Big Bend Gazette March 2007
http://www.bigbendgazette.com/Judy Ann Magers, also known throughout West Texas as The Burro Lady" (and other similar monikers), died on January
26 from natural causes in Hudspeth County, Texas, near Sierra Blanca. Magers was, unwittingly, a highly public persona
throughout West Texas, though she remained intensely private throughout her decades of walking the highways of the region,
sleeping on roadsides and talking with locals mostly just enough to obtain the bare necessities.
A funeral service
was held for Magers in Terlingua on Monday,
February 5. Magers is buried in the Terlingua Cemetary, per her wishes. Her
5 adult children traveled from their various homes throughout the United States to attend the service, and were regaled with
tales about their mother by friends and acquaintances from all over the region, with some attendees coming all the way from
New Mexico.
Here we publish some rememberances of the cherished traveler.
Don McDowell (Terlingua):I
met Judy about eleven years ago at The Frontier Roadhouse, my
restaurant and bar on 118. There are so many stories. This
is how
mine started.
I had already met many of the special ones – The Rabbit Lady,
Suitcase Susan, Old
Man Adams, Just Bob, What about Bob, and Plain
Bob. And Gracie, Queen of the Frontier who would eventually come to
keep
me company on the property and now is family. (She tells me she
came in the fine print with the property but that's another
story.)
"Jackass Judy" as the locals called her, spoken with fondness and
none of the negative connotations that
one might expect, was a much-
anticipated arrival after I had heard the mysteriousness in which my
colorful local clientele
spoke of her. Everybody was a Judy expert
and she had not even been around in the two years that the Frontier
had been
closed prior to my purchase of it.
I didn't see her ride up, but late one Thursday afternoon, there she
was, coming
through the door: thin as a whip, big hat, big glasses,
lived-in chaps, leather gloves tucked in her waistband, spurs.
I knew
her instantly. And if I needed any additional confirmation, there was
Merle the faithful burro tied to the gas
pump.
I was at that moment and continue to be mesmerized.
I made the mistake of trying to strike up conversation
with her. Judy
didn't take well to chitchat and I never made that mistake again.
I also learned that day that although
Judy might have appreciated my
attempts to be charitable, she was not going to have any part of it.
I learned that the
price was not relevant, only that there should be
a price. This much for each night's camping, that much for Merle's
water,
rent on a bucket if she didn't have one, and was it okay for
Merle to eat the grass around Gracie's tree while the two
of them
visited? Everything had to be lined out, pre-arranged and pre-
approved when Judy rode in and stayed a while.
As
the years went by, Judy had a knack for showing up early on Friday
afternoon. I would be prepping for the fish fry, looking
forward to
our busiest night and anticipating a great night of local music. Judy
had a creosote fort on the north side
of the Frontier. She would set
up camp, take care of Merle, come find me to settle all expenses and
pre-pay a cheeseburger
and buy a shower.
After all negotiations were complete she would take her kit and go
around to the female shower
room. She would be gone a long time. When
she came out, I like to think that I saw a side of Judy that few
others ever
did. Most noticeably the sunglasses were off and she had
applied purple mascara, her hat was in her hand and a fresh bandana
was
around her forehead. She would let me know that it was ok to
start her burger and she would move off into a spot in the
room where
she felt comfortable.
The locals would drift in and although they desperately would have
liked to
made conversation, they always left her to herself and I
know she appreciated it. Gracie was the only person Judy tolerated,
allowing
her approach and actually sit with her. The music would
start up and Judy would stay as long as she could until the non-local
guests
started becoming a nuisance. The sunglasses would be slipped
on, followed by the hat, and out she would go but not before
placing
a little money for the musicians in the tip jar.
