| Back to INDEX | [Found in Archives of Loyola of Chicago] (The following article was taken from EXTENSION MAGAZINE for June, 1930) - p. 29 [herein numbered consecutively 1-15 following the typescript, with the notation: [Endres Extension 1930, #].] A MISSIONARY’S LIFE [Endres Extension 1930, 1] Can you visualize a little western town, springing up on the flats at the foot of the towering Shoshone Mountains, with its homely main street, wooden buildings and log cabins, thrown together on the urge of quick business? It is Christmas Eve. Preparations for the merry day are going on here as elsewhere. The grocer is busy, the shoppers thronging the little stores, for the mountain folk are in town; and busiest of all are the thirteen saloons dispensing liquid cheer! It is above some such building that there is a hall, used mostly for dances. Towards midnight the would-be church is ready for its first Christmas Midnight Mass. A crude altar, some draperies, a few cedar branches from the near-by mountains, a hastily erected confessional. A young priest comes with his large valise and unpacks the necessary vestments for the sacrifice. A few confessions, and midnight Mass begins; really and truly a “Stille Nacht”; no music; a few words are addressed to the newly-formed congregation of about thirty people. Overcome by the strangeness of the surroundings, aroused by the still fresh memories of such a glorious Feast in the well established and embellished churches of Europe, but recently out of the halls of learning and separated from my companion students, is it any wonder I gave way to my emotions and wept bitter tears before my new congregation, many of whom could sympathize with me, having experienced the sorrow of separation from friends and family connections. [Endres Extension 1930, 2] That was over twenty-three years ago. Many Christmas days have come and gone, but not one passes without my thoughts returning to this, my first Christmas in a strange land. In after years, I recall, many young people who had come out here among strangers, hungering for sympathy and consolation, would break down in a familiar talk, and, having had their cry, they would apologize for their weakness. However, I told them my own story. They felt strengthened by our mutual experience. WYOMING GETS A NEW PARISH Prior to my arrival, the Bishop, Rt. Rev. J.J. Keane, late Archbishop of Dubuque, made a trip through this section, accompanied by a famous Jesuit Missionary of the Crow Agency of Montana, Rev. P.P. Prando. The Bishop investigated the possibilities of this new country, with an idea of establishing a parish in this vast territory of some fifteen thousand square miles, just emerging from its age-long obscurity. The records show that several children were baptized. One Mass was said in each of several small communities for the first time. The extent of the parish, the Big Horn Basin, so-called because it is actually a basin surrounded on all sides by immense mountains, chief among them the Big Horns, covers roughly an area of thirteen thousand square miles, not counting Yellowstone Park. This territory, apparently, had no historic value beyond the memory of the present generation of old-timers. No railroad, no old trails, no Fort, no headquarters of Indian tribes. It was just one of those immense pockets of the Rocky Mountains, reserved for periodical hunts on the part of Red Men. Father DeSmet passed it either on the north or south as he traveled back and forth to his northern Missions. Later it became the holding of large cattlemen and ranchers, who resisted the invasion of new white settlers and homesteaders. The towns were, all of them, of recent date. In the year 1906, the Burlington Railroad extended a branch line, to tap the resources of this new country. [Endres Extension 1930, 3] It is to this Basin country that I was sent in the Fall of 1906. I took leave of the bishop and priests at Cheyenne. I reached Casper one afternoon in October, and was the guest of F. Bryant. I could give a graphic description of the straggling little western town, now a famous oil center. It boasted wooden sidewalks and a plain white church, and was pleasure headquarters for the gay and festive cowpuncher for hundreds of miles. About five o’clock the next morning I was called out in the blackness of night, served my bacon and eggs, prepared by my porter, and packed off on a waiting freight train into the vast and unknown beyond. I have since heard of the strange impressions made upon the new arrivals in these vast, desert stretches, this God-forsaken country, as it is so often called. All these impressions were mine as we rode slowly on this trip, headed for the West. Mile after mile of lonesome prairies, broken up in zigzag fashion by dry creeks, ravines and gullies, and in the long, far-away distance, the blackness of