Ghost Wnsto

More Than a Town

In the stark, harsh and barren desert floor lays the remains of some wooden structures. Structures that have weathered the seasons of life, the sandstorms, the blistering heat and bone chilling cold of harsh desert nights. Like lonely and silent soldiers standing guard, these remains watch time slip slowly by and leave them behind. Yet behind these weathered boards, shards of broken glass, remnants of a time long past lies more than a mere town, or what is known to most as a ghost town. But a town where mans hopes, dreams, achievements, struggles and losses can be found.

Throughout the western United States an occasional and sporadic outcropping of wooden buildings, a leaning outhouse or rusty hulk of a car from long ago can still be discovered. Amongst the structures, scattered pieces of rusty metal or an occasional bottle from a point in time that some would see as an eyesore or a spot of insignificance. However, these remaining structures are like the last men standing after a long siege. The ones that time, age, destruction and even dishonor have not been able to totally erase from the lands memories. Memories of a past that hold a wealth of knowledge, vision and experiences that if not recalled upon steal the very heart and soul that was once poured into that very spot.

These towns are not just a collection of dilapidated, antiquated construction but they are so much more. They symbolize the pioneering spirit of our forefathers who came to settle in an unknown and sometimes extremely hostile environment. With the dreams of reaching the “promised land” many embarked on a journey that would lead some to stop along the way and construct their dreams among a formidable land. With the dreams of a “land flowing with milk and honey” they would convert the dry, dusty, inhabitable areas that had only before seen an occasional coyote or jackrabbit into places flowing with the mass of dreams like a river running downstream.

Fortunes would be made and loss at the turn of a card, blade of a knife or loss of a life and yet the river of mankind would continue to flow and another “garden of Eden” would be recreated amongst the thorns. No matter how stony the soil, how perilous the journey, how inhospitable the land, our forefathers dreamed of a land of promise, of freedom and this dream kept the river of man flowing out west, the way a river runs to the sea. The pull was great and no matter how harsh the environment, how hard the struggle, how insurmountable the challenge, they saw past that and were willing to give all to achieve their dreams and visions.

The rusty cans, broken bed springs, and weathered boards are a glimpse into a time of our forefathers grit, vision, glory and idealism that has set this country apart in so many ways. Many a father dreamed of providing a better life for their family just as we do today. Many a child sat in a one room schoolhouse to learn to read and write and build upon that spirit deep within. Tenderly and lovingly, many a woman tended the dusty soil with patience and prayers, sweat and swearing to produce food for her family. From out of the dust came life, like a shadow of what was created by God in the book of Genesis when he created Adam and the Garden of Eden. Our forefathers with their drive for freedom, independence and individuality would try and re-create their own Garden of Eden.

These are not mere towns but towns with a history. A story that cries out to be