There are many stories about Judy and the Frontier (I found
out that
is what she called all of us who owned it: "Frontier."). The time it
was freezing cold and I tried to get her
and Merle to move into the
dance hall – politely declined. The time it was raining violence and
I tried to get
her to move under my carport – politely declined. The
times I offered to cook breakfast for her on closed Sunday
mornings –
politely declined. It was comforting to see her sitting with Gracie
under the shade tree at the picnic
table over coffee and I knew
Gracie would take care of food if any was needed; never was.
The time she pulled up
in and old Land Locomotive Cadillac towing a
trailer made from a pickup truck bed is something I will never
forget.
The
last time I spoke with Judy she needed to rent a bucket to water
Merle. We agreed on a price of fifty cents for several
days' use of
the bucket and as much water as was required. It was Friday and I was
too busy to collect at that moment.
Several days later, after she had
moved on, an envelope arrived in the mail addressed to "Frontier,
Highway 118 South."
On the back of the envelope in very precise
penmanship:
"Enclosed is 50 cents for the bucket and two dollars for
the music
tip jar…Judy."
The change is still inside that un-opened envelope.
Judy always paid her way.
Fred Gossien (Terlingua):On the third day of my first visit to South Brewster County I stopped
at
the Big Bend Motor Inn for a cup of coffee. Outside, by the
highway, was Judy "the Burro Lady" fiddling with the blankets
on her
burro. Like most people, I suppose, I was fascinated. Along with that
fascination came the instant awareness
that I was in a very special
place.
Two years later I would move to Terlingua, partly because of Judy.
I
imagine that if Judy had lived in a city – any city – she would
have been invisible, pushed into the alleys
of a seedy part of town
by intolerant police, possibly on behalf of tourism officials worried
about their town's image
or fearful citizens who believe that someone
a little different had no business on Main Street or outside a mall.
In
the Big Bend, though, Judy was a symbol, at least to me, of
something far more significant: she was a symbol of a unique
culture,
of accepting people who allow others to be whoever or whatever they
are, of people who might not agree on any
subject but can live
alongside each other in relative harmony.
Maybe that was Judy's purpose in life these past
years – to show
outsiders that basic human qualities like compassion, acceptance and
tolerance, qualities seemingly
inherent in most people living in the
Big Bend, could exist in people everywhere.
That being "different" is not
bad or even undesirable.
That if people could subdue that part of their egos dedicated to
their own self-importance,
especially when compared to those less
fortunate, the world might actually be a better place. After all, who
among us
is not, in some way, a little different?
I can't say I really knew Judy. I only spoke with her once, ten years
ago.
Even though that voice in the back of my head keeps saying she
is in a better place, I'll still miss her.
May she
rest in peace.
James Evans (Marathon):
I think a normal reaction to your first Judy
sighting was like seeing
a UFO in your backyard: amazement, caution, and a little fright. When
I would see Judy I would
ask her if I could make a portrait. She
would respond "No, thank you."
My experiences with Judy were much like others':
that is,
conversation was sparse. I first saw her in the late `80's in
Terlingua. I believe I took a snapshot of her
on her burro at that
time, but I have yet to find the negative.
After seeing her many times over several years,
I stalked her riding
her burro to Marathon from Alpine. I drove ahead of her and perched
myself at the top of the roadside
cut on the edge of town. I was
obvious, but I gave her no choice but to go by me. I rode ahead of
her again and got
on ground level and waited for her.
This time though I came out of the brush and confronted her. I told
her I believed
she was one of the most amazing people I had never
met. I told her I had heard so many stories and I had questions.
She
was going to Marathon and I begged her to come to my studio. She
did. For me, a visit by the queen of England would not
have made me
more proud. I asked her about all the rumors I had heard, like her
son committing suicide in her car while
she was in a convenience
store, her house burning down. She only responded with one word
answers: "No." Very little
dialogue, but I learned once again to
always go to the source if you really want the truth.
She stayed in Marathon
or right outside of Marathon a few days, and I
made several images of her. One of them I put in my book.
