened, stood at a right angle to the mesh insect excluder – clearly visible and teasingly close. Perhaps that was the source of their building materials we mused. But when we ourselves looked closely at the apparent object of their affection we could see the concave beginnings of what would ultimately become a tiny mud and straw nest on the main entry to our house.
This potential situation brought to mind a similar story about an aunt and uncle of Marsha’s who retired to Green Valley, Arizona that resulted in them bypassing that means of entry for the duration of the bird’s building, birthing, and ultimate empty-nesting.
Not to be cruel and since the nest was far enough along to recognize its possibility but not so complete as to be yet usable, we took down the wreath. And to our relief the little house-builders seem to have simply transferred their nesting spot to the top of the head of the decoy owl – previously their on deck area – and from which they now look down less wistfully at the activities in our front entryway, and no longer need to cling like predatory home invaders eagerly waiting for their next chance.
So for this summer at least, welcome to El Casa de las Golondrinas – without the apostrophe, we hope.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
The Battle of Glorieta Pass or Why New Mexico is not a Southern State/
Recently Marsha and I toured the Glorieta Pass Battlefield,
the site of one of New Mexico’s two military engagements during the U.S. Civil
War.
Back in 1792
French explorer Pedro Vial blazed a trail from Independence, Missouri to
northern New Mexico. In 1828 – when
merchants from the eastern United States sought to take advantage of new trade
opportunities with Mexico, which had just won independence from Spain and taken
control of New Mexico – Vial’s way
west, soon known as the Santa Fe Tail, would become the preferred way to get
there.
At this end
of the trail lay the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains through which two
passages were established. Raton Pass,
on the border between Colorado and New Mexico, was narrow and steep and initially
proved suitable only for packhorses. A 7,432'
high, one-half mile wide crossing at Glorieta Pass between the mountains and
the red wall of Glorieta Mesa proved to be easier to negotiate and became the
path of choice. The surrounding forests
possibly inspired the name Glorieta, which translates to “bower” meaning “a
pleasant shady place under trees.” The
Spanish word also can mean a small square, or a roundabout – as in traffic
circle, which is how it is commonly used today in parts of Spain and South
America.
New Mexico had
become a U.S. Territory in 1848 when the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (named for
the villa in which it was signed). ended the Mexican American War. So what was
the “War Between the States” doing in The Land of Enchantment?
According
to Charles S. Walker writing in the New Mexico Historical Review, “The
Confederate invasion of New Mexico was the initial movement of a campaign the
object of which was the seizure of the entire American Southwest and the
northern Mexican states. The cause of the invasion was the desire to see the
Confederacy a sea-to-sea power with all the advantages which a nation reaching
from the Atlantic to the Pacific between the parallels twenty-six and
thirty-six north latitude might enjoy.”
A big part
of this equation, according to H, our tour leader, was the possibility of a
coast-to-coast collection of “slave states”.
Texas, with its cotton farming economy, already was pro-slave. However, while the people of the southern
portion of the New Mexico had closer economic and cultural ties to the South,
the northern section with more voting power had strong business connections with
the Union states via Missouri and The Santa Fe Trail. As evidence of that southern discontent with
being overruled, a convention held at Mesilla New Mexico on March 16, 1861 adopted
a decree of secession, and called on the citizens of the western portion of the
New Mexico Territory to "join us in this movement".
U.S. Army
General Henry H. Sibley had been stationed in Arizona before the outbreak of
the war, and, like many other southern officers, resigned his commission. He then traveled east to inform Confederate President
Davis of the situation in New Mexico, and outlined a campaign to takeover the
entire Territory. It was the execution
of this strategy that culminated in the Battle of Glorieta Pass.
Sibley’s
plan, of which Jefferson Davis approved, was: to raise an army of three
regiments in West Texas; march up the Rio Grande River; capture Santa Fe; turn
northeast on the Santa Fe Trail; capture the supplies of equipment and food at
Fort Union; head up to Colorado and take control of the gold fields; and then
turn west to conquer California and its seaports. Fort Union (1851 – 1891) and the soon to be
mentioned Fort Craig (1853 – 1885) were among the series of forts constructed
in the wake of the U.S. – Mexico war and outlined in the 1848 Treaty of
Guadalupe Hidalgo.
