Like a spider sitting on it's intricately woven web, patiently waiting for it's prey -- I sometimes teach both history and science, by way of fiction and "lighting fires that inspire." The method has served me well in trapping reluctant readers, and converting these formerly self-professed "I hate history. It's so boring. I don't want to learn all those facts and dates!" -- into passionate self-motivated students, who are eager to learn more.

The method also works well in sharing with other thinking adults, new knowledge and new subjects. There is no greater joy, than opening another's mind to something new, or expanding what they already know. Sometimes you are surprised when you learn from what they later learned.

The story you are about to read is one of my spider webs. It's rooted in historial facts and a true Déjà vu experience that happened to me in a certain border town in Texas, a few years back. I challenge you to read and discover which paths are real, which ones are dead ends, and which ones you want to follow to a new discovery. See if you want to escape this spider web or be a willing victim.

As his eyes adjusted from the southwest Texas sunlight to the deep shade inside the capilla, Don Ignacio knew instantly that the couple emerging from the grubby white cab-over were not his usual devout Catholic tourists.

He carefully watched them approach, as he practiced in his best English, "Come and listen to the memory of the mission bells ringing and take a small step back in time. . . ."

He did this, despite knowing in his heart that his best efforts would not make much difference in the parish coffers. Few tourists, all of which tended to be Anglo Americans, absorbed any real knowledge of life surrounding this extraordinary mission and town. Most briefly looked around, found little of interest, and left as quickly as they came.

Certainly, a commercial truck driver and his woman were not going to be the answer to Don Ignacio's prayers. He had been waiting for ages, in need of a miracle and he'd be lucky if they left a dollar. Still, it wouldn't be right to not let them in.

Waiting for Joe to secure the rig, Cassie watched a dust devil traveling across the mission's dirt parking lot and sighed. They had spent the past thirty-four days in a row on the road. Cassie was backache tired of trucking life and she wasn't the trucker, just along for a ride with her husband. She honestly did not know how Joe coped with this job.

Maybe it was because he'd been left no choice but to hire on as an over-the-road driver. Joe's ex-wife and a crooked lawyer had seen to that. Driving a big rig was the only way Joe could supplement his guaranteed railroad income while he was on the railroad reserve pool, akin to being laid off while work was slow and collecting unemployment.

His railroad pay was currently being garnished for alimony, a directive based on his ex-wife's lies to the court, claiming she was destitute. The lady law master overseeing the case would not entertain the thought of Joe's side of the situation. She had even arbitrarily commented, "If she asked for more I'd give it to her," and suggested that if Joe couldn't pay his own bills, he should find a way to earn more money. So there Joe and Cassie were, practically killing themselves delivering car parts for thirty cents a mile, all just to not lose their farm.

Now stuck outside of El Paso for the entire weekend, waiting to deliver a load that couldn't be accepted until Monday, they were stranded for two days at a truck stop without pay. The reality of such jobs is that you don't make a dime if the wheels aren't turning.

The truck stop they'd ended up at wasn't of the big chain variety. It was just another predictable, small and dirty gas station, buffet and convenience store combo. It had barely enough room for a dozen rigs to park overnight.

Thanks to satellite tracking of their rig, there was no way they could go back to El Paso for a cheap motel room or some sightseeing. If they tried to do so, Joe would have been upset to the point of stuttering, since he would have had to explain to the dispatcher why they were traveling back in the wrong direction for Monday's delivery.

They'd arrived at this truck stop late Friday afternoon and after dinner and a shower, they retired before eight o'clock in exhaustion and sheer boredom. Facing hours inside that rig with nothing to do but watch the heat rising, Cassie had woke up desperate for a plan to occupy their time.

The cab reeked of dead socks, stale farts and morning breath. Wiggling out from Joe's sweaty bear hug inside the back bunk, she climbed up front into her shotgun seat and rolled down the window, then quickly rolled it back up. The unwelcome surprise of the morning air outside was filled with the sickening sweet stench of frequent urine washing of the dirt beneath the trucks rising from the ground, a fact-of-life wherever truckers park overnight.

Chiding herself with a heavy sigh that mutely shouted, "You'd think I'd know better than to roll down the window by now." Cassie studied Joe who was still snoring in the bunk. Being trapped inside that parked rig all weekend was a prescription for short tempers or a quick divorce, of that she was certain. Too many days on the road without a break already had them sniping at reach other over the smallest of issues. Just yesterday, they'd spent several hours not speaking over Cassie throwing out the over-flowing trash bag.