Judy's
funeral was the most beautiful one I've ever attended. Simple
and unassuming, just like she lived, and yet amazing. I would
say
over 200 people attended to pay respect to a person they may have
never spoken a word to. The respect was as much
for her as what she
represented. She was an icon of freedom and individuality. She
represented the very thing that made
me want to live in this part of
the country.
Just imagine the world she knew – that we will never get to grasp
in
a way she did. Imagine sleeping outside every night for 25 years.
Imagine all the people she affected driving to
their 9 to 5 jobs. She
must have briefly sparked the dead Gauguins in thousands of people.
Big Bend is not like
the place I first moved to. There are still many
Judy-like people, but now it is mixed with lawyers, real estate
agents,
trust-fund babies supporting heavily-endowed mediocre
galleries and studios, defining who they are not by their art, but
by
their acquisitions. They are following the trends they read in stupid
magazines by trite writers that don't have
a clue about this area.
They have raised the cost of real estate while seeing the mountains
as a backdrop and not a
lifestyle. They can all go to hell as far as
I'm concerned. Rats trying to find sanctuary out of the rat race in
their
refurbished adobe ratholes. Whoa, James. WHOA! YOU CAN'T SAY
THAT! Sorry, my mind wandered in a whole other direction….
I'll
miss seeing Judy sleeping on the side of the road or seeing her
burro tied to the post outside of a modern-day establishment.
I will
do my best to keep alive what she gave me and what she represented.
Bonnie Wunderlich (Terlingua):When
I first saw Judy, she was riding on her burro, fully loaded with
blankets and bundles, from the Frontier Restaurant towards
the "Y"
[intersection of Hwys 118 & 170 in Terlingua]. Judy's eyes were only
focused on the desert ground in front
of her, never turning to see
who was slowing down, looking at her.
It seemed an awfully heavy load for such a small
beast to carry. As
they trotted down the roadside, I sensed a serene mood around her; I
imagined she was transcending
the brutal desert temperatures.
This was the way I saw her for many years after: seemingly oblivious
to curious
and admiring passersby.
Since 1995 when I moved to Terlingua, I often saw Judy riding her
burro up and down the
roads. Other times, the burro was tied either
at the Big Bend Baptist Church, or in front of the Big Bend Motor Inn
Café.
Most
of the time, she was inside the café, sitting alone, at the
table by the door, never letting her eyes meet anyone else's.
She was
in high boots, pant legs tucked inside them; the boots really were
more fashion boots than riding boots.
I
took photographs of her burro, tied out there, all packed up, but
as yet, hadn't the courage to ask her if I could photograph
her. She
had an invisible barrier around her, like she preferred to be around
people, but not on a contact or communication
level. No one seemed to
know her real name back then, just called her "Suitcase Sally," or
sometimes "Saddlebag Sally."
In
the early to mid `90's, a group of nice folks in Alpine bought her
an old Cadillac, and it'd be parked in front of the
Baptist Church,
with the trunk open for the burro to eat out of. She'd either be in
her car (out of sight) or at the
café. I wondered if she was
sometimes in the church.
I heard about this time that she traded her burro for a small,
young
one, so it could ride in her car with her. But the traded-off burro
obviously had liked her lifestyle, because
it soon broke out of its
new fenced home, and came back to her. The new owner came back for
it. Soon, however, Judy
obtained a horse trailer, and could be seen
driving her big Cadillac, burro in trailer in tow.
She must have eventually
abandoned the car someplace, because I
noticed she was back riding the burro, fully loaded with all colors
of blankets,
some leather and some plastic bags.
Sometimes I'd see her around Marfa, or riding towards Alpine, and
heard she
was also often in Marathon. I could hardly imagine anyone
traveling such distances with their only water in plastic soda
bottles
tied on the burro.
Finally, the photograph opportunity arrived. In January 2002, as I
was sitting out under the
old sotol ramada porch at my gallery on Hwy
118 (now torn down); Judy was riding towards it. As she approached, I
walked
up to her and asked how she was. "I'm doing alright. I'm
headed down to the Study Butte store to buy a few things," she
said.
