In the quiet stillness of a small café in Vaughn, New Mexico, back in December 1997, I found myself pondering a bowl of warm chile, seeking an understanding that seemed just out of reach. My brother sat across from me, contemplating his plate, while I gazed out at the unassuming town, a place holding a peculiar significance for my family. Vaughn, a seemingly minor dot on the map, had always loomed large in our family lore, a town disproportionately present in our memories. I had journeyed to Vaughn hoping for clarity, to grasp its role in our lives, but the profound revelation I anticipated remained elusive. Instead, the only thought that surfaced was, “A good bowl of chile can indeed be eaten with a fork.”
For my family, the narrative of our move from the Vermont chill to the New Mexico warmth is etched with vivid details: my father announcing our relocation to a city with the improbable name of Truth or Consequences, and our arrival in that very city, two months later, in our trusty blue Ford Econoline van, just as Fourth of July fireworks painted the sky in patriotic hues of red, white, and blue. The air, thick with the scent of sparklers, heat, and desert flora, was a sensory introduction to a landscape utterly foreign to our East Coast senses. I remember checking into cabin 10 at the Travelers Lodge, my father unpacking amidst the backdrop of Watergate hearings on the TV news, while my brother and I stood outside, watching the sky transform with the evening. And my mother, likely contemplating the immense leap of faith we had taken, perhaps overwhelmed by the “Consequence” more than the “Truth,” quietly retreating to the bathroom, tears unspoken.
Yet, as time has passed, the memories of that pivotal journey have subtly reshaped themselves within our minds. When we reminisce, it’s not the dazzling fireworks, the novel scents, or our initial impressions of that town with the whimsical name that first come to mind. Memory operates by its own peculiar hierarchy, and those initial images have been relegated to a secondary tier.
Dominating our recollections, taking precedence over all else, is the memory of our van breaking down in Vaughn.
Each member of my family holds a distinct fragment of the Vaughn breakdown story. My mother recalls the kindness of a rancher who stopped beside our stranded van on the desolate highway, assuring us that Vaughn was “just up a ways,” and promising to dispatch a tow truck to our aid amidst the 90-degree heat. (Air conditioning, it’s worth noting, was not a standard amenity in Vermont-sold vans of that era.) We sat in stifled silence, minimizing movement, fearing that even the slightest disturbance would amplify the oppressive heat. My brother remembers the arrival of the one-armed mechanic, who efficiently towed our van, and us along with it, into town. My own vivid memory is of pestering my mother for a penny in the garage to buy a gumball. The garage echoed with the clang of metal on metal, the air thick with the smell of oil, and I ended up with a black gumball, my least preferred flavor. My father’s recollection centers on the mechanic’s diagnosis: “Your gas needs air,” and the remarkably simple fix of loosening the gas cap.
Our Vaughn interlude, lasting perhaps an hour at most, marked our first real interaction with New Mexico. Unfortunately, the experience carried a negative undertone, casting a shadow over the town that lingered. We moved on, of course, and the subsequent 25 years brought significant positive changes to our lives. My parents successfully managed the Montgomery Ward store in Truth or Consequences, providing my brother and me with a comfortable middle-class upbringing. Over the years, we often looked back at our initial anxieties about this new place with amusement, recognizing how fortunate we had been. Yet, our positive sentiments towards our adopted home state never quite extended to Vaughn. Even a casual mention of Vaughn on the evening news or in a newspaper article would elicit a collective cringe and the inevitable refrain, “Remember the time…?”
Vaughn would occasionally resurface in our lives, a subtle tease from the past. My brother once found himself stranded there during a snowstorm on a drive home from college in Portales. My parents, in their roles at Montgomery Ward, would often have to explain to impatient customers that the delivery truck carrying their catalog orders was delayed, inevitably citing Vaughn as the culprit, a town seemingly notorious for vehicle malfunctions. Later, when my mother became a police dispatcher, she would receive reports of accidents and hazardous road conditions originating from Vaughn. For me, the town was perpetually linked to the unpleasant taste of black gumballs. Vaughn lingered on the periphery of our consciousness, a persistent reminder of its unexpected role in our journey.
Why, I wondered, did Vaughn hold such a tenacious grip on our collective memory, especially given the negative associations it evoked? I was driven to understand. I needed to rediscover Vaughn.
