My great grandfather, W. E. Simpson, whom we always called Fat Grandpa, with one of his
prized angora goats.
the north wall, but the fireplace was
knocked down in a misguided effort to
make the land look as it had before
people arrived. On the southwest cor-
ner of the ruin is a flat stone the size of
a doormat, the threshold of my grand-
mother’s kitchen door, the spot where
she stood to gaze on the Chisos to be
rejuvenated. As I stand on the thresh-
old to see what she saw, an intense
ache rises in my throat.
There is little more to my goodbye
than that. I continue to explore the
ground, occasionally stooping to pick
up remnants of their lives: a flattened
can aged to a purple-bronze shade, a
sprig of rusted barbed wire, a desert-
sanded shard of Mason jar. By law, I
am only allowed to hold them for a
while. Then I must put them back
where I found them.
In April of 1933, a late spring bliz-
zard raged through the Big Bend a few
days after the goats had been sheared
of their angora coats. All but four goats
froze to death in a single night. This
time there was no way for the
Simpsons to hold on. They packed up
and walked away.
There is no park monument to the
Simpsons’ tenacity, resourcefulness,
artistry and love of beauty, no plaque
to tell their tale. The scant bits of their
existence here are being reclaimed by
the desert and lost in the vastness.
On the wind, I catch a sweet floral
scent and trace it to a low tuft of white
flowers bobbing on grayish stems. In
violation of park rules, I break off one
of the blossoms to inhale its perfume
on the way back to my van, thinking
maybe I’ll identify it later.
Before starting the van for the drive
to Alpine, I sit for a while contemplat-
ing this place and its meaning for me. I
think, let this, then, be my family’s Big
Bend legacy: a legion of thrifty, some-
what stoic, interesting grandchildren
and great-grandchildren and great-
great-grandchildren. Among this tribe
are scuba divers, travelers, artists,
rodeo riders, mountain bikers, boat-
builders, cooks, sailors, writers and fur-
niture-makers who know how to have
a good time and can fix their own
trucks, plumb their own houses, or sew
their own clothes. Among their com-
mon traits are an appetite for adven-
ture, a love of nature, little need for
money, a strength and tenderness of
spirit, and an ability to start over when
such seems all but impossible. I know
now why this rocky scrap of land has
become my Tintern Abbey and my
touchstone.
I look at the little flower on my
dashboard, admiring its fragile, pale
petals, its powdery, sage-colored
leaves, and its ability to bloom on hos-
tile turf. I don’t need to know its name.
My great-grandfather, W. E. Simpson, in the foreground facing toward his brother Luke
Simpson and my grandmother, Roxie. The men appear to be laying out plans for a project.
Cenizo
Second Quarter 2014
17