the mountains. It took a day to reach Shoshone, a little place of tents, horses, wagons and saloons. The Iron Horse had balked in front of the Big Range of mountains, over which, I was told, I had to navigate the next morning. I looked around this mushroom town for a cafe. There was none in sight. Some men told me where to go for breakfast. It was a saloon, but in the back was a kitchen. My breakfast consisted of a big platter of steak, flanked by fried potatoes, a stack of pancakes, coffee and biscuits, all for fifty cents. This over, a stage coach with four horses drove up in front of the small hotel. The proprietor must have been disgusted when a poor cleric was the only passenger. The first ten miles of sand and badlands were soon covered, and the slow ascent of foothills began. The horses walked now. The clouds, dense [Endres Extension 1930, 4] and black, covered the whole mountain. The snow fell thick and fast and as we climbed higher, I sat shivering in the big coach, a lonely boy, and wondering “What next.” It was a joyful experience to reach the half-way station, where the noon meal was served in the friendly blaze of the cook stove. The cook was a crank. I wanted to warm my feet, and the gruff fellow said: “Look out; you break my oven door!” With new horses, refreshed and warmed, we made the other half at an easier and swifter pace. We dropped some 2,700 feet into a small basin, surrounded by foothills. It was the town of Thermopolis, Greek for “Hot Town,” renowned for the big flow of a Hot Springs. No snow had reached the valley. The streets were one mass of flour-like red dust, accumulated from the long dry season of Summer and Fall. Here, then, I was a stranger at home. I had reached my parish. Needless to say the bishop had given me some names of Catholic people. In a short while a good Irish Samaritan took me into his home. Blessed time of youth! A home, a friendly fire and a warm meal, and all my troubles vanished and the worries of tomorrow disappeared like the snow and the cold of the mountains left behind us, The few Catholic people were notified and the next day, Sunday, we had Mass in the house of my friend, with an attendance of about twenty-five people. The announcement was made that hereafter I would come and say Mass for them once a month. On Monday morning, at an early hour, a stage coach took me and other travelers to the terminus of the railroad, and after an all-day ride in a freight train, I arrived in Cody, which town was to be my headquarters for the next three years. The names of these places I mention are familiar now to many tourists, who wend their way to Yellowstone Park, on good highways, making their 300 and more miles per day, and some of you readers may recall having stopped in our midst. [Endres Extension 1930, 5] After a few days of orientation, I secured a room in Cody, with a Catholic family, and on Sundays we had Mass and evening devotion in a hall hired for that purpose. One thing stands out sharply in my memory, namely, the climate. Cody is at an elevation of 5,000 feet above sea level. This fact gave me trouble in breathing, and caused nose-bleed. The other objectionable feature was the continuous gale of wind from the West. I am reminded of what happened in Cheyenne to my companion, F. Shellinger [sic?], and myself. The bishop advised us to take a walk, so we did. The wind is no stranger in Cheyenne. Once we reached the open country it was no walk, but a steady race after our European-made hats, and upon our return home I ventured to point out to the bishop that his advice to take a walk turned into a steady race. He smiled. From Cody I would branch out to the various parts of the country, on train, stage-coaches and horseback, with church vestments packed in a grip or rolled up in saddle-bags, a Knight Errant of the Road. Referring to my loneliness, I might mention that by rail I was now ten thousand miles from headquarters, two hundred miles from the next priest in a neighboring State, left to my own devices and resources. I was encompassed on all sides by mountains and the impression made on my mind was that I was at the end of the world. STAGE COACHING Chief among the nightmares and disagreeable memories of the past is the famous horse-coach. Nothing was slower, nothing more uncomfortable, nothing more disagreeable than this old conveyance. The dust and heat in the summer, the bitter cold of winter nights, the poor meals served at the half-way station, and often the unwelcome company, all added their bit to the general discomfort. On my first trip to Meeteetse some men got on half drunk, and as I was unfamiliar with English, I was made acquainted with all the swear words of the language. For that reason as soon as I was able to ride a horse and [Endres Extension 1930, 6] stick to it I acquired such a companion, traveling at my