She was still in shock over Joe putting his ditty bag of toiletries inside that trash bag for "safe keeping." It cost them almost twenty bucks to replace his razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and his prescription. Many heated words flew around the cab, before the silence of stubbornness arrived.

Once Joe was up and she'd watched him down four plates of all-you-can-eat breakfast, Cassie stood in line waiting to pay the check. The clerk behind the counter shook his head "no" in response to her questions of "Is there any place nearby to get a room?" He also shook his head "no" in response to her question of, "Is there a flea market nearby?"Either guessing that it was already too hot to answer, or that he was too lazy to volunteer any spoken information, Cassie finally gave up. In her misery, she looked around the entrance way for the usual brochures that were found in such places.

Finally, on a windowsill near the door, she spied a lone flyer touting the beauty of three local adobe Catholic missions. Studying the map on the back, she realized they were within a couple of miles of one of them. Moreover, the longer she looked at the picture of that one particular mission, the more she had a deep-seated need to see inside that elderly Catholic church. She had an overwhelming desire to stand inside of it. This feeling was so strong, that she even briefly contemplated immediately taking a taxi there. However, she quickly concluded that no such beast would appear near this wide spot on the road. Therefore, Cassie decided it was worth a try to convince Joe to take her.

Joe's reaction was predictable. "Why do you want to go look at some old mission? Even if you are Catholic, you know I'm not . . . Besides, I doubt they'll let us inside. I could get into trouble for unhooking the load or worse, someone could steal it while we are gone. And I ain't carrying a fifty-three foot trailer full of auto parts down the road, so don't you look at me like that!" Still Cassie persisted. She knew as any woman living with the same man for over fifteen years know, sooner or later, she'd get her way.

When Don Ignacio later greet them in the parking lot, Cassie guessed he was the janitor or grounds keeper. He certainly wasn't the priest. Cassie misjudged him, but it would later before she was able to understand the gravity of her mistake. For Cassie, the place immediately represented a tender spot in the heart of her youth.

Her childhood had been filled with unconventional and frequent visits to many of the old Catholic mission in her home state of California. She and her siblings had accompanied her parents, who were decidedly non-religious and non-Catholic, but great connoisseurs of such free picturesque and peaceful historic oasises.

She'd played as a toddler at San Juan Capistrano. She'd seen the arrival of the swallows there many times. She knew the inside of Mission Santa Barbara so well from grade school field trips, that she could still accurate sketch it from memory.

Cassie was also personally familiar with a handful of other western adobe missions. Later, as an adult, she'd prayed daily at dawn inside the San Luis Obispo de Tolosa Mission in her most desperate hours, prayers that were answered ten-fold the day she met Joe. Cassie knew first-hand the power of such places.

However, from the moment she saw the brochure about this distinct adobe mission, her heart had pounded a message of alert. Peacefulness was not to be found until action was taken. This church held something she and Joe were meant to see and be a part of. Clearly, unrest was already brewing inside her head.

They'd no sooner arrived than Don Ignacio came seeming from nowhere to greet them. Senor Don Ignacio had a soldierly bearing for such an elderly man. He was wearing a spotless billowing white embroidered bayberry shirt. His face was upper class and fearless.

Always a man of splendid physique, of magnetic and imposing presence, he was the keeper of the keys. In addition, on this day, the keys to the mission were also the keys to clandestine surprises whose time had come to step forward from historical obscurity and be revealed. His sister, Carlotta at all times had called him her "finest blade of steel," and now was the time to prove himself to be just that, for he too would need to be present for the final task.

As a child, Carlotta would tease him with a certain poem she had claimed was about him.

"I am a blade of the finest steel;

I'll crusade for God or die,

Come woe or wounded.

Tho' I love the sound of the battle's clamor,

And could claim notoriety and stardom when I win

It is to my Master I'll only be true;

Now tell me, compadrazgo, who are you?"

Don Ignacio never understood the poem or his older sister, but for some odd reason, the first stanza of that poem rattled around inside his head as he stepped outside to welcome these new visitors. He hailed Joe and Cassie in his usual manner, calling out to them that he would take them inside for a small donation to the capilla.

