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Elisha Leslie Elizabeth Fountain Armendariz Elizabeth Garrett The Enchanted Jug Raines Romero

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Elisha Leslie
By Edith L. Crawford
Paraphrased by C. W. Barnum
Counties: Lincoln
Surnames mentioned: Leslie, Ward, Arthurs, Yorke, (York) Carter, Guebara, Farr, Wright, English

I was born February 14, 1873, in Dublin, Earth County, Texas, and came to New Mexico when I was ten years old. I have lived in Lincoln County about fifty-three years. My father, Robert Leslie, was born in Fulton County, Georgia, May 17, 1853. My mother, Elizabeth Ward, was born in Georgia, I do not know the town or county, January 6, 1857. My parents were married about the year 1871 in Dublin, Texas. I do not know when they came to Texas. My father owned a farm near Dublin Texas, and raised corn, small grains, potatoes, and had a small bunch of cattle and a few horses. My mother and father has ten children, Elisha, Lure, Leech, Jim and Callie were born in Texas. Robert, Ward, Ben, Jesse and Ellis, were born In New Mexico. Leech died before we moved from Texas to New Mexico. Callie died the first winter we lived in New Mexico, late in the year 1883. My brother Jim died about the year 1889, and Jesse was killed in an automobile accident about the year 1929, all died in New Mexico, except Leech.

My father had some big heavy teams and sometimes used them in doing construction work. I know that at one time he had four teams at work for a rail-road company, but I do not remember just where this was. My father met a man by the name of Jack Farr, who came down into Texas from Lincoln County, New Mexico. He was always telling my father what a great country New Mexico was and wanted to sell my father a ranch that he had in Lincoln County.

In the spring of 1883 my father decided to sell out his farm near Dublin Texas, and move to Lincoln County. Two other men that he knew wanted to come too, so these three men, my father, a man by the name of Dink Arthurs, and a man named Yorke, I have forgotten his other name, decided to set out for Lincoln County. They had three covered wagons, one to each family. In our family there was my father and mother, myself, Lura, Jim and Callie. A brother, Leech, had died in Texas several years before. There was Mr. and Mrs. Arthurs and one boy and one girl.

Mr. and Mrs. Yorke had no children. My father and the other two men decided to drive their cattle through. The other two men hired two men, brothers, named Carter and I made a hand for my father. We three rode horseback and looked after the cattle, about 200 head.

Each wagon had their own provisions and each family did their own cooking over a camp fire. The woman and children slept in the wagons and the men slept on the ground. Each wagon had their own chuck box and water kegs. The only fresh meat that we had on the trip were prairie chickens and antelope that we shot on the way. We did not see any Indians or buffalo and we had no serious trouble. We grazed the cattle along and when we would come to good grass and water we would sometimes stay an long as a week.

We crossed the Pacos River at Fort Patches. We had heard so much about the quick sands on this river and how dangerous it was to cross it that my father got a pilot to guide us across. We got all three wagons and all the cattle across without any serious trouble.

Billy the Kid had not been dead very long and we went out to see his grave. My father had met Billy the Kid at a railroad construction camp but did not know him well. From Fort Patches we went down to Roswell and up the Hondo river through the Mescalero Indian reservation, through Tularosa and on over to Weed, New Mexico.

We got to Weed in the fall of 1883. We were on the road about three months. The two Carter boys left us at Weed and I do not know what became of them. The Arthurs family stayed in New Mexico only a year or so and went back to Texas. The Yorkes lived around Weed for several years and the last I heard of them they were still in the Penasco country, in New Mexico. My father stayed in Weed only about a month and then decided to go to the Farr Ranch, which is about eight miles from White Oaks, New Mexico, and is now known as the Felix Guebara Ranch.

We drove our cattle from Weed, through the mountains, to the Farr Ranch. We stayed there at this ranch all that winter. In the spring of 1884 my father filed on a homestead at the foot of the Tucson Mountains. My sister Callie died during the winter that we were at the Farr ranch.

After we had lived on the homestead for several years my father bought a small place in White Oaks and stayed there during the fell and winter and sent us children to school there. After school was out in the spring we would go back to the homestead. It was near enough for my father to go back and forth to the homestead all the time and see how things were getting along.