own convenience during the day, instead of at night. The stage was mail-carrier and had to await the train, which was invariable hours late. What a thrill I got from my first horse! A pretty, strong, young and spirited animal. How uncertain my seat in the saddle, when he got excited or stubborn! It proved to be one of my pastimes. There never was a day, but I took a ride, rain, cold or heat. It was not altogether pleasure, either, that spurred me on. Riding, you know, must be a steady practice, in order to keep fit, and, more cogent reason of all, the well-fed animal had to be ridden in order to keep him within riding possibilities. I remember one cold, drizzly morning I wanted to go to some camp up the river. It felt cold enough for a fur coat. At the sight and smell of this coat the horse snorted and pranced away. Somehow I got on him, but not long enough to be conscious of my seat, and I landed in front of him, flat in the mud, the stem of a pipe in my mouth and the bowl buried somewhere in the mud. However, we became great companions, and had many adventures together. The weather was not always to our comfort; the slippery roads and icy patches were treacherous to his hoofs. On one occasion we both went down twice, head over heels, both skinned from the fall on icy and rutty roads. What an adventure to leave the homeless room of a boarding house and set out for the vast outdoors, glad to get away from the hum-drum existence of a little town! The feeling of elation is wonderfully described in the book Death Comes for the Archbishop. The talented writer described the long journeys of the zealous Father Latour, riding behind his newly acquired span of mules, among his widely scattered flocks, visiting all of the settlements of his Spanish parishioners and Indian tribes, never anxious to return home but fixed with the zeal of a true missionary, always on the look-out for new adventures. [Endres Extension 1930, 7] Such, in a smaller capacity, were my feelings on setting out into the open country or following the trails, in quest of small congregations, scattered over the broad plains and mountain recesses, and along the river valleys. Meeteetse was one of my regular Missions, where I said Mass in a private house. Only yesterday I performed the marriage ceremony of the first child I baptized, twenty some odd years ago. The Greybull valley harbored a few Catholic families, whom I visited twice a year. I remember such a visit. It was about the twentieth of May. After my ministrations in Meeteetse, I rode down the river — a picturesque ride. On my left were the bench-lands, where the rattlesnakes had a home on the sunny slopes and rocks, and the cottontails darted back and forth. On the right the narrow valley, dotted here and there with log-houses and barns, surrounded by fertile fields of alfalfa, the turbulent stream dashing along and fed by the melting snows of the upper country and mountains. In the distance, the ugly and fantastic hills, starting the immense stretches of badlands. It was a warm day. The gnats bothered both men and horse. But what a revelation the next morning! The few families had scarcely returned to their respective ranches when immense clouds enveloped both mountains and plains. The snow began to fall. It snowed for two days and nights. Marooned in a lonely ranch, I read about the whole of the library, composed of western stories. The storm being over, I was anxious to be on the move. The sun came out strong, but what a change on the ground! Two feet of snow, melting rapidly as the sun climbed higher. I set out across country, the sagebrush half hidden, the creeks flowing to full capacity, the horse covered with mud and water and my legs spattered with the same substance. It was a slow process, but added another experience of an erratic climate at this season of the year. PIONEER CONGREGATIONS [Endres Extension 1930, 8] It might be interesting to mention here of what the congregation of my parish were composed. Small towns had sprung up in various parts of the country. Meeteetse was the center of quite an old settlement of ranchers, stockmen; it was also on the main line from Cody to Thermopolis. It was a lively town. Cody originated from an irrigation project fostered by Buffalo Bill, and the railroad built on the prospect of new settlements. At this time I also visited camps, busy in the construction of irrigation projects. The building of the Shoshone Dam, just out from Cody, employed hundreds of men, mostly foreigners. I also said Mass at the construction camps of Corbett, below Cody, where a tunnel of two and one-half miles was being bored under a high bench land, to divert the waters to the present Powell Flat. Basin had a few Catholics, being the county seat. Greybull was just in embryo. Worland began its career of farming and the mines of Gebo and Crosby