When the towering man stepped from the cab, Don Ignacio couldn't help but smile. Joe stood well over six foot five inches and the size of his feet were Goliath. There were things about the man that instantly made others like him. Beneath his overpowering size, lay an uncommon gentleness of spirit. One look into his pastel blue eyes told Don Ignacio all he needed to know about the man. Seldom did he meet an outsider to the community whose spirit spoke such volumes about honesty and clarity of self. Indeed, while he was obviously a simple farm boy turned trucker, he was also a breath of fresh air in a world of frauds.

Don Ignacio didn't get a good look at Cassie in those first few minutes. The couple seemed eager to get out of the heat and inside the church, yet Joe stopped short of entering. Don Ignacio was taken aback by Joe's antics, trying to brush every bit of dust off his shoes before entering the foyer. Never in all his years, had Don Ignacio seen anyone display that much respect for the property of others.

Once inside, both Joe and Cassie's eyes were right away drawn to the gilded pillars. Above them were seven Spanish pastel rose-colored robed angels adorned upon the arches. Joe, being ever idealistic, instantly dismissed these winged beings, for in his mind, angels could only wear white robes.

Anything in life that fell outside of the realm of "his personal norm," was not worthy of his attention. Finding angels in pink gowns, fit that definition, so Joe simply turned his gaze to the quite commonplace stained-glass windows that by contrast, held zero interest for his wife.

At first, Cassie gave into her gut reaction and stared briefly at the angels. The paintings themselves were nice, but well-traveled and well-educated, she'd certainly seen better. Then, Cassie tried to look away from them. She fixated on the Altar of Blessed Sacrament; still her eyes were drawn back to the angels. She tried to focus on the Statue of Our Lady of Sorrows. She even tried to distract herself by silently reciting mentally, The Seven Sorrows of the Virgin. Again, her awareness went back to the angels. Whenever she allowed herself to study them, she was awash with mental images that confused and troubled her.

Don Ignacio carefully scrutinized Cassie's reaction to the painted angles and wondered if she was aware that she was trembling. Hesitantly, he began his usual route recital, "Floods moved the town and the church three times. The original presidio capilla was located on a different spot many years before this one was built. However, by 1841 the capilla was completely in ruins. A small church replaced it in 1853, but it was quickly outgrown and replaced by this existing capilla, which was built in 1877."

"The interior decoration you are looking at only dates since 1944. A fire had destroyed the original interior in 1935. This capilla is an excellent example of late adobe church architecture in both its walls and design. It was built entirely by hand by local Tigua Indian labor. Many of the descendants of the builders still live in the area. The ceiling is painted tin. There's an interesting story behind the decorated angels, would you like to hear it Senora?"

Cassie didn't answer verbally, but nodded her willingness. She starred directly into his all-knowing black opaque eyes. It'd been many years since she had encountered one of her own kind, an unfamiliar Spanish word sprang forth in her mind, "curandero."

His eyes reminded Cassie of a life-sized painting she'd once seen of a pantera. Eyes that were incapable of flying flags of anger or defeat. His eyes were rock-solid sure of themselves. Just like Joe, his eyes did not lie.

Now trembling himself without knowing why, Don Ignacio stepped back when he saw his own reflection in Cassie's dark brown eyes. He'd never encountered one of his own in someone who seemed to be Anglo-American. An unfamiliar word in an equally alien language rocketed across his mind, "traiteuse" - a Cajun faith healer.

She was a woman whose past included a place where Spanish moss draped cypress trees grew, surrounded by twisted gnome knees. He had mistaken her for an average homemaker. Don Ignacio quickly turned to get a better look at Joe again to rethink his assumptions about him. He realized that the truck driver did not have a clue as to the identity of his own woman, nor was he one of their castes.

Although Don Ignacio had never met Cassie before, there was something about her features that appeared familiar. Something he remembered his sister teaching him as a child, knowledge that Don Ignacio was unable to wholly recall. As he looked at her carefully, he found her to be like a flower hidden away in a shaded garden until she was ready to be shown to the world.

She was full of vivacity, mixed with certain restlessness. He didn't have to be told that old world French ideas dominated her childhood training. She had a tall and queenly figure and the most magnificent long slender fingered hands. She was dark brown-haired with an exquisite creamy olive complexion. Cassie reminded him of a racehorse that bears her colors to victory. He humbly wondered if her presence was a sign

"Taking a calming breath, Don Ignacio continued, "For many years after the fire, the Capilla was plain and unadorned. Our people were far too poor to have it properly decorated. Then one day, a young man wearing very threadbare clothes, mysteriously appeared at the first morning mass.