One winter I got tired of going to school and decided that I would get out on my own, so I ran away from White Oaks and went out to the Block Ranch and hired out as a bronco buster. I was about seventeen, I guess then. I was a good rider and not afraid to tackle any kind of horse. I worked for the Block outfit for about five years. It was owned then by two brothers, Andy and Mel Richardson.

About 1894 I went to Arizona. I opened a meat market at Springerville, Arizona. I was married there in 1895 to Minnie English. After I married I went to work for a man named Harris Miller, who owned a ranch near Springerville. I worked for his for about three years. While I was working for him, breaking wild horses, a horse fell on me and crushed me up pretty badly.

I was in a hospital at St. Johns, Arizona, for more than six weeks. As soon as I was able to travel again I came back to my father's place in the Tucson mountains. I know that my days of breaking horses was over.

I homesteaded on a place of my own not very far from my father's place. I raised a few cattle and horses and did some dry farming. My wife and I had four children, Ruby, Walker, Lura and Alma. When Alma was about three months old my wife died. This was about 1920. My mother-in-law, Mrs. George English took my children to care for. Mr. and Mrs. English lived on a place about a mile from our place.

About 1923 I moved in to Carrizozo New Mexico and opened up a meat market. I brought my three oldest children with me and sent them to school. Ruby, the oldest girl kept house for me.

In 1933, I was married to Mrs. Ruby Wright, of Albuquerque, New Mexico. In 1934 we moved to White Oaks and I bought the place that my father had owned there, and my wife and I still own it and live there. My father died in February, 1932, and my mother died just a month later, March 17, 1932, in White Oaks, New Mexico. Both are buried there. My parents had ten children, five of whom are still living here in New Mexico, one in Colorado, and four are dead. The names of the children who are living are, Elisha, Lura, Robert, Ward, Ben and Ellis. My brother Ward still lives on the old place that my father homesteaded in 1864.

Elizabeth Fountain Armendariz
By Marie Carter
Paraphrased by C. W. Barnum
Counties: Dona Ana
Surnames mentioned: Armendariz, Fountain, Justiniani, Todd, Baca

Mrs. Armendariz, who lives in the family home of her parents at Old Mesilla ushered me into a room of curios, explaining: This is the Gadsden Museum collection which belonged to my father, the late Albert J. Fountain Junior. I follow in his footsteps, for collecting curios is my hobby. The Santos, or Saints in this case are very old, she said, pointing to a large glass case of statues, ranging from one to three feet in height. Unlocking the case doors she took out a Santo and placed it in my hands. That one is a hundred years old, and was found in a cave. The Santo was a painted canvas stretched over a delicate frame-work of wood.

Observe the paint, she said, faded yet still beautiful, and the Santo's features so easy to define. The Santo on the table is shrouded in mystery; I promised the donor not to tell from whence it came. Were you born in Old Mesilla? I inquired.

Yes, she replied, and I have been a teacher in the Mesilla school for the past fifteen years. I want you to examine these articles; they were given to my grandparents by Juan Maria Justiniani, or the Hermit of the Organ mountains, a Cartesian monk. This little brass bell is the same one he always carried, tied to the handle of his cane. These brown rosary beads, which he gave to my grandmother, are made from the leaves of flowers. This black rosary he gave my grandfather. Note the artistic rose design hand-carved by the hermit. And these? I inquired, pointing to some odd-looking books.

Were written by the Hermit, she replied. The brown book is written in Spanish, and its cover is crude cowhide. The other book is written in Italian, and is covered with sheepskin. The Hermit used to walk from the Organ mountains to Mesilla to preach to the people. Here is another rosary much larger than the other two; it came from the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes, France and he wore it around his waist. This ring with the spikes in it he use for inflicting punishment upon himself. It was his way of doing penance.

The Hermit was a very religious man. The natives feared him because they believed that he could read their minds; also predict the future. On one of his visits to our community, I have been told, he did something very odd. He happened to be talking to the resident priests when two men approached, one leading a mare. The priest introduced them to the Hermit. He shook hands with one of the men but when the man with the mare proffered his hand the hermit ignored it, saying, I can not shake this man's hand, not until he restores that stolen mare to its master, Is that mare stolen property, demanded the angry priest. The guilty Mexican bowed his head in shame as he responded in a low voice: Si, senor.