were opened about this time. Thermopolis got its railroad in the year 1910. For three years I thus visited these various settlements, saying Mass in halls, jails, private houses, wherever it was found convenient. At home, having but one room, I said Mass during the week on a dresser. I can recall the glance of astonishment of the bishop when he came for his first visit and said Mass on the same dresser. We had no church anywhere. There was no prospect of building one in the near future. Cody had experienced a short-lived boom; when I came it went flat. People left, and the congregations dwindled to but a few families. A young man suffered the loss of his wife and child. Drawn together by mutual sympathy we decided to rent a small apartment of three rooms. The front was reserved for a chapel, and though but an ordinary room it was amply sufficient for the decreasing congregation. The middle room was mine, and the rear one my companion’s. From here dates my experience of culinary matters. We “bached” together. Needless to say, we were two lonesome young men, he despondent over the cruel loss of his wife, and I facing a most critical situation. So critical was it that one man, [Endres Extension 1930, 9] well disposed, would ask me each time he met me: “How are you, Father? Do you get enough to eat?” It was about this time that I was asked to write an article for the EXTENSION MAGAZINE. I wrote the article, setting forth in lamentable undertone my desperate situation. It appeared in EXTENSION about twenty years ago. Apparently it struck the cords of sympathy of a gentleman of Brooklyn. He wrote a short letter and offered his assistance in the form of $1,000. This was the most welcome news in my desolate situation. My companion had left, and here I was alone again. With the advice of the bishop, and with his consent, I decided to leave Cody, where no church could be built. I moved my headquarters and my few articles of furniture to Thermopolis, which gave greater promise. This was in 1909. Three churches were built in the Fall of this year; one in Powell, St. Barbara, in honor of the wife of the generous man mentioned above; one in Thermopolis and one in Basin. Assistance for the erection of these two latter was secured through the bishop, who in his zeal for the new missions, had collected funds in the East. Though young and inexperienced, I could feel the lack of some kind of organization that would help out Catholic Missions. One could not fail to experience it, when all around Protestant churches sprang up everywhere and ministers were kept in charge, thanks to their more efficient and far-reaching Foreign and Home Mission organizations that furnished necessary funds. TRANSPORTATION FACILITIES The Rt. Rev. Bishop Keane made several visits to my territory during those three years. We would hire a team and travel in leisurely stages from place to place. His strong point was preaching, and reaching out for the fallen-away Catholics. I was the advance man, getting out hand-bills and distributing them around town, and if it happened to be a small community, making a house-to-house canvas. Perhaps the bishop was never aware of the danger of losing [Endres Extension 1930, 10] his one priest. The men around saloons would offer me drinks, and some would take me by the arm and almost force me to go with them. The bishop would speak in the evening on various topics. If the attendance was poor, I was a poor publicity man, and I presume I would have lost my position if anyone else had been on hand. How enchanted I was at his easy flow of language; how engrossed the few people were in his delivery and the substance of his conferences! I used to envy this skill in subject matter and delivery, for a sermon for me was a matter of hard work. Not being too familiar with the new language, I had to memorize it. The years passed by, and the new territory received more settlers. The Powell region developed into a flourishing farming community. New towns and camps sprang up, and thus my activities became greater and my journeys would extend into weeks of absence from home, which, by the way, was a little room back of the church. The room was eight by eight feet in dimensions, so you can conceive that it had little attraction beyond the word “home.” Eventually, with the help of a good friend of the Missions, in the form of a $500 donation, and the liberality of a Cody lady, a church was erected in Cody, Wyoming. This church is well attended in the summer by the numerous tourists who travel to Yellows tone. In due time sugar factories were erected in Lovell and Worland. Churches were also erected in these two places, as well as in Greybull, by the help received from Extension. Thos now made the number of churches seven, beside the existence of other smaller communities not large enough to support a