Marching to
that plan Sibley and 3,500 men invaded the New Mexico Territory in February
1862 with the immediate objective of capturing Fort Craig located along El
Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, near Elephant, New Mexico. They were met near the town of Valverde at a
ford of Valverde Creek on February 20, 1862 by 3,000 men led by Union Colonel
Edward Richard Sprigg Canby who had left that fortified building to prevent the
Confederates from crossing the river.
Initially
Canby’s troops drove the Rebels back, but the Texans regrouped and launched a
frontal attack that drove Canby into retreat.
After two days of fighting Canby requested a truce under a white flag in
order to remove the bodies of the dead and wounded. During the cessation Sibley decided that he
had lost too many men and supplies to take Fort Craig itself, and went north to
Albuquerque, where the Federals had stored more goods. They reached Albuquerque
on March 2nd and attacked, however the Union defenders had already left town
with all of the supplies.
Sibley
continued slowly north to Santa Fe where he dispatched a group of 600 men to
take the Capital city – which they did on March 13, however, once again, there
was no federal ammunition or supplies. They did however hoist the Confederate Battle
Flag over the plaza – then headed to Fort Union, some ninety miles to the
northeast. Meanwhile Union reinforcements
from Colorado, under the command of Colonel John Slough, reached Fort Union. Canby then ordered Slough to “harass the
enemy by partisan operations, obstruct his movements and cut off his supplies”,
which Slough chose to interpret as “advance on the enemy.” He gathered 1,342 men from Fort Union and
began the march to Santa Fe.
Both Union
and Confederate forces moved north to the Santa Fe Trail at Glorieta Pass. Sibley, who had remained in Albuquerque, sent
a Confederate force of 200-300 Texans under the command of Maj. Charles L.
Pyron on an advance expedition over the Glorieta Pass, and six companies led by
of Col. Tom Green to block the eastern end of Glorieta Pass. Meanwhile Union forces made a fourteen-day, 400-mile
forced march from Denver, over Raton Pass, to Fort Union and then to Glorieta
Pass. On March 26, 27 and 28 both sides
locked horns in what some have called the "Gettysburg of the West" – a
term that "serves the novelist better than the historian" according
to historian Thomas Edrington. To that
point– casualties at Gettysburg totaled 23,049 for the Union (3,155 dead,
14,529 wounded, 5,365 missing); Confederate casualties were 28,063 (3,903 dead,
18,735 injured, and 5,425 missing) versus at Glorieta Pass Union casualties
were (51 killed, 78 wounded, 15 captured, 3 missing); and Confederate (50
killed, 80 wounded, 92 captured.) But
while Gettysburg was the “high-water mark of the Confederacy”, Glorieta
effectively ended any possibility of Jefferson Davis’ dream of a coast-to-coast
collection of “slave states”.
The conflict
played out at and around three major stops on the Santa Fe Trail – Johnson’s
Ranch, Pigeon’s Ranch, and Kozlowski’s Ranch.
Anthony P.
Johnson established his ranch at the western end of Glorieta Pass in what today
is called Cañoncito at Apache Canyon. From St. Louis Missouri, Johnson, came west
along the Santa Fe Trail in the late 1840s and worked as a teamster at Fort
Union. He bought the land on which he built his ranch of adobe and rock in 1858.
Johnson sold the ranch around was found murdered ten years later.
Moving
north to the village of Pecos and then west on State Road 50, still following
much of the Santa Fe Trail nearly to Glorieta, New Mexico, was Pigeon’s ranch –
a small portion of which remains today.
The ranch was built by Alexander Vallé, a French-American also from St.
Louis, Missouri who followed the Santa Fe Trail westward until settling upon
this narrow spot on the trail. The 35th Congress awarded him title to a land
grant in 1857 or 1858, indicating that he had received a Mexican land grant
during that country’s occupancy of New Mexico, possibly from Governor Manuel
Armijo in the 1840s. Armijo granted tracts of land to many foreigners who
promised to settle the eastern side of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and act
as a buffer between the settlements along the Rio Grande Santa Fe corridor and
the Plains Indians.
On his land
Vallé built a twenty-three-room complex with a principal structure that “formed
a kind of Asiatic caravansary”, and a double corral for enclosing and
protecting loaded wagons with attached sheds with stalls for draft horses and
mules. Initially named Rancho de la Glorieta, it popularly came to be known as
Pigeon's Ranch, according to folklore because of the way in which Vallé stuck
out his elbows while dancing at local fandangos. However at least one historian avers that
Vallé’s given name was Alexander Pigeon.