The Hermit, Juan Maria Justiniani, was an Italian aristocrat, born Sizzario, Lomardy, Italy. Some say that the Virgin appeared to him and told him to go westward, and that he followed her advice, while others contend that he was expelled from Mexico. At the age of 20 he made a promise to travel to all the mountains of the world, to teach and to preach to the ignorant. At first he lived in a cave at Las Vegas, and then he moved to a cave in the Organs.

That, she said, pointing to a picture of a tall, white bearded monk, wearing the brown hooded cape of his order, and leaning on a cane to which a small brass bell, the one she had shown me, was attached, is the Hermit. My father painted him from memory. Whenever the natives wish to fin find something real bad, they pray to the Hermit to help them. For 49 years he lived the life of a hermit, dying at the age of 69, April 17, 1868. His grave is in the Catholic Cemetery, here, in Old Mesilla.

It seems that the hermit predicted his own death. He was in the habit of lighting a bonfire every night to say his rosary. Tonight, he told Father Baca of Las Cruces, there will be no fire. And when the bright flames, to which the people of Mesilla had grown accustomed, failed to appear in the eastern sky, they knew, even before they found him, that the Hermit of the Organs was dead. Mrs. Elizabeth Fountain Armendariz, Granddaughter of Col. Albert J.J. Fountain, Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic June 30, 1891. Mrs. Armendariz was born in Old Mesilla, New Mexico, February 4. 1897; teacher in Mesilla school for fifteen years. She is an artist, musician and curio collector; has a painting painted by her father, and taken from the original photograph of Mary Todd, wife of Abraham Lincoln. The original photograph is dated, 1859, N. Y. On the lower part of the painting is the word: Consagrado, which means consecrated.

Elizabeth Garrett
By Georgia B. Redfield
Paraphrased by C. W. Barnum
Counties: Lincoln, Be Baca, Chaves
Surnames mentioned: Garrett, Gutierrez, Andrew, Strong, Stanhart, Hanson

Musician, Author, and Composer of State Song O Fair New Mexico and Numerous Other Songs of The Southwest. Elizabeth Garrett Roswell musician, composer, and author of the State Song, 'O Fair New Mexico and numerous other songs of the Southwest is the daughter of Pat Garrett, and Polinari Gutierrez, Garrett She was born at Eagle Creek, above the Ruidoso, in the White Mountains of New Mexico. When an infant she moved with her parents to a ranch home five miles east of Roswell.

My childhood days on the ranch were happy, neither constricted nor restricted, states Miss Garrett. Even though blind, since early childhood she led an active outdoor life - rode horseback, and found pleasure and happiness in all other active amusements and sports with her brother and sisters.

One of my earliest recollections of composing was when swinging on a limb of an apple tree, in bloom, one spring, said Miss Garrett, during an interview in which she gave an interesting story of her early life.

Now I never catch the odor of apple-blossoms that I don't feel again the leafy shadows, under the trees, and the bright sunshine, and see the birds that called to each other from tree to tree. The song I composed was about the apple blossoms and the bees that were buzzing around the trees.

Elizabeth Garrett spoke in praise and affection of her brave father who accomplished a great deal as a peace officer, and holds a tender place in the hearts and memory of the people of Southeast New Mexico for putting an end to the dreaded outlaw and early day desperado known as Billy the Kid.

Quite frequently, said Miss Garrett, my father had to bring harmony with a gun. I always have tried to do so by carrying a tune. As a very small child she showed unusual musical talent, which she inherited from her mother who was descended from Spanish musicians.

At six years of age Elizabeth's father placed her in a school for the blind in Austin, Texas, where her musical education was begun. After graduating with honors, she continued her music under the best teachers in Chicago and New York, paying her own way by her compositions and teaching. Her voice is a dramatic soprano. When hearing Elizabeth Garrett singing the state song, O Fair New Mexico with her own people, one is completely carried away. Then to listen to her sing the music of the Old Masters, The Birth, Death and Resurrection of the Savior, is like a benediction.

Miss Garret has been enthusiastically received in all the large cities in the United States. She has been much feted and honored, but no matter how much they fete her, how greatly honored that they can not keep her, for Daughter of the West, as she is, she always returns to her beloved New Mexico. New Mexico is proud of Elizabeth Garrett. Roswell people feel that she belongs to them, for here she has built her Dream-House, and here she will live her life and write in song and music, the stories of her people and the land she loves.

