Saddle Sore: The ghosts of Aspen past

Hadn’t been there in a few years, but could tell my friend Amy Honey exactly where to look. Shaded from the sun by towering cottonwoods, with nothing, really, to entice people except those craving peace and quiet, it’s one of the oldest establishments in Aspen. Thousands drive by every day yet never step through its gates.

Red Butte Cemetery, established in 1899, along with the Aspen Historical Society, was host to a cemetery tour of the graves of persons important to Aspen’s history. Sure, we all know those whose names are repeated with some regularity, but there are others who are just as, maybe more, important. 

It was an AHS production “Twilight in the Cemetery: Stories from Aspen’s Ancestors” night, and as you may have guessed, my part was a sketch on my great-grandfather, Jeremie Vagneur and his wife, Marie Estefani Vagneur (nee Clavel), but just being in the cemetery was, as always, a walk down memory lane. My brother, Steve Vagneur, is buried next to my great-grandmother Estefani. And on the other side of the 17-acre cemetery, lie the remains of AJ Warren Vagneur, my dad’s brother who died in infancy. I was supposed to be called AJ in his honor (Anthony John, my given name), and always was until I entered grade school. You know how kids and nicknames go.

Just across the way, friend Amy was portraying Mary Ella Stallard, who at one time owned the Wheeler-Stallard House, today’s home of the Aspen Historical Society. Dressed in an amazing black period dress, Amy told a sad tale of a dead husband, child relatives coming to live, and the almost impossibility of heating the huge house on very little money. At least, I think that’s what she talked about. (We each had to remain at our assigned graves.) 

My maternal grandmother, Nellie Stapleton Sloss, used to take me with her and her sister Julia Stapleton and Louiva Stapleton to visit Ella after she had moved to the small, log cabin, still standing along the south side of Main Street. Only instead of Ella or Mrs. Stallard, we called her Aunt Lollie, in deference to Louiva.  

Now I gave it away, my link to the Stapleton family, for those who are always curious. My cousin, Dean Stapleton, was doing a sketch of the Stapleton family, a couple of headstones over, and through the enabling evening breeze, heard my name mentioned. Dean, one of the sharpest, coolest kids around, goes into a lot of genealogical information and detail, deeper than yours truly, so I consider him the authority. And his partner, Becky. Sharp, good-looking, and a talented photographer!

An interesting sidelight (of which I can think of many) is a story about my friend Charlie Hopton, fellow Aspen Hall of Fame member. He approached me one time saying he was an “honorary” Stapleton. “Well, hell, Charlie, I’m a Stapleton, as well, only with a different name.” We now teasingly call each other “Cuz.”

There were other players on this late afternoon stage of cool grass serpentined through a plethora of headstones, such as Nina Gabianelli who, it cannot be denied, has walked the streets of Aspen in 1880s period dress for more years than most as a guide to interesting town history or introducing the ghost of the Hotel Jerome. Is that real? On this night, she was elucidating Dorothy Koch Shaw, woman with the very intricate braids coiled around her head, serious historian, and stern wife of Judge Shaw, long-time denizen of the courthouse. 

Hildur Anderson, seemingly forever Aspen school teacher and runner-up Colorado Teacher of the Year, was interpreted by Sheri Brinker. In my 4th grade year, Hildur convinced several of us to behave rather than to keep receiving the stinging rap of her ruler across our knuckles, and she also entertained us by occasionally bringing her accordion to class. Previously, she had taught my dad and his sisters. An unforgettable woman, almost a family member. Aspen Hall of Fame 1994. She was excellent on teaching multiplication tables. 

Travis Lane McDiffett as A.J. Robinson, brother-in-law of H.W. Gillespie, very early pioneer. AJ was a Texas farmer, got the mining bug, and came to Aspen in 1881. He was what you might call the epitome of the “real” miner, not one of the inflated mine owners making a killing. He worked various jobs until the 1893 crash, ran a hardware store with his brother until 1897, and then headed north to the Yukon. When that didn’t work, he came back to Aspen and, while looking at a mine to lease in 1899, was decapitated by a contraption used to ferry miners back and forth from the outside. 

In a place like Aspen, the cemetery reminds us how tangled and enduring our connections really are. The stones may weather, but the stories keep us bound to this valley — generation to generation, cousin to cousin, friend to friend.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.