Whatever the owner’s surname, the hostelry was the largest and most
convenient stop on the trail between Las Vegas (New Mexico) and Santa Fe,
housing up to forty people and several hundred animals.
The
easternmost of the three hostels belonged to Martin Kozlowski. Born in Warsaw, he became a refugee from the
wars with Germany at the age of twenty-one and moved to England where he married.
By 1853 he and possibly his wife were in America where he enlisted in the 1st
Dragoons who were stationed at Fort Union from 1851-1856. Kozlowski mustered out in 1858 and settled
down on 600 acres of land alongside a plentiful spring on the Santa Fe Trail and
also began a business of catering to travelers – featuring a good meal prepared
by his wife, often fresh trout from the Pecos River. The hostelry, sometimes referred to as Gray's
Ranch by the soldiers, was later expanded to encompass a stage station for the
Barlow and Sanderson line.
According
to the Legends of America website, “Union
troops came into contact with a Confederate force of 200-300 Texans under the
command of Major Charles L. Pyron, who were encamped at Johnson’s Ranch, at one
end of the pass. [Under orders from Colonel Slough] Union Major John M.
Chivington led more than 400 soldiers on the morning of [March] 26th in an
attack, capturing some Confederate advance troops before finding the main force
behind them. Chivington advanced on
them, but their artillery fire threw him back. He regrouped, split his force to
the two sides of the pass, caught the Rebels in crossfire, and soon forced them
to retire.
“Pyron and
his men retreated about a mile and a half to a narrow section of the pass and
formed a defensive line before Chivington’s men appeared. The Union troops then
flanked Pyron’s men again, firing heavily into their ranks. When the
Confederates fled again, the Union cavalry charged, capturing the Confederate
rearguard. Chivington then retired and went into camp at Kozlowski’s Ranch. No
fighting occurred the next day [March 27] as reinforcements arrived for both
sides. Lieutenant Colonel William R. Scurry’s troops swelled the Rebel ranks to
about 1,100 while Union Colonel John P. Slough arrived with about 900 men.
“Both
Slough and Scurry decided to attack early on March 28th. As Scurry advanced
down the canyon, he saw the Union forces approaching, so he established a
battle line, including his dismounted cavalry. Slough hit them before 11:00 am.
The Confederates held their ground and then attacked and counterattacked
throughout the afternoon. The fighting then ended as Slough retired first to
Pigeon’s Ranch and then to Kozlowski’s Ranch.”
Scurry left
the field believing that he had won the battle – which at that point he had. However unbeknownst to him a detachment led by
Major Chivington and guided through the unfamiliar Glorieta Pass terrain by Lt.
Col. Manuel Chaves of the New Mexico volunteers secretly rappelled down a
mountain overlooking Johnson’s Ranch wherein the remaining Confederate supplies
and animals were sequestered. Chivington’s sharpshooters picked off most of the
small number of guards. Union forces
then destroyed the entire storehouse of food and weapons (driving spikes into
the touch holes of the cannon to prevent their further use), and ran off the horses
and mules.
“Facing
defeat and starvation, Sibley and his men began their retreat to Texas. They
were pursued all of the way to Fort Craig by Canby’s troops, but, finally
slipped from the Federals by a circuitous route. Nearly dead of thirst and
starvation, 1,700 Confederate survivors eventually reached safety in El Paso,
Texas on May 4th.”
Time and
progress have replaced most of the battlefield with roads and thick pinyon
juniper woods. On our tour however we
were still able to pull off the road at the keys points of the battle –
Johnson’, Pigeon’s and Kozlowski’s Ranches – get a sense of the physical
surroundings and be able to picture the action in spite of the noise and
backdrafts of nearby semis, cars, and motorcycles. We also walked part of the Glorieta
Battlefield Trail, a 2.3 mile loop that brought us to “Artillery Hill” from
where the Union directed fire on the third day of battle, and to a vantage
point from which we could look down upon Pigeon’s Farm and “Sharpshooter’s
Hill” where Slough established his battle headquarters from which he was driven
when the Confederates attacked from the one direction the Union was not
guarding, even though its was by far the easiest way up the mountain.