"When mass was concluded, absolutely everyone agreed that none of us saw him leave, although we were watching and wondering about him."

"It wasn't often that a stranger was among us, not then or now. No one knew him, nor had anyone seen him arrive in our town. You see senora, our community is so small that no stranger ever arrives or leaves without someone noticing."

"The next day, without saying a word to anyone, not even the Padre, he appeared with his paints and a ladder, seemingly from nowhere and just began painting. One could tell just by looking at him, he didn't have money to purchase his paints and brushes. Moreover, where did he get the ladder?"

"Everyone agreed that he had no such artistic supplies with him at mass the day before. Nor, was there any place to buy such things in our town. He didn't get the ladder from the padre or anyone else."

"No one could say where he had slept during the night or explain where he had been since mass. Therefore, there was great hearsay about all of that. We all noticed he had no money to put in the basket at mass, yet he had all those jars of paints and brushes. The whole situation was a big mystery. We all stood around speculating and whispering as he painted. He was the talk of the town."

"For weeks he painted, continuing not to say a word to anyone, even when spoken to. Some thought he might be deaf or mute. We knew not where he slept. We never saw him eat or take a drink of water."

"Then, on the very day he finished his work, authorities came without warning, all the way from El Paso to arrest him. Supposedly, he was in the country illegally. However, later, we heard that before he could be deported, he inexplicably disappeared from a securely locked cell, never to be seen or heard from again."

"To this day, no one knows his name, where he was from, or how he escaped. It is whispered by some that he was not a man, but an angel sent to do God's work, an angel to paint angels. The angels may be simple, but the beauty of those angels, are proof of that."

Shaken and afraid all that she had seen and heard would make her cry, leaving her with no logical explanation for Joe, Cassie hastily asked Don Ignacio if there was anything she and Joe could do for him as she pressed a small donation into his hand.

Don Ignacio politely thanked her for the donation without further comment. However, as Cassie led Joe out the door, Cassie would later swear she heard Don Ignacio whisper, "There is nothing you can do for me, but you can be of assistance to my community, if you are who and what I think you are."

After leaving the capilla, Cassie and Joe wandered across the street to what was left of the original presidio. One solitary unwanted and involuntary tear ran down Cassie's cheek, for want of Castilian, Apothecary, and Harrison yellow roses - all varieties that in her mind should have adorned the grounds.

Cassie knew all too well, that lack of water, poverty, and heat prevented such extravagances. Yet, the place silently screamed for all that should have rightfully graced its grounds.

Finding this situation unbearable, Cassie turned to watch the school children play at recess behind the nearby schoolyard fence. Many of the children were just as curiously studying her. She made a mental note of an abandoned car parked on a side street, with its vandal shattered back window. Joe was oblivious to everything and bored by the surroundings. He could not feel the despair of poverty and lost dreams that filled the air.

Further down the street, three young laughing boys, who were clearly skipping school, crossed in front of them. A young, just as obviously truant teen-aged boy, with that certain ingrained look of impoverished hopelessness, approached and passed them. As Joe and Cassie walked around the presidio and the nearby streets - each building spoke to her and told it's own story, leaving her with more questions than answers. She had seen the ticking of all eternity and heard the words, "I have brought you here for a reason. The time has come for you to lend your voice and give back that which was taken from this community. J'me soviens. Do not fail!" echoed across her mind.

Moreover, with that pronouncement, a momentary mist of grief-stricken tears blinded Cassie as she told Joe, "I've seen enough. Let's go!" Joe, of course, was very willing to leave, finding little of interest to him and remembering the all-you-can-eat lunch that would await him back at the truck stop. Joe never even noticed Cassie's tears.

Next: The First Sign of Trouble (Part II)

The area's three missions are a short drive from El Paso and close to each other. Anyone visiting the area and wishing to take a nice step back in history would enjoy paying a visit to these fine examples of adobe missions.

Located 13 miles from El Paso, and established in 1682, the present mission is dedicated to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Like La Capilla de San Elcear and Nuestra Senora de la Concepcion del Socorro, it was moved and rebuilt several times when the river flooded and destroyed the mission. This mission was built by the Tigua Indians, men, women, and children working together.

Directions:

• Taking the SR-375/Border Hwy. East loop, turn Right
• Follow signs to Padres Drive
• Right onto SR20/Almeda Avenue
• Right onto FM659/S Zaragosa Rd

Note: The last intersection is Socorro Road, if you reach Begonia Place, you've gone too far.