The mystery of Tahoma’s family ties haunted us for years. He told everyone during his lifetime that he had no family.  Some people we talked to believed very strongly that he was raised by non-Indians. Partly they believed that because he had a damaged (or perhaps withered) arm. Since Tahoma never talked about his arm–in fact went out of his way to hide it–most people assumed it was a birth defect.  We were told in no uncertain terms that Navajo families would not adopt a child with a birth defect like that. In fact, if a child had been born back early in the twentieth century with a birth defect he would be put out to die.

Some of our interviewees were adamant on this fact, and anthropological books from the time seemed to bolster that opinion. A woman who had overseen the government nurses who served reservation communities told us that a nurse had rescued a Navajo baby whose family had put him out to die. A part-Navajo woman told us that her mother (a full-blooded Navajo) and her mother’s friends believed that had been Tahoma’s fate until someone rescued him.

Other people, however, were not so sure, and some even had examples of children who had born with defects who were raised by their own families.

The one thing that kept nagging at us about the theory that Tahoma had non-Indian adoptive parents, was the fact that many told us how steeped in the Navajo Way–Navajo beliefs– Tahoma was throughout his life.  He reportedly carried a pollen bag (popularly called medicine bag). We were told that he believed in witches and spirits and the power of evil forces to change from human to animal form.

How could he have such strong beliefs in Navajo ways if he was not raised by Navajos? Eventually we found two surprising answers to our questions.

Do you know someone who held on to his traditional beliefs, even when raised in a different culture?

August 30, 2004 – Charnell’s visit with Jean McSwain
 
    It was a magical weekend.

I just returned from California, where I spent two days as the guest of Tahoma’s very special lady friend from the early 1940s.  I’d had many phone conversations with Jean and her wonderful husband Larry (now deceased) off and on for several years, but had been unable to visit her until now.

I photographed the Tahoma paintings she and Larry had acquired. Then Jean showed me the rawhide jacket and the turquoise jewelry Quincy had given her, the wonderful Christmas card he had drawn for her, and the magnificent sketches he had made of her and her mother. The Christmas card featured a gangly colt and a greeting hand-lettered in the extravagant swooping script that he sometimes used. All had been lovingly preserved throughout the years. 
 
As we talked, she reminisced about their times together and about how very special a person Quincy was.  After a while, she brought out this lovely lady’s compact with an embedded watch on its top. Tahoma had painted two beautiful scenes on it: a cottontail rabbit in the desert on the back and, on the front, an inquisitive little fawn gazing at the time. He had given it to Jean as a special present in 1944, the date still clearly visible in his miniature next-scene signatures.     

Then Jean gave it to me, and I cried.

I told you how I met Quincy Tahoma’s artist friend, Ramos Sanchez through Rex Arrowsmith, an Indian arts dealer and expert. This is about my attempt to find Ramos.  When I knew that I was going to be in Santa Fe, I called Ramos and asked if I could come and see him. Sure, he said, any time.  We settled on a date and time and his wife Gerdie gave me directions to his house, which is outside the San Ildenfonso Pueblo, but within the Pueblo’s reservation lines.

I love the country north of Santa Fe. The land here is punctuated by unexpected mesas and vistas of green-clad mountains in the background. In between wide sweeps of flat dusty land provide scarce vegetation for wandering cows and horses.

It is easy to see why the pueblo people have settled there for hundreds, if not a thousand years.  When the Spanish conquistadors came through the Puebloans were here, and they are still here. Most of their legends say they came down from the area of Mesa Verde in Colorado and split into the many villages that exist today, most along the Rio Grand River that runs south from the mountains in northern New Mexico, past Santa Fe and Albuquerque on its way to Texas.

The directions that Gerdie gave me went something like this. Take the highway north from Santa Fe and follow the branch toward Alamos. Go across the river and when you see the black mesa, look for a trailer house and then we are the next road.  It sounded pretty clear until I got there. But then, I wasn’t very clear on a lot of things. I thought Gerdie’s name was Gertie (like my husband’s aunt Gertrude) until I had visited with Gerdie a couple of times, and saw her name in print.

I missed the turn-off to Alamos which is pretty simple to see when you are familiar with it–and pulled into an orchard where a guy loading crates of fruit explained to me how to get to San Ildefonse.