Our tour
ended at the site of Johnson’s Ranch – the site of Chivington’s destruction of the Confederate supplies,
equipment, and horses, which effectively ended southern combat activities in
New Mexico. By the end of July, 1862 all
Confederate troops had left the territory, never to attempt a return visit.
Marsha and
I moved to northern New Mexico from Wethersfield, Connecticut – a place from
which most people retire to “The South” – North Carolina, Florida, etc. One of the principal reasons for our choice,
in addition to the lack of humidity and hurricanes, was the unique ambiance of
Santa Fe. Which, but for the unguarded
Confederate supplies at Johnson’s Ranch, might not have been.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Spanish Colonial Drip Gardening
As
newcomers, we have been told several times that in Santa Fe, , if you want to
get something done you’ve probably got to know somebody who knows
somebody. And now we have learned that
if you want to find out about the real dirt in town you absolutely, definitely
need to know someone who knows someone.
And now we do.
While I am
really enjoying experiencing new plants, grown in a new environment, in new
ways – I have at the same time been missing the joy of gardening in real soil –
something friable that I could run my fingers through, as opposed to the
hardpan caliche that I can barely get my fork-tongued weed-digging tool
into. But now my dirt drought may be
over.
El Rancho de las Golindrinas, the Living History Museum where Marsha and I are volunteering,
has, of all things, a drip irrigation garden, which is located in one of the
not-open-to-the-public parts of the 200 acre property along with a cold frame
for starting seeds, and small fledgling “cider apple” tree orchard – two of
which do not fit in at all well with the Spanish Colonial period being
interpreted at the museum.
And it
turns out that Marsha had a meeting with J, the Curator of Agriculture at las
Golondrinas, to inventory what was growing the museum’s herb garden, which a
group of us are trying to reestablish from its current semi-dormant condition. And serendipitously twelve rows in the drip garden needed to be
hoed immediately for subsequent planting.
Las
Golondrinas does not open until June so the grounds were empty of people as the
three of us took the ten minute walk on the dirt trail behind the partially
reconstructed 18th century Spanish Colonial adobe home in the
Golondrinas Placita; past the 19th century Baca House; down the hill
next to the Hide Tanning Area; across the Acequia Madre (aka “Mother Ditch”,
which provides water to the historically maintained area and was running on one
of the museum’s designated use days); turned left past the Carpenter Shop as we
glanced at the deserted Las Milpas (“The Fields”, which later in the season
would show traditional crops); and alongside the football field sized garden
area – about one-third of which was currently being drip irrigated.
After a
quick tour of the cold frame and orchard – and a rapid run through of what I
was to do, Marsha and J headed up to the mid-1800 Sierra Village – fifteen
minutes away and the site of the herb garden – to catalogue what was coming to
life in that plot. While I set to work on digging up the earth and thinning out
the weeds and such that had taken root in the area alongside each side of the
drip tubes.
My weapons du
jour (actually “del día”) were (1) an old slightly rusted (but probably not
Spanish Colonial) long hoe whose blade had one hole in each side – a type of
implement known, according to my after the fact Internet searches, as a mortar
hoe (“the 2 holes situated in the blade enable you to efficiently mix cement
before leveling it”) – (2) plus the
basic plastic lawn rake that everyone in our old suburban Connecticut town had
at least two of. The drill was to weed
out the bad guys and rake them into little piles, which would then be picked up
by an unidentified person.
As it has
been just about every day since we moved out here one year ago it was a
cloudless, sunny day – with a slight breeze that gusted uncomfortably several
times while I was working. And I was
alone, which I became fully aware of about five minutes into my project when
the aforementioned wind tried to wrest my straw hat from my head and, as I
grabbed the top to prevent its flight, glanced up to see nothing but dry land, green
Cottonwood trees, and the orchard. I was wearing a black short sleeve tee
shirt, chino cargo pants, running shoes, and a Silver Creek Golf Course straw
hat. But I could easily imagine looking
down from above and seeing a tall, thin, breeches-clad, linen-shirted, solitary
18th century gardener toiling away in his fields with his rusted weeding
tool.
Sixty minutes later, just as I was wishing the Angels would come and help me with my work as, according to the hagiography, they had for Saint Isidore the patronsaint of farmers, Marsha and J appeared on the horizon – not to take over my workload so that I could spend more time at church, but to tell me it was time to head back home.