church, In the life of a missionary the greatest asset had come also in the form of the swifter transportation. I mean the automobile. The sight of the first automobile in this part of the world was quite a novelty. I happened to be on my way to Meeteetse, on horseback. In the distance came a swift-moving object, going about fifteen miles an hour. I glimpsed it, but so did the horse. Up went his head, and the excitement caused him to step quicker. [Endres Extension 1930, 11] The car, however, swerved over to the left, and as it disappeared behind the rise of a hill, the horse all at once set out on a dead gallop to overtake it, as if urged by curiosity. Little did I think then, nor did the horse know, that it was the death knell to its own kind as a means of locomotion. Such a car was presented to me by all of my Missions, and a new experience began. The car was all it should be but the roads were not made for the car, and the incidents of my own inexperience with the new toy and the emergencies created by mud and ditches and hills would make a good-size article. But it enlarged my ability to reach the many Missions in less time, making it possible to reach two congregations on one Sunday morning. Starting out from Thermopolis, I made one great circle, taking in all the Missions along the Big Horn river, the Powell district, the oil camps, Cody and Meeteetse on my return. This would take about two weeks. MISSION CHANGES During the war, and especially during the epidemic of the flu, it became apparent that I could not do justice to all these Missions. The sick calls coming during the great epidemic were of such number and the distances were so great that it was almost impossible to satisfy all. One Sunday morning while I was in Basin, I had three calls in three different sections. No priest being available at that time, it was not until 1919 that a division of the territory took place. It was a cold Winter. A cold December day brought me to Powell to say Mass. I had received word that a new pastor would come. The thermometer was failing lower and lower until it finally reached 40 degrees below zero. On Sunday morning I walked two miles to town and church, and here I found my successor, Father Schneider. He had arrived towards morning, the cold having caused the trains to be late. Thus my connection with the northern part was severed, and with great regret did I leave my friends and parishioners. Another division took place about three years ago, and a new parish [Endres Extension 1930, 12] was organized with Greybull as headquarters, Basin and Lovell Missions thereof. I was reminded of the fate of the Indians. Progress came to the West and the Indians, instead of their age-long privilege of roaming wherever their whim took them, were restricted to smaller and definite reservations. The boundaries of my parish, when I started out were, in the words of the bishop, “wherever there are Catholics.” This no longer holds good. However, I still have Missions and so am not bereft of all consolation, and there is no necessity of going joy-riding in order to get novelty added to my existence. The comforts of civilization and sanitation have entered into this part of the world. May I mention that in the olden days of traveling many inconveniences were experienced? Dangers lurked also in various forms. Typhoid fever always made its appearance every Summer and Fall. In reading the customary review of a reverend pastor’s life, after almost a quarter of a century in the background, one becomes informed of his early struggles, his subsequent great success, and finally of the various monuments left in the trail of his activity. I am sorry to say that I cannot point out any such monuments to edify younger men and generate in their souls a holy emulation to go and do likewise. In referring to the description of my present situation and mode of life, I am asked by our present bishop to give a few details, perhaps for the reason that it pictures the situation of many another priest of his diocese. UNUSUAL DUTIES Every man follows the philosophy of a well planned and sufficiently thought-out mode of existence gained from past experience. A friend, priest and missionary of Montana, once gave me the results of his experience. Every pastor, he said, will find three great nuisances in his life. They are the choir, the housekeeper and the janitor. I thought of this, therefore, and in planning my own future came to the decision to eliminate both janitor and housekeeper. The choir I had to put up with in one form or another. [Endres Extension 1930, 13] Thus I may take a rap [sic] at the seminary curriculum, where every other branch is advocated as of being of great help to a future priest, but the subject of good housekeeping, of a general course in domestic science, has never even been thought of in any curriculum