I asked her if people ever gave her money to photograph her. "Yes,
sometimes they give me five dollars to
buy some cigarettes." I asked
her if I could photograph her, and told her I wanted to paint her.
She and the burro posed
for me, then walked past the gallery,
sometimes going back so she could ride towards me again. Her long
hair was banded
back, and hung down to her waist. You could see her
weathered face in the shadow under her hat, which made her look much
older
than her strong, youthful countenance revealed by her voice.
Did she need water for her burro? "No," she replied, "Archie
keeps
water out for him to drink." I told her to use my faucet anytime she
needed any. I gave her $5 and she went on
towards the Study Butte
Store.
I think she allowed me to give her a little money, because she knew I
was photographing
her for a painting, so this was working for pay,;
this was not charity. I thanked her and told her I'd show the
painting
to her someday. She simply replied, "OK."
Later in the summer of 2003, as I was retuning home from Alpine, I
saw
Judy walking to her burro who was tied to a post, the rope
extending over a wide ditch filled with water. She told me that
the
folks at the Frontier said it had rained 3/4 inch. I photographed
Judy as she shook the water off her tarp, which
was lying over her
bags, but the packed burro's bundles of blankets were soaking wet.
She allowed me to take one
photo of her, then said "You can take
pictures of Patches; he likes his photo taken." I noticed then that
she had white
lotion on areas of her face, so I figured she didn't
want to be photographed because of that. As I photographed him,
Patches
hee-hawed time and time again. He was enjoying the attention.
I expressed my concern about Judy sleeping on cool wet
ground, on wet
blankets, when there were even more thunderheads appearing in the
skies. "Paches doesn't mind it," she
said. The blankets would dry,
she said: "They always do." I left her a dry blanket anyway Refusing
it at first, she
finally accepted it, saying, "Ok, but I'll put it on
the fence here, tomorrow, and you can get it".
Judy saw the
30" x 44" oil painting that I did of her in 2003, which
was of another interesting scene in 2003 when she had just purchased
a
2nd burro to help carry their load; my friend had commissioned a
giclee print on canvas (24" x 36") of the painting for
her mother's
birthday, and when Judy came into the Déjà vu Thrift Store in Alpine,
the mother happened to have the painting
in her vehicle, wrapped.
Judy helped unwrap it, and said she'd like a small print of the
painting to be mailed to her
via general delivery in Terlingua. I
gladly mailed to her several prints.
She provided me with so many good photographic
shots of her: she
offered such color flowing through a brown desert roadside, living in
simplicity, content with owning
nothing but what she could carry on
her burro. She deserved so much more than $5 for each time I
photographed her.
During
the last few years, friends who knew that I painted Judy would
give me reports of seeing her in Van Horn, Valentine, Sierra
Blanca,
Marfa or Alpine. I'd seen her a few times between these towns also,
riding along with her eyes forward and down.
Once when I was on a
Chinati Foundation Tour on a bus, we saw the burro by itself, tied at
the downtown square plot
of a dozen or more large yuccas.
In January, a neighbor told me she'd just seen Judy in
Alpine. "Great," I said,
"I want to find her and talk to her. She saw
my painting, and I want to talk more with her."
The following week,
all of West Texas was hit with that unusual
freezing weather, with dark and miserably cold days and nights
lasting for
nearly two weeks, so I delayed my trip to Alpine (and
possibly to Van Horn, where she'd also been seen often).
Then,
I heard the sad news that Judy died. Oh, why, I thought, didn't
I go talk with her during those freezing and snowing days?
I had been
worried about being cold inside an adobe home, or driving on icy
roads, but Judy was living in the severe
desert elements. That was
her home. Judy's gone from our physical plane, and we won't be lucky
enough to see her travel
from town to town, but the memory of her
will live forever in these desert West Texas towns, I'm certain.
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