On our way
back to the hill we noticed a man with his shovel directing the waters from the
acequia into the furrowed rows of Las Milpas – also contemporaneously clothed –
also a Spanish Colonial garden worker in spirit.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
A Brief History of New Mexican Cerveza
A Brief History of New Mexican Cerveza
A few weeks
ago the group of us who are working to reestablish the herb garden at El Rancho
de Las Golindrinas were tossing around ideas for types of plants and chatting
about their historical, medical or culinary uses. Someone brought up the question of when beer
arrived in New Mexico. We all agreed
that the yeast-fermented, malt-flavored, alcoholic drink seemed to be pretty
much a worldwide food staple. But it
obviously didn’t spontaneously come to life everywhere at the same time. Did it come with the Spanish Colonialist
beginning in the late 1500s? Was it the
Mexicans who brought it after they achieved independence from their southern
European conquerors in 1821? The
Americans when New Mexico became an U.S. Territory in 1848? Or was it possibly here “pre-contact”, as the
period of time prior to non-native boots on the ground is known.
Or maybe
even a little bit of all of the above.
Spain – Abundant and Inexpensive Wine
Beer has
been in Spain for quite a while – and apparently Rome. The writings of Pliny the Elder (23 AD to 79 AD), the Roman philosopher and
author (who coincidentally has an American beer named after him) indicate that
he himself did not care for the brewski from Hispania, which he also felt the
Iberians themselves were drinking way too much of. However it is uncertain from whence or when
this fermented beverage arrived in Spain – whether it was introduced into the
country by the Greeks or Phoenicians who often traded in the southern part of España
– or perhaps by some Libyan soldiers who brought it with them – or some other
way.
In any
event Spanish beer went largely unnoticed throughout Europe until Charles V (aka
Carlos Quinto) arrived in the country from Flanders in 1516. (He later would become Holy Roman Emperor
from 1519-1558 while remaining King of Spain until 1556.) Charles had acquired
an affinity for the malt beverage in Flanders, which, unlike his new home
country, was not a wine producer. Finding
nothing local to his liking he imported that with which he was familiar, and
hired a central European brew master to establish and run a small beer factory
located in a nearby monastery.
But the
Spanish people hated Carlos V and, possibly by extension, his favorite drink –
so it too quickly fell by the popular wayside.
And the brews of his son and successor Philip II did not fair much
better – even though he commanded the reestablishment of beer production on the
Manzanares River in central Spain. Nonetheless,
despite the lack of popularity within both the country’s commoners and gentry
alike, beer continued to be brewed in varying quantities. Which disfavor was due, most likely, to the
fact that wine in Spain was abundant, good and inexpensive.
Beginning
in 1611 more factories were opened in Madrid – all named after their owners,
all of whom were Flemish, Alsatian or German – anything but Spanish. Still, not until the beginning of the 20th
century did the beverage become popular enough for large factories such as Mahou
(1890); Águila (1900); Cruz del Campo (today called Cruzcampo) (1904); and Damm
(1910) to achieve some degree of success.
It took
until the 1960s for beer to finally became less expensive than wine and take
over as the preferred drink of the summer.
This trend was also helped by the advent of the small glass of beer
known as a “caña”, which allows present day Spaniards to hop from one bar to
another for an evening of “Cañas y tapas.”
Mexico – Supply Side Economics and Independence
Before the
Spanish conquest of Mexico there were many local fermented beverages in that
country– the best known being “pulque”, made from the sap of the maguey or
agave plant and “tesgüino” or “izquiate”, a light, amber-colored corn-based liquid
which is whisked before drinking. The
soldiers of Hernán Cortés likely produced the first barley beer in Mexico during
his 1518 expedition. But a lack of
supplies abruptly ended that self-help enterprise.
The first
official license (“concession”) to brew European-style beer in Mexico was
granted to Alfonso de Herrero in 1543 or 1544.