And so, there we were. My brother and I spent the morning driving through Vaughn, traversing its length multiple times, observing. The highway gracefully arcs through the town, like a comma in a sentence, inviting a brief pause before continuing onward. We passed a garage that bore a striking resemblance to the one that had attended to our van 25 years prior. We noted motels and the train depot, once home to a Fred Harvey eatery, a testament to Vaughn’s history as a haven for travelers. From its origins as a watering stop along early cattle trails to its strategic position as a division point for two railway lines, Vaughn had clearly welcomed countless weary travelers over the years. It appeared to be a pleasant enough place – a stark contrast to the villainous Vaughn that had taken root in our family narrative. I glanced out the café window, past the festive strands of green and silver garland and the somewhat awkwardly spelled “felix navidad” sprayed-on snow. I sensed I was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
After paying for our meal, I felt compelled to make one final stop. Across the street, an empty lot had piqued my curiosity earlier. The foundations of an old structure traced the perimeter of the grounds, with a few walls and rooms still standing. Its distinct U-shape suggested it might have once been a motel. A weathered sign marked the driveway entrance: two metal posts, about 15 feet tall, rising from a weed-choked concrete base. The left post leaned slightly, intersecting the other, culminating in an arrow pointing towards the former building. Soldered between the posts were two square metal frames, remnants of the sign’s face, the top frame faded green, the bottom a blend of pink paint and gray metal. Rusted sockets hinted at neon tubing that once spelled out words, still faintly legible in each frame.
Ideal Motel.
I stepped out of the car to photograph the relic, while my brother remained inside, accustomed to my penchant for seemingly insignificant details. The December air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the sweltering July day of our breakdown. I could discern that the Ideal Motel’s welcoming amenities once included a gas station in the courtyard, a pragmatic gesture, as if the motel was acknowledging the transient nature of roadside stays: “We understand this is just a stopover. No hard feelings.” The sign itself was remarkably photogenic. Its paint was faded, but its spirit remained undiminished – still subtly beckoning motorists despite its evident obsolescence.
Looking at the sign was akin to examining an old calendar, filled with dates and reminders significant only in retrospect. One could perceive it merely as a relic of a bygone era. Or, alternatively, one could see something profoundly different. The sign was persistent, even optimistic, continuing to perform its function long after its lights had dimmed and the motel it advertised had closed its doors. Its posts now rusting, its arrow pointing towards an empty lot, the sign still managed to convey a sense of hope, not irony. This is a common characteristic of many New Mexico Towns; they hold onto their history and charm, often presenting a sense of optimism even amidst visible signs of time and change.
In that faded optimism, I suddenly recognized the essence of Vaughn, and perhaps the spirit of many overlooked New Mexico towns.
Vaughn had clung to our memories, I realized, because we had done it an injustice. We had been viewing this town through a skewed, negative lens, focusing solely on the unpleasant memory it represented for us, and failing to see the inherent resilience and quiet hope that permeated the place. To us, Vaughn was simply “the place we broke down.” The reality was, Vaughn was the place that came to our aid when we were stranded. What if Vaughn hadn’t been there to offer assistance that day? What might have become of us in that intense heat?
Vaughn wasn’t just the inconvenient location where my brother was once snowbound for three days; it was the welcoming haven he was fortunate enough to reach, offering him food, warmth, and shelter from a potentially dangerous winter storm. It wasn’t merely a hotspot for vehicle breakdowns; it was a friendly roadside oasis where motorists in distress could find help and reassurance. This unassuming town, “just up a ways,” was, in its own way, the unsung hero of Highway 60, a metaphorical Clara Barton for weary travelers. Many New Mexico towns serve this purpose, offering respite and unexpected kindness to those journeying through.
We had misjudged Vaughn, and by extension, perhaps many small New Mexico towns. Patiently, knowing we would eventually understand, Vaughn had persisted in our memory until we could finally recognize our error. The evidence of this quiet persistence was right in front of me, embodied in faded green and pink paint and rusted metal.
“Took you long enough,” the Ideal Motel sign seemed to whisper.
That resilient sign, unable to relinquish its past, inspired me to let go of mine, and I resolved to do just that. Vaughn, and I, were finally going to be friends. And in that newfound friendship, I began to appreciate the understated beauty and unexpected charm that permeates so many of New Mexico’s often-overlooked towns. They are places of resilience, quiet optimism, and hidden stories, waiting to be discovered by those willing to look beyond first impressions.