I saw an entrance to San Ildefonse, but I had not yet crossed a river. Soon I saw another sign for San Ildefonse, and I got worried because I assumed I need to go into the village.  I pulled off the road, and called Gertie on my cell phone. No, she explained, I did NOT need to go into San Ildefonse.  I went on a ways and the road dipped and curved over a bridge across the Rio Grande River. (Duh, I said to myself–”the river” is the Rio Grande.)

Ahead was a large black mesa on the right hand side of the road. Of course there were mesas of varying degrees of darkness all over the place, but this one seemed more dramatic than the rest, and likely to be the landmark.  Good. The bad news, however, lay ahead–a ribbon of road bordered by barbed wire fence, and here and there a cluster of houses or trailers off to the right beneath trees.

Thoroughly confused, I called Gerdie once again. By now I’m sure she had me pegged as an idiot and was wondering why she and Ramos were wasting their time on me.  “Do you see a man painting by the road?” She asked. YES! There he was, easel set up for painting the Black Mesa.  That was a landmark that got me in to their house. Heaven knows how I would have found it if he had packed up his paints before I got there.

This expedition was just another example of communications between the native dwellers of the Southwest who know every natural landmark and notice every change made by man–and the urbanized (even from small towns) non-Indians who rely on roads, named geological features, numbers on houses and signs to get around.

Last weekend I had a phone call from Ramos Sanchez from San Ildefonso pueblo.  Ramos had read the manuscript of Quincy Tahoma: The Life and Legacy of a Navajo Artist and wanted to make two small corrections.  “Is that all?” I asked. “Yep. You two sure did a lot of research,” Ramos said.

Yes we did, and Ramos was a very large part of the research Charnell and I did. Way back at the beginning of Charnell’s quest, before I was involved, her first questions were put to Indian art dealers. I’ll let her tell you the details, but one of the Santa Fe Indian traders she talked to in 2001 suggested several names for us to contact.  One of those names was Rex Arrowsmith, who used to have a store in Santa Fe. Turned out that he now lives in Tucson, so it would be very easy for me to see him.  Well, of course, because he lived so close, I kept thinking I’d get around to it one of these days.

Finally in 2004 I reached him on the telephone just as he was getting ready to go to Santa Fe for the Indian Market. We agreed to talk when he got back to Tucson.  As it turned out, Rex had never met Tahoma personally, but as we talked in his home, he showed me the wonderful art collection he had assembled during his years in the business.  He has several Tahoma paintings, and also showed me some by Ramos Sanchez, who paints as Oqwa Owin, and told me that Sanchez’ father was the famous Pueblo painter, Owi Pi (Abel Sanchez.)

Rex said that Abel definitely knew him and it was possible that Ramos might remember him, too. It was probably a long shot. Well, in fact, when I called Ramos, I learned that he had known Quincy in school, and that Quincy spent a lot of time with his family when they were young. But even better, when I sat down in January 2005 to talk to Ramos and Gerdy, I learned that Tahoma had spent a lot of time with Gerdy Montoya Sanchez’ family before she married Ramos. Quincy and her brother Sonny were best friends, she said. It got better. Gerdy’s mother was a Navajo, and Quincy liked to visit because he liked having someone to speak Navajo with.

Then after Gerdy and Ramos married, Quincy continued to visit the families at San Ildefonso. Except for the time that Ramos Sanchez was in the Navy during World War II and until Ramos and Gerdy moved out of state in the 1950’s, they had spent a lot of time together.

The January 2005 conversation was the first of several long conversations I had with Ramos and Gerdy in the following years, as we talked about Quincy Tahoma. They knew details about his life that nobody else had a record of. Eventually, we would be contacted by their neice who had a collection of snapshots of Quincy, with her father Kee Yazzie, another school boy friend of Tahoma’s.

                                                                                                                          

I am pleased to say that I count Ramos and Gerdy as  friends, and I have twice visited San Ildefonso Pueblo in January on their most important feast day.  We truly could not have put together this book without the help of people like Ramos and Gerdy Sanchez who shared their memories, and helped us understand Native American culture, and people like Rex Arrowsmith, who scoured their memory for someone who might be able to help.

Of course we never stop looking for more information, so if you know someone who knows someone who might have a snapshot or a memory, please let us know.

Please tell us your story about how strangers may have helped you complete a task some time in your life. We would like to know.