The brewery was likely located either south of Mexico City (where Metro
Portales is today) or in Amecameca. The
factory struggled to get started due to a lack of supplies, which in turn drove
up its price – and from competition by traditional local, less expensive
drinks. It did catch on though with
colonial officials – however heavy taxation and regulations from the mother
country, which were designed to force the colonies to import commodities from
Europe, eventually drove de Herrero’s and other breweries out of business. As in Spain however, Mexican beer production never
totally stopped, and just prior to the War of Independence beer consumption was
well established enough to prompt disputes over who was legally entitled to
produce it. Two Englishmen, Gillons and
Mairet, and a pair of Mexicans Miguel Ramos Arizpe and Justino Tuallion all
claimed exclusive rights to produce beer in Mexico. When the war ended the beer put out by the
Tuallion brewery proved to be the most popular.
After independence the Spanish restrictions
were lifted – and the industry was allowed to develop. In 1845, a barley beer flavored with
piloncillo (unrefined whole cane sugar) was introduced under the names “Pila
Seca” and “La Candelaria” by Swiss brewer Bernhard Boldgard and Bavarian Federico
Herzog respectively. However the influx
of German immigrants in the second half of the nineteenth century and the
short-lived Second Mexican Empire headed by Emperor Maximilian I of the House
of Habsburg was what truly began the Mexican brewing industry. The Emperor brought in his own brew master to
produce Vienna-style dark beers for his boss – an influence that can be seen today
in the popular Negra Modelo and Dos Equis Amber brands.
This was
followed over the next fifty years by the establishment of a large number of
breweries (“cervecerías”) in various parts of the country, among them: Cruz
Blanca in Mexico City by Emil Dercher in 1869 (which produced the first lager);
Yucateca by José Ponce Solis in Mérida in 1869 (with German equipment and a German
brewer); and the Cervecería Chihuahua by Juan Terrazas in Chihuahua in 1896.
The arrival
of the Mexican railroad system at the end of the nineteenth century brought
good news – the import of machinery and malt from the United States – and not
so good news – U.S. produced beer. By
1890, the first industrial-size cervecería, Cuauhtémoc, was built in Monterrey –
followed four years later, by Moctezuma in Orizaba. Corona, the best-known and best-selling
Mexican beer in the U.S. began in 1925 at Cervecería Modelo in Mexico City,
with exports to the United States beginning in 1933.
So did
either the Spanish or Mexicans introduce any of their beers into New Mexico? Or was it already here, pre-contact?
Near Beer and Boomtown Breweries
The
Franciscan Monks who followed Don Juan de Oñate and the Spanish Colonists in
1598 into the upper valleys of the Rio Grande had need of sacramental wine to
be used in their holy masses. The
nearest source was several months’ travel away.
So In 1629, Franciscan friar García de Zúñiga and Capuchín monk Antonio
de Arteaga planted the first wine grapes in the Río Grande valley of southern
New Mexico. By the year 1880, grapes were
grown on over 3,000 acres, and New Mexico Territory wineries were producing
over 1,000,000 US gallons of wine – fifth in the United States. That year the Socorro
(New Mexican) Bulletin predicted, "We see in the present attention given
to grape culture, an important and growing industry which, in a few years, will
assume proportions of no ordinary nature."
But was
this The Land of Enchantment’s first intoxicating beverage?
"There’s
been an artificial construct among archeologists working in New Mexico that no
one had alcohol here until the Spanish brought grapes and wine. That’s so
counter-intuitive. It doesn’t make sense to me as a social scientist that New
Mexico would have been an island in pre-Columbian times," wrote botanical
archaeologist.
Glenna Dean.
Early
tribes in Mexico and Arizona are known to have produced a weak (low alcohol
content) beer called “tiswin” from fermented corn. But no evidence of this brewing had been
found in The Land of Enchantment until Dr. Dean, with the help of Sandia Laboratories,
discovered bits of alcohol residue typical of beer production on several 800-year-old
potsherds that had been found in ancient New Mexico pueblos.
Glenna Dean
warns, “It’s always possible that corn fermented in a pot without the intent of
the owner." But still…
My Internet
searches for the “history of beer in America” all produced results that tell of
the history of that beverage in Colonial East Coast America. This Brit-centric view of the past will not
of course be a shock to any New Mexican who has ever tried to investigate their
home state’s past. So just to tell THAT
story – according to beeradvocate.com:
“1607 First shipment
of beer arrives in the Virginia colony from England.
“1609 American
"Help Wanted" advertisements appear in London seeking brewers for the
Virginia Colony.