To really know Elizabeth Garrett, one should see her in her home. Her five room stucco adobe house, La Casa, has all the color and atmosphere of the early Spanish architecture, interior decoration and furnishing. The living room is bright and cheering no shades are ever drawn to exclude the sunlight here, and there are flowers everywhere, with a soft blending of bright colors, gold predominating, in draperies, rugs and pictures.

There in a corner fireplace which speaks plainly of being the center of interest, and sun symbol designs and Thunder Birds adorn the andirons and door knocker made especially for this home by Colonel Scotty Andrew being gifts of Mr. Joe Strong and his sister Mrs. Peter Nelson. Most everything in my home are gifts from friends, stated Elizabeth Garrett. Many are from my dearly loved Sister Pauline who lives at Las Cruces.

The gentle touch of her seeing hands showed me each prized treasure. A hand painted tray, a Spanish Seniorita, the work of an artist friend, held the place of honor over the fireplace. There was a splendid painting Small De Fonso by Hazel Hanson, a framed Western picture with song, Out In New Mexico by Annie Laurie Snorf, that was put to music by Elizabeth Garrett, and many articles of gift furniture, a Spanish vase, inlaid coffee table, stools, chairs, lamps, and bright colored Navajo rugs. All these gifts accumulated for the Dream House, longed for, planned for and at last come true, in all its quaint artistry of construction.

The home in dedicated to Elizabeth Garrett's mother Polinari Gutierrez, Elizabeth Garrett's Garrett who passed on to a home in the Great Beyond, two weeks after a visit to her daughter in Roswell, where as the widow of Pat Garrett, the famous pioneer peace officer of the Southwest, she was the guest of honor and proclaimed Queen of the Old Timers for the Old Timers celebration of 1936.

The three hobbies of Elizabeth Garrett are the theater, swimming and housekeeping. As a housekeeper, she is a constant marvel to her friends. There are no homes in which there are more highly polished floors, or shining windows. There are no more beautifully ironed clothes than those done by the hands of this musician, who does everything she attempts equally as well, as playing and singing or composing of songs in the career she has chosen.

Pets of Elizabeth Garrett are Teenie, her Seeing Eye Dog that is her constant companion, Jerry, a canary that sings gaily in the sunshine of a big window, and Smutty, a cat that considers himself master of the house judging by the attention demanded by him from the other members of the household.

The wonderful Seeing Eye Dog, is from a dog training school in Morristown New Jersey, where the most intelligent animals they can secure are trained as guides for the blind. Miss Garrett and her dog are familiar and interesting subjects of attention, as they are seen almost daily, even in the most traffic-congested districts, where the keen eyes of the dog are ever watchful of every step of the adored mistress.

The home of Elizabeth Garrett, planned by her with the assistance of Frank Stanhart architect in typical of the unusual characteristics and individuality of this true Daughter of the West, who has gone far, accomplished much, and is one of the most beloved women of New Mexico. Just as her father, Pat Garrett was one of the most useful and beloved of men.

The Enchanted Jug
Bert Phillips
By Muriel Haskell
Paraphrased by C. W. Barnum
Counties: Taos
Surnames mentioned: Phillips, Geronimo, Meyers, Tafoye

One morning some twenty years ago as Bert Phillips, noted Taos artist, stood talking to Geronimo, a large Pueblo Indian with one half closed eye. Their conversation turned to a piece of pottery which Geronimo had found up the canon from the Pueblo.

I thought perhaps you'd be interested in buying it, Mr. Phillips, suggested Geronimo. The Indian and the artist were friend of long standing Geronimo having posed for Phillips for many years and accompanied him on many painting expeditions.

I'll tell you, Geronimo, from your description of the incised decoration on this vase, I think I should at least like to see it and estimate its value. You bring it in to town some time. And so the matter was dismissed. Each time Phillips saw Geronimo as he shuffled past his house on the Pueblo road he would call, Say, when are you going to bring in that piece of pottery for me to look at and Geronimo would shrug his broad shoulders and squint his eye. Several months went by and finally Geronimo's wife promised that either she would bring it in. Mr. Phillips might get it at the Pueblo if he drove out.

