One Sad Story

The Morales family's story begins in Mier, Mexico, in the state of Tamaulipas, which is directly south of the southern tip of Texas.

It was 1846. The year that historians, today, concede the United States launched a wrongful war against Mexico and ended up with Mexico surrendering the western part of Texas, California, New Mexico and other portions of what we now call the U.S.

But land grabs aside, the Morales family saga began one day when three boys, among them Meliton Morales, 7, were herding goats near Mier. The short version: A roaming band of Apaches swooped in and took the three boys captive. The older boys, 12-13, tried to escape but were recaptured. The Apaches were said to have killed the older boys in front of Meliton to show him the fate of escapees.

Meliton was held captive for approximately nine years and later by the Delaware (Delaware were Eastern in nativity but were pushed westward as whites migrated westward). This band of Apaches traveled far and wide. As far south as Mexico and north to Colorado, Kansas — even Illinois.

At age 17, Meliton, the story goes, was urged by an Indian woman to escape and find a better life. He and another captive, a young white woman, rode away on horseback, leaving behind the life of Indians. They arrived one day at Fort Leavenworth, Kan. From there, Meliton's historical trail dissolves.

Then, in 1865, as the Civil War was winding down, he surfaced in New Orleans. A photo of him survives, in a seemingly gray uniform though he was a Union soldier.

Long story short, he returned to his boyhood home in Mexico and South Texas and, years later, with the help of his wife, drove 2,000 sheep and 200 goats northward to the Fort McKavett area, established a ranching empire, became one of the first jurors in the newly formed Kimble County, raised a family and earned a Texas historical marker.

A son married into the Hall family (descendants of Scottish royalty) of that area and that family built an English-style mansion that survives to this day.

On the wedding day in 1892, when Manuel Morales, son of Meliton, married Magdelina (May) Hall, the woman's sister was said to have written in a diary: "May Hall married a Mexican." Such was the temper of the times.

Alfred Morales marvels at his family's story. And he's understandably proud of it. But his search for older roots ends where the Morales family story begins. In Mier, Mexico.

He'd like to pick up the trail backward from there into the 1700s or wherever it might lead. He asks for information anyone might have on Meliton Morales' ancestors or ways he can access that information.

But so many other stories are out there. In every village, town and city. In forgotten corners of the mind and in storage areas.

Other family stories come to mind.

My father, around age 12, driving my grandmother in the Central Texas countryside to perform her midwife duties. Later, as a teen, working in a field with other laborers. The farmer runs across the field, shouting, "The Japanese attacked us!"

My father went back to work, not knowing how that historic attack would affect him later. Two and a half years hence, he'd fall in Brittany, France, in a hail of Nazi gunfire. Evacuated across the Channel in an English hospital, he heard Ginny Simms singing in a room of wounded American boys. Ah, the stuff of Hollywood.

Another story, this one of struggle: My mother earning her nursing cap when "career girls" were rare. A story of adventure: My cousin, Eddie Sandoval of Melvin, finding himself at an American Indian sun dance. Later, following his American Indian path, setting foot at the heavenly and spiritual Machu Picchu. So many great stories ...

In your attic, your files, your storm shelter or chest of drawers are stories such as these. Perhaps even more adventurous, more historic or even tragic. Because of your place, your nativity, your residency in the Americas, they are All-American tales and your histories are draped in the fabric of native lore.

If history is to mean anything, it should be to remind us of who we are and where our journeys began. And, maybe, where we'll go.

Driving sheep across Texas, working the land or fighting wars — it is the American journey to where we are today. Share it. Don't let it slide into oblivion.

Guillermo Torres is a longtime writer-editor at the Standard-Times, Los Angeles Times, Dallas Morning News and San Antonio Express-News