I have ever seen. In the course of tine we added a small apartment to the church here, with modern accommodations, not omitting, however, a kitchenette, where I can satisfy the inner man with my poor ability as chef and patron. A dog is a requisite in such a well regulated household, and given one companionship. I was asked recently, by three Mexicans who came to see me, to go to another town and carry the marriage proposal of one of these young men to the guardians of the little girl, as well as to the girl herself. I could not but smile. They assured me, however, that it was the proper thing to do, and the young man interpreter said that it was done quite frequently by the pastor in Colorado and New Mexico. The parents of the groom carry the proposal of marriage to the parents of the bride. If the parents are dead or not within reach, the good padre will officiate in this capacity. It was the day after New Year’s. The young man interpreter and myself started out in quest of a bride for a lonely bachelor of my parish. It was a beautiful day, no snow on the ground, no wind in the air and the bright sun casting its benevolent rays over the vast landscape. We passed through a picturesque canyon, unmolested by traffic on the road, for the tourist is not about at this season. The vast mountain range, clad in its winter garment of white, glistened in the far distance. The prairies were dotted here and there by small bands of range horses and sheep with their solitary herders. The half Indian whistled through his teeth at my side. One has so little in common with these children of the old Spanish race. Our point of destination was reached; a box car, bearing a number 10. Our coming was surmised to contain some matter of importance. The little children ran into the interior at sight of us, and we were asked to come in. One box car constituted the kitchen, and there stood, apparently, the bride-to-be. Another box car, connected, was the sanctum. There was a bed in either [Endres Extension 1930, 14] end of the room, a stove and dresser; no chairs, no other furniture, but the place was immaculate for all its poverty. I was given a little bench to sit on. The women sat on the bed, and the children hung around, their black eyes taking in the strangers. After due civilities were exchanged, I asked the interpreter to state the purpose of our visit. It was received with broad smiles and laughter. In the kitchen part stood a maiden of about seventeen years of age. She was busy, outwardly, with her pots and pans, and handling of dough, but you can imagine her inner emotions when she heard us talk about herself. For was not she the object of bargain, and yet not within the inner circle of discussion? The conversation went on for an hour or more, and once in a while the shy maiden would cast a black glance of inquiry and aroused emotions at the small group of elders. I proposed to the interpreter to take a walk and give them a chance to talk it over alone. We came back with some candy for the children, and some more conversation. The afternoon was wearing out, and the sun descending slowly. I was anxious to receive my answer, and to return home. I made a little speech, setting forth the good qualities of the groom, and again a little speech advising them to consult the little girl whom this concerned. Finally the direct proposal was made to the girl, and she answered an unmistakable, “Si,” which was sufficient answer. The guardians gave their consent on condition that the marriage should take place before the padre. We returned home. The interpreter gave me quite a few points of information about this and that of Spanish customs. We set out another twelve miles in the opposite direction to carry the glad tidings to the impatient wooer of the little señorita. After due exchange of presents and preparations wedding bells will ring. How different from our flapper age and modern ways are the old customs of the Spanish regime! To conclude this article it is necessary to say that I have spoken of my own experiences and adventures, but they include, of course, the every-day life and hardships and lonely existence of many other priests [Endres Extension 1930, 15] of Wyoming. We wish to build a new church in Thermopolis, as the one we use at present was only for temporary purposes, and being built more on the order of a residence it could be converted into a parish house. It is still in all a missionary life in many parts of the large Diocese of Cheyenne. The gods of poetry have not seen fit to bestow their gifts upon my imagination. I ask the pardon of my friend, Joe Magill, a local celebrity, in stealing the concluding stanza to one of his numerous and beautiful compositions to give expression to my feelings: “I’ve heard the chimes of Strasbourg -END- |
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