Again months went by. And one day in Ralph Meyers Mission shop he mentioned the incident. Mr. Meyers laughed heartily. You'll ever get that piece, Bert, I've been trying to see that for over a year. The Indians believe it can't be moved and they would never get it in to town. Phillips was provoked and with utter disdain for the superstition planned that he and his young son, Ralph, would drive out over the bumpy dirt road to the Pueblo. And so they harnessed the horses and prepared to leave.

On the drive out Phillips kept pondering on the piece of pottery, its reputed beauty and whether Geronimo or his wife would ask a fabulous sum for it. I simply can't pay more that ten dollars for it, he mused to himself. But upon their arrival at Geronimo's house. The Indian's wife handed him the delicate vase without question. How much? asked Phillips, and to his surprise the Indian woman replied, Fifty cents! Phillips and Ralph eyed it hungrily. Yes, it was all that Geronimo had said and then some. The thin paper shell delicacy of it was covered with fine incised ornament. At least two thousand years old, thought Phillips to himself. Now, Ralph, go easy and hold that ladder steady, we're going to get this piece of pottery it to town if its the last thing we do. We'll show them how silly their superstitions are.

And slowly they climbed down from the second story of the Pueblo over the crudely made ladder. Phillips holding his prize tenderly and his young son watching with eagle eyes that nothing should happen to jar it from his hold. They both gave a sigh of relief as they heeded the horses toward town. Ralph driving and the vase held carefully on Phillips' lap. The drive was slow and the day hot so as they approached the fork of the roads where the old cemetery lies on the outskirts of Taos, Ralph turned the horses sharply to the north again on to the main Pueblo road. Where are you going? I want to got this thing home as fast as I can. But the boy explained that surely there could be no harm in taking a swim in the tiny pond on the reservation which furnishes both ice and recreation. He looked pleadingly and argued so earnestly that the artist with his vase finally gave in. In no time the lad was stripped and enjoying the cool waters of the small lake. His father was standing on the shore holding the pottery gingerly. Hey, shouted Ralph, why don't you put that on the wagon seat nothing will happen to it.

Not on your life. So far so good, and the horses might jerk the wagon or it might roll off, but I'll put it down here, resting it against an upright pole. That day for the first time in weeks, the light and atmosphere, the reflection of the Sacred Taos mountain in the water of the pond, were identical to that day when Phillips had started a canvass on that very spot. He stared fascinated at the reflection, studying the planes and coloring. And then his mind was diverted by a halloo from two native youths on burros. Friends of Ralph's, they were urged by him to join in a swim. And Phillips, his mind again on the precious find of Geronimo's, grabbed the vase from the ground. The burros might think it contained salt and in their eagerness paw at it and break it. So quickly he wrapped it in young Ralph's clothes that were lying in a bundle on the shore, greeted the two boys who were preparing to swim and with a feeling of assurance again fell to studying the water reflections.

Suddenly, a sound as ominous an the crash of planets, as full of significance as the darkness of eternity, a great explosive bop came to his ears. It meant only one thing! No other set of cacophonous vibrations could come from anything but that precious vase.

Not daring to turn yet impelled to Phillips stared horror stricken at Ralph. There the boy sat frozen to the ground where he had sat on his clothes to dry himself after his dip. The two looked at each other for an endless space of time. Then Ralph, his face contorted, pleaded, Oh, father, I didn't mean to, honestly, I didn't know it was there. You know I wouldn't have done it. He was almost in an emotional frenzy. Phillips tried to pacify him, cover his own tremendous feeling of loss, and then with shaking hands they picked up the fragments of the beautifully incised vessel. The drive home was in silence and for days no reference was made to the incident.

But two days later Geronimo came to the door. My wife, she says you came and got the vase do you have it here? Phillips cleared his throat. Why yes, I got it Geronimo, but see you were right. We couldn't take it away from the Pueblo, there it is. He pointed to the pile of fragments.

Geronimo squinted with his half closed eye at the remains and gave a significant look at Phillips and shrugged. You didn't really think that you could, did you? He shuffled off down the road to town. This lovely oval pot was glued piece by piece into form again. Dr. Alfred Vincent Kidder of the Boston Museum of Natural History dated it at about two thousand years of age and stated it was the third piece of its kind ever found east of the Rio Grande. Mr. Bert Phillips still has this vase at his studio in Taos.

