Uravan
A Memoir of World War II
By
Vesta Price Fitzpatrick
1890-1988
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| This view of Uravan, Colorado from the 1980s is from the website Uravan.com which is a tribute to this historic town. |
A Note from the Editor
My wife and I recently returned from a trip to visit her mother, Irma Fitzpatrick Harrington in Elko, Nevada. Irma provided us a copy of this manuscript entitled "Uravan" written by her mother, Vesta Price Fitzpatrick. Irma has talked many times over the years about her experience living in Uravan during World War II. It was a time of innocence when children were allowed to play on hills of radioactive mine tailings. Concerns about radioactivity at the dawn of the twenty-first century led to the town of Uravan being declared a Superfund site. Most of the town has been demolished and buried.
Certainly Vesta had no doubts about the significance of her family members' roles in the war effort. She was proud of her sons and sons-in-law that wore U.S. military uniforms and she would do whatever it took to bring them home safely. She had no doubts that the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki brought them all home sooner and safer. She was also proud of her family on the home front that did their part to support the development of the atomic bomb.
The typescript is 143 pages of double-spaced text from a typewriter. I have attempted to present the text as close to the original as possible with minor editing described in footnotes. This first installment represents the first seven pages of the typescript.
Here is the link to the scan of Uravan:
Uravan
With Memorial Day approaching, it is most appropriate to honor the contributions of all of those who lived and died during World War II. My plan is to share this manuscript with as many readers as possible by publishing it here on my blog. My hope is that the descendants of Vesta Price Fitzpatrick can take great pride in their ancestor and her amazing literary achievements. In addition to this memoir, Vesta Price Fitzpatrick is the author of dozens of short stories and poems.
Nick Cimino, League City, Texas; 23 May 2016
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| Vesta Price Fitzpatrick 1890-1988 |
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of this manuscript, Vesta
Price Fitzpatrick, comes to you with this her first-born in the literary world.
It is perhaps her first-born in the literary world, because of her other
children, seven in all, who so completely filled all the hours of the days and
nights when her brilliant mind was collecting and saving all the little gems of wisdom
and human understanding offered herein.
I don't need to tell you that in spite of
bucking this tough old world all these years, she has come through with a rare sense of humor and
kindness. Always, she sees only the best in everyone, even those in whom I am so often convinced
that there is no "best". She
really can't help it that all the 'parasites of the world' look like good,
loyal Americans pitching in
to win a
war and protect their country. Vesta Fitzpatrick has recorded in this book the
war, as it looked from where she stood, and as I am sure it looked to many defense workers and anxious mothers,
fathers; wives and sweethearts.
When you have finished reading this manuscript,
lay it gently down, for it is part of the life and soul of the most innocent,
the, best and sweetest woman in the
world. You see, I am amply qualified to say all this. She is my mother.
Clara
F. Reay
FOREWORD
In this book
I have endeavored to portray the life of a mining camp of busy people working
for the defense of our country in wartime and building unity for peace of all countries;
to depict a view of the real west of today, arid as it was when uranium was
being mined and processed for the atomic bomb that ended the war.
With
apologies to authorities on the English language, I have tried to put a touch
of the west into the story to maintain its traditions and give the world a
glimpse of the grandeur of its wide open spaces and good people.
Except for a
few who have given consent for the use of their names, the characters are
purely fictitious.
Vesta Price Fitzpatrick
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| Not much is left of Uravan today, this view from the 2000s shows the two remaining buildings. Go to Uravan.com to see more pictures and read the history of this town that played such an important part in the Manhattan project. |
Uravan
by
Vesta Price
Fitzpatrick
Vanadium, uranium, Uravan. Uravan? Who
ever heard of such a place? But it is becoming known all over the world.
In the years
to come Uravan, Colorado, will stand out before the world as a great, grand monument
to Peace-- Peace, for humanity.
The greatest,
fiercest, most devastating explosion the world has ever known wiping out two
whole cities, taking Nagasaki and Hiroshima off the map, is the very same
explosion which put Uravan on the map, figuratively speaking, and made a little
mining camp famous.
Away in the
wilds of the Great American Desert, nestled deeply within the high rock and
jagged cliffs of the Rocky Mountains in Montrose County, Colorado, is the
little secluded mining camp of which we speak, located on the very banks of the
San Miguel River.
At various
times of the year the San Miguel is a mad rushing torrent of mud and debris
from the mountains, claiming a life now and then, and at other times affording
a delightfully refreshing place for picnickers and fishermen; but never failing
to give for the necessary power and water need to keep a big industry
alive. And indeed, a big industry it is
that yielded the precious metals which made it possible for firing to cease and
for our service boys to start home.
When all America joined hands in the big common
cause to whip the enemy and preserve our democratic way of life for the world,
none of us knew just whom we were joining hands with, nor did we care. Our most despised neighbor had sent his son
or daughter. Our most ignorant and lowly
acquaintance had rolled up his sleeves, spit on his hands, grabbed a pick or
shovel or whatever he needed to do his part in the big struggle to get his boy
and ours home safely, forever.
So, where be
the man, woman or child not big enough to brush off petty grievances and join
hands? Certainly not in Colorado. For in this state all men were created equal,
and as the progress of a mighty nation moves forth in united efforts, just so in
Colorado—that united wee part of the nation we love and cherish.
And still smaller,
almost as small as the atom itself as compared to the world, is Uravan. Nevertheless her power is not to be compared
with anything.
It was from
the very hills, that surround the little mining camp of Uravan, that the
uranium ore was taken from which the famous Curies discovered radium. These same hills of sand rock gave the
priceless metal for the atomic bomb.
One very
early July morning before the sun had dared to peep over the yet snow tipped
Grand Mesa and while it was still cool enough for a wrap, which I had left at
home, found me at the bus station looking around for the San Miguel bus. I intended to take that bus for Uravan where
my men folk had gone to work. Until then
I had not felt a part of the big war. It
was all so awful, sending sons and sons-in-law off to foreign soils and just
seemingly doing nothing myself. But as I
fully realized that I was soon to be in defense work, I felt big and important.
As I waited
in the station, large busses roared in and out from either direction, but they
were not for me. When the San Miguel bus
rattled in, I’ll have to admit I lost a lot of my pent up importance. I could hardly believe my eyes. Until that time I had never seen anything
like