Memories of Muriel

A tough old broad named Muriel Baughan first told me about Taos. Muriel managed the games at the amusement park, where I had my first summer job.

Artist's Recreation of The Cyclone Rollercoaster at the Excelsior Amusement Park

Not quite on its last legs then, the park was a vestige of the glory days at Lake Minnetonka, when there were dozens of resort hotels, serviced by Streetcar Boats, and the great interurban streetcars themselves, which brought crowds to Excelsior from Lake and Hennepin in twenty minutes (a time not possible now, except by helicopter).

I grew up across St. Alban’s Bay from the park, which was lit at night by incandescent lights, strung all over the outline of the roller coaster and the other rides and buildings. With the windows open in the summer, I would go to sleep to the sound of the rattling coaster cars and the shrieks of the passengers. A visit to the amusement park was a high adventure in my childhood, and it was really exciting to g a job there at the age of thirteen.

The law forbade children to work after dark, so I usually worked from (10:00 am) to 5:00 or 6:00 pm. The work wasn’t very hard, just standing behind the counter taking the dimes and quarters from people who threw baseballs at wooden milk bottles or tried their luck at skee-ball. Then there was the fairly creepy “Walking Charlie” in which life-sized dummies of seedy-looking bums paraded across the back of the stall and people tried to knock their hats off with baseballs. The only difficult part was bending over all day to pick up the hats or the milk-bottles. Mostly it was boring, sitting on an orange crate all day, waiting for customers, who rarely came during the day on weekdays. The pay was 75¢ an hour, the minimum wage “for women and children in the entertainment industry."

Muriel liked me because I didn’t rip off the till, like the older boys, muscled and motorcycled, from nearby farm towns, who sometimes worked for her when they couldn’t get a more lucrative position running the rides. They had cut-off denim jackets over their tight T-shirts and thy smoked Camels and they ripped Muriel off. This was not a good idea, because Muriel, an experienced carney, was way tougher than any of them. Even though she was dumpy and short and fat, and wore a man’s shirt outside her slacks, and had a few missing teeth and a couple of gold ones that showed, she had a fierce temper and you didn’t want her mad at you. I never gave her cause, and I brought a number of my more-or-less nerdy friends to work there then next year. They were honest too, and as I reflect, it may be that we opened a whole new world to Muriel.

During the months the park was open (May to September), Muriel lived with her “cousin” Edna, who whirled the candy floss, in an old resort, long since let to long-term renters. They may have had some carney gigs elsewhere in the South, but mainly she and Edna just drove around the Southwest in her ancient, war-time Dodge sedan. She particularly liked northern New Mexico.

Muriel would stop by to chat every day. Just to check in as the boss, but sometimes she would talk a little more. She told m about cowboys and Penitentes, and about the great Taos Pueblo. She showed me pictures, and she even had some Indian-made turquoise and silver jewelry. I learned about the mysterious muradas, the windowless houses where the Penitente societies had their ceremonies. And she told me the lurid stories of the Holy Week excesses, in which people not only flagellated each other, but actually crucified someone. Every year.

I didn’t know whether to believe it or not. Was Muriel making this up? She was a sincerely devout Catholic, and I had been raised to know that Catholics were pretty exotic. But real crucifixion? Muriel made Taos sound like a foreign country. I later found out that it was all true, and Northern New Mexico has always been a genuine “land of enchantment” to me. I wanted to see whether the charm was still potent, so I arranged to spend some time in the Taos area. My old friend Gendron Jenson, a successful artist from Grand Rapids, called me last Fall, and I promised a visit. Boy, am I glad I did. More on that below.

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The Excelsior Amusement Park closed sometime in the late '60s, I think. The last thing to go was a beautiful old dance hall, called The Pavillion, across the street from the main entrance to the park. It was a domed ellipse, all made of wood, with a large dance floor in the middle, circled by an arcade with booths for resting and conversation. I always thought it a shame that they didn't preserve at least that fine old structure. It went out with in glory, though. The last band to play there was the Rolling Stones.