Escape from the Indians
Cut off from the outer world by her blindness, Mrs. Tafoye, aged nearly 100, lives in her little adobe house back from the highway near Cleveland, New Mex. When the boys and girls went to her for reminiscences her old face lighted. She had been living in the past for so many years that she was glad to have an audience for the thoughts that ordinarily surge through her mind.

Yes, my brother Jose, he was captured by Indians, Shall I tell you that? Yes, yes, please do.

Well, one day Jose was at El Rio del Pueblo when he was surrounded by a band of Indians who took him captive. But Jose, he watch close so as to find his way home again. The Indians were good to my brother, treated him kindly, and kept him for a year and a half to take care of their horses. One day, however, he saw the savages poles on which they tied a captive and built a fire under him. Jose was so frightened that he wanted to escape right away. He had been so long with the Indians that they did not watch him any more. He knew their habits so well that when he saw they were starting out to hunt he knew they would be gone several days; and as all the horses were away he would be left to help the squaws in the fields. Soon after the men left he took his wooden hoe and left the squaws around the camp. Once out of sight he threw down the hoe and started for home.

Back at camp his escape was discovered and an Indian runner sped to the hunters, who came in prompt pursuit. A long stretch of plain lay before Juan. He could hear the whoops of the Indians in the forest behind. There was no shelter for the boy except a large rock about 100 yards away. Oh, Saint Anthony, help me! cried Jose. He hurried forward and crept under the rock. The fleet horses of the Indians were soon heard approaching. Around and around they rode, then went away a little distance, returned and rode around again, but they did not see Jose. At last they rode away. Jose waited until dark, then calling on his Saint Anthony again he ran toward home.

The next morning after my brother had gone to a neighbor's house, my sister and I were very much frightened to see an Indian standing at our door. He had long bone earrings and was very dirty. Then Jose spoke and asked us if we did not know him. We were so happy. I ran for my mother but did not tell her why I wanted her. She did not know my brother either. When he spoke, she knew his voice and cried for joy. When he had cleaned himself, she took the old bone earrings and gave him a pair of silver ones, which we wore the rest of his life.

Raines Romero
Spanish Pioneer
Paraphrased by C. W. Barnum
Counties: Mora
Surnames mentioned: Romero, Tafoya 

Escape from the Indians:

Cut off from the outer world by her blindness, Mrs. Tafoya, aged nearly 100, lives in her little adobe house back from the highway near Cleveland, New Mexico. When the boys and girls went to her for reminiscences her old face lighted. She had been living in the past for so many years that she was glad to have an audience for the thoughts that ordinarily surge through her mind.

Yes, my brother Jose, he was captured by Indians. Shall I tell you that? Yes, yes, please do. Well, one day Jose was at El Rio del Pueblo when he was surrounded by a band of Indians who took him captive. But Jose, he watch close so as to find his way home again. The Indians were good to my brother, treated him kindly, and kept him for a year and a half to take care of their horses.

One day, however, he saw the savages put up two poles on which they tied a captive and built a fire under him. Jose was so frightened that he wanted to escape right away. He had been so long with the Indians that they did not watch him any more. He knew their habits so well that when he saw they were starting out to hunt he knew they would be gone several days; and as all the horses were away he would be left to help the squaws in the fields. Soon after the men left he took his wooden hoe and left the squaws around the camp. Once out of sight he threw down the hoe and started for home. Back at camp his escape was discovered and an Indian runner sped to the hunters, who came in prompt pursuit. A long stretch of plain lay before Juan. He could hear the whoops of the Indians in the forest behind.

There was no shelter for the boy except a large rock about 100 yards away Oh, Saint Anthony, help me! cried Jose. He hurried forward and crept under the rock. The fleet horses of the Indians were soon heard approaching. Around and around they rode, then went away a little distance, returned and rode around again, but they did not see Jose. At last they rode away. Jose waited until dusk, then calling on his Saint Anthony again he ran toward home.

The next morning after my mother had gone to a neighbor's house, my sister and I were very much frightened to see an Indian standing at our door. He had long bone earrings and was very dirty. Then Jose spoke and asked us if we did not know him. We were so happy. I ran for my mother but did not tell her why I wanted her. She did not know my brother either. When he spoke, she knew his voice and cried for joy. When he had cleaned himself, she took the old bone earrings and gave his a pair of silver ones, which we wore the rest of his life.