The Story Of Paul & Caroline Sando

The Story of Paul & Caroline Sando 

We encountered our first dust storm upon leaving Fort Stockton, Texas and instantly knew we had entered the state’s far-west regions. There had already been a border patrol checkpoint, presumably making sure that no one in the vehicle was travelling under duress, and this was prior to ICE searching for people to make their quotas. And by the time we arrived in El Paso, it seemed implausible that there could possibly be any more arid or semiarid land to see, but there were plenty more days’ drives ahead of us with little more than tumbleweed to alter the staid landscape. 

This was our first trip “out west”; driving was a whole different perspective than flying over it, which we have done many times previously. Railway tracks and trains broke the monotony of the scenery of scrub brush. We diverted off Interstate 10 a couple times, once to see a town that had been promoted by billboards for miles, only to discover that it literally resembled a ghost town; missing only the tumbleweed bouncing across the main street in town as seen in low grade western movies. There was also the gimmicky tourist shops advertised along the way, the most unusual one promoting seeing “The Thing” a la “The Munsters” tv series. I was astonished that there would be enough people stopping at these chintzy places to offset the cost of the billboards, but then again, maybe they charged to use the restrooms?  

The rest stops are few and far between in this part of the country. Having weeks earlier traveled (for the first time) on Interstate 10 east from Pensacola to nearly the eastern seaboard AND having the assurance of rest stops routinely every 30-50 miles, it gave me confidence in our journey west on the same interstate highway. I was sadly misled. So, in finding this architecturally designed, modern roadside rest stop just outside El Paso, I was overjoyed. It was built on an attractive sandstone block base and had amazing views that seemed to stretch forever. There were well-kept footpaths that encircled the building and signage warning folks to be aware of snakes and poisonous insects (tarantulas?). The facility appeared clean and modern, but it wasn’t clearly marked where the entry into the building could be found. My wife and I ended up on the backside of the building and bumped into one of the Mexican-born? workers who took it upon himself to get us to “the loos” and gave us a history of the building and the region on our journey with him. We literally had “the chef’s tour” of this roadside rest stop. He mentioned of another restroom facility just down the road, the original one that had no electricity or heat and how grateful he was to have been “promoted” to looking after this modern facility. He was quite proud of his workplace, and he had every reason to be. 

We then resumed our driving through the dust storms. These storms packing 20-30 mph winds can significantly reduce your visibility, and all the electronic road signs warned that these conditions would remain with us for most of our drive. When I had a chance to look around at the surrounding terrain, I was astonished to see it to be so uninhabitable. That’s not to say that nobody lived in this part of America. From the main highway, one would occasionally see a camper, or a RV parked near to an electric utility pole. Some were at the base of protruding hills which sported evidence of previous rockslides. No, let me correct that; boulder slides. One particular “residence” was surrounded by boulders that had previously come hurtling down the “mountain”, coming to rest ultimately not far from the abode itself. I wondered, “Of all the open expanse of flat, scrub-brush land, why would someone place themselves in a spot where the next boulder slide could skittle them and everything they owned?” My only guess being the area held sentimental value and all external risks be damned.  

Our GPS saved us becoming part of a thirty plus vehicle pileup on I 10. It diverted us down a “side road” that took us 9 miles off course, and then turning, another 6 miles off our intended route, only turning again and bringing us back another 8 miles to complete our rectangular detour. I thought it strange that here in this “outback” setting, we would be traveling on recently tar-sealed roads, and at each turn there was a state trooper making sure we didn’t miss it. As we approached I 10 again, there was a truck stop, complete with tv lounge, diner, superette and restroom facility offering showers. We didn’t stop for long, but long enough to hear a trucker’s number called for his/her turn at the next available shower stall. As I was paying for some snacks, which were meant to see us further down the road, I had a conversation with a weathered-looking lady behind the counter by the entry of this oasis. She said, “Yeah, this happens quite frequently here. The dust storms get up and the traffic is diverted.” She went on to describe in the 35 years that she had been working there, all the dates of the worst I 10 accidents and casualties that were caused due to dust storms. They occur so frequently, especially during “planting season”, that the detour side road required paving to accommodate the heavy trucks and the local police know precisely when and where to post.  

I swear, in our 23-mile detour, there was one ranch that stretched the distance between the parallel roads of the detour. It amazed me to find everything with barbed-wired fencing, despite not seeing any livestock or grass. Frequently, there were homemade signs swinging at the entry of a dirt path, which came off these detoured roads. These signs indicating one family’s ranch from another. This might be one reason for the wire fencing, but doesn’t one need livestock? I learned how in this part of the country, the livestock “free range” and are rounded up on an “as needed” basis. This arrangement was different from anything I had ever encountered before. Ok, I wasn’t expecting the blue green grass of a Kentucky horse farm, but if a rancher did have cattle or sheep, I couldn’t see what the animal could possibly graze upon, regardless of the hundreds of acres from which it roamed. 

West Texas turned into New Mexico, which followed on to Arizona. The scenery never changing except within the metropolitan areas. And to my surprise, El Paso was sufficiently metropolitan that I told my wife that I could live there! But how did the poorest of the poor survive?  