“1612 Adrian Block
& Hans Christiansen establish the first known brewery in the New World on
the southern tip of New Amsterdam (Manhattan).”
The list of
landmark beer events continues – but nowhere do the words “Spain” or “Mexico”
(old or New) appear. However beginning
in the 1800s and extending mostly throughout the latter part of that century
some of New Mexico’s own landmark events conspired to draw the map of the territory’s
first beer trail. Fabled mines such as Bridal
Chamber, Confidence, Little Hell, Calamity Jane, Hardscrabble, Mystic Lode,
North Homestake, Little Fanny, and Spanish Bar drew thousands of thirsty prospectors
to New Mexico in search of the mother lode and instant wealth. Most were Anglo settlers who came from parts
of the country where beer was available.
And at the end of the day they were used to having a tall cool one.
But
apparently not all of them. The “New
Mexico Nomad” website reports, “These communities varied in character. Some set
the precedent for the bawdy old west mythos of brothels, gamblers, saloons and
shootouts. Some were quiet, calm communities of law abiding, god-fearing folk.
For example, Kingston and Chloride [3,000 people, 8 saloons] were party towns,
with an impressive ratio of saloons to citizens and a dearth of chapels,
whereas Winston was established by people who thought Chloride was unruly so
they set up their own town down the canyon.”
There were
however enough “wet” towns to support a small, burgeoning industry. Jon C. Scott writes in “New Mexico Beer”, “Although
Albuquerque, Las Cruces, Santa Fe, and Las Vegas, all towns along the Santa Fe
Trail and later the railroads, had their share of breweries, many others
operated in places that are now ghost towns, or at best tiny villages. Mogollon, Bland, Elizabethtown, Georgetown,
Kingston, and Sapello were boomtowns, built during the silver, and to a lesser
extent, gold rushes in the latter part of the nineteenth century, and
disappearing or dwindling to a few dozen people when the boom ended.” (Sapello was also the original site of El
Molino Grande (The Big Mill) at El Rancho de las Golondrinas.)
These
breweries did not last for a long time – thirteen of them for three or less
years, and four of them for a single annum.
When the mines closed so did they.
And, with the arrival of the railroads, beer was now being shipped into
the region from other parts of the country cutting in to the rest of the local
market.
The vast
majority of these beer factories were owned and/or operated by German or German
trained brew masters – the same ethnic group that were establishing the
American Midwest based brands that would come to dominate the industry into the
twenty-first century with names such as Pabst, Schlitz, Strohs, Anheuser-Busch,
and (Marsha’s and my personal favorite) Yuengling – America’s Oldest Brewery
begun when David G. Yuengling migrated from Wuerttemberg Germany to the
coal-mining town of Pottsville, Pennsylvania.
According
to Jon C. Scott, the first actual record of a brewery was in Sante Fe around
1855. A flood destroyed the business and
I was unable to find its name. Among the
known early New Mexico beer producers were the Illinois Brewing Company (1882–1918)
in Socorro, a liquor wholesaler that moved into brewing in the mid-1880s; and
the Southwestern Brewery and Ice Company (1888–1918) in Albuquerque maker of
the well-known Glorieta brand. Both never resumed beer production after
prohibition but continued selling ice and soda.
Improved
transportation and distribution systems – plus lower production costs – brought
the midwestern beers to New Mexico in the early 1900s, basically closing down
the territory/state’s producers. And
Coors, a Colorado beer began selling in New Mexico, becoming the state’s de
facto “local” beer.
Then, in
1988 the Santa Fe Brewing Company became the first New Mexico brewery to open
since 1909 – to be followed by a multitude of local producers including Bosque,
Broken Bottle, Chama River, Marble and Tractor.
I think I
should stop here before the topic gets stale – nothing is worse than a flat
beer. It is time instead to reconvene
the herb garden restoration quintet for another planning session – this time though
perhaps accompanied by an ice cold “Twisted Root” from Santa Fe Brewery, or a
nicely chilled “Sauvage Rosé” from Albuquerque’s Gruet winery. Or maybe even some home-brewed tiswin
fermented in the garage of local Paleo-Indian.
Whatever
our beverage, let’s have a toast – “To history, and to beer’s part in it!”
Sources:
“New Mexico Beer: A History of
Brewing in the Land of Enchantment”, Jon C. Scott, American Palate, 2014
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