Eventually after spending a lot of time in Phoenix, it was time for my wife and I to head home. We were approximately a week away from returning to Ohio in our three-month journey to avoid the Ohio winter. Our plan was to follow the old Route 66. It sounded nostalgic. It never occurred to me, though, that our intended path home lay directly within the notorious “Tornado Alley”. Driving continuously in these conditions was stressful so we inserted breaks into our daily schedule and besides, we didn’t want to simply drive past interesting things along the way just to get to that day’s hotel. Therefore, we ventured north early on in our journey to take in the sights of Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

 The stop had been recommended and I’m glad we didn’t pass it up. This despite the conditions upon our arrival into town being chilly and extremely windy. We made our way to the town square, where even though being the middle of the day and in the middle of a week, there was a lot of activity. An indigenous person stood by the town’s gazebo chanting, dancing, and pounding on the sheepskin of his drum to garner attention. This one-man show wasn’t as impressive as the Pow Wow we attended in Tucson (a story for another time), but he was giving it his all and was to be commended for his efforts. Looking back, maybe he was just trying to stay warm, as there were several mostly indigenous “street vendors” lined up along one semi-protected building selling their wares and shivering. We walked past many a stall casually browsing, seeing mostly things we had come across before in tourist settings. Then, we met Paul Sando. 

I want to tell you about Paul and Caroline Sando. Sadly, we did not get the opportunity to meet Caroline, but by happenstance, met Paul. 

The middle-aged man with a square jaw and friendly round face was sitting on the pavement huddled in a parka coat one would be more accustomed to seeing in Ohio at that time of year. My wife and I instantly knew that he and his pottery were the real deal. There were only a few items of different sizes arranged upon a makeshift table and stand. The one pottery item that took our eye was vase-shaped, protruding out from the center. The design on the pottery took the form of squares, a simplistic boundary, which encompassed the drawing of three feathers in each block. The piece was named “Hummingbird. Beauty of Life”. As we have a number of hummingbird feeders posted at our home, the naming of this piece of art was sufficient for us to reach for our credit card, but there was so much more to the story. Paul told us how the three feathers in each square represented an Indian proverb, “Blessing, Healing, and Protection”. As an added feature, Paul explained how he and his wife wove horsehair into the making of the vessel, which imbued it with good luck. We were happy to have made his acquaintance and before walking away with our purchase, I asked him if he lived locally. He nodded in affirmation and attempted to give us locational directions to his “Hamas” Pueblo. So, with our purchase and that tidbit of info, we ducked into a local bar and grill to get out of the elements and find something to eat. The service took forever, but the food was exceptional. During our wait, I had ample time to google “Hamas Tribe Santa Fe”. Google tried its best, but all I could find info on was of a “Jemez Tribe”. Before finishing our lunch, I told my wife that I wanted to go back and ask Paul some more questions, if he was still there. 

I must admit there was some trepidation once having exited the restaurant, for looking across the town square, it appeared most of the vendors had left for the day. We walked in the direction where we remembered Paul having his pottery displayed, and to our delight, he was still there, huddled upon the concrete wrapped up in his parka. As we approached, a wide smile came across his face. He had remembered us. I listened intently this time to his answers to my questions, sifting through the accent. I specifically wanted to ask him about “Hamas” and there was some confusion until he clearly said, “J E M E Z”. Ok, I now knew that we were speaking about the same tribe of people, and I wanted to know more about his family, without getting too personal.  

Paul said that his wife was the sculptor who made the pottery and storytellers. I came to learn that Caroline is quite well known too! Check out www.toh-atin.com/artists/caroline-sando and www.pueblodirect.com/pages/caroline-sando. As part of a family tradition, Caroline has been making pottery since her childhood, and she uses natural clays and natural paints to hand make her storytellers. Caroline sources her own clay from the sacred grounds within the Jemez Pueblo. Then, she cleans, mixes, shapes, paints, and fires her pottery the traditional way, outdoors, with cedar wood chips.  

Paul enlightened me about his family too. They have 8 children, the youngest one having just graduated from high school. Doing my mental mathematics, and assuming Paul was roughly my age, 65, how could the youngest only be 18? He explained that he and Caroline lived in the same home from early on in their marriage. He went on to explain how they also desired for a large family. So, they planned after the birth of their first four children to wait before adding to their family, allowing the older ones to be of age to watch over younger ones. All their children have now left the area and are succeeding in their own lives. So, it occurred to me, here I am speaking to one of the generational members of the Jemez Tribe who has spent his entire life in the Jemez Pueblo area.  

For those who might be interested, the Pueblo of Jemez is a federally recognized Native American Tribe located in North Central New Mexico. The traditional name for their community is Walatowa, meaning “this is the place” in Towa language. The Pueblo encompasses 89,000 acres in Sandoval County. The Jemez people maintain their traditional way of life and speak the unique Towa language. They have preserved their cultural traditions despite external pressures and recognize a Governor of Pecos, acknowledging the historical merger of the Pecos culture into Jemez society. The Pueblo of Jemez is a sovereign nation with its own government led by a Tribal Council and Governor. The main village is open to visitors on Feast Days like August 2nd and October 12th. Some traditional dances, however, are not open to the public. Photography, sketching and recording are also prohibited at the Pueblo. While the Jemez welcome visitors to learn about their history and culture, they hold dear the preserving of their traditional way of life. All of this information comes courtesy of the Pueblo of Jemez website. 

The skies above us were turning ominously black and the clouds were fast approaching the town square. We knew it was time to skedaddle; however, we were not exactly sure if what was approaching us was a torrential downpour or a dust storm. We got on the road, Interstate 40 heading east, and quickly determined it was a dust storm and interestingly, due to road closures in both directions, we were traveling on the highway completely alone. In different circumstances, I would have loved for our conversation with Paul Sando to have warmed so that I could have felt comfortable and confident to ask if we could visit his Pueblo and possibly his home. I definitely would have reorganized our itinerary for this once in a lifetime experience, but fate was not to be. You can rest assured that we will be in Santa Fe again and with a bit of luck, we will meet Paul again and perhaps even get to see how this beautiful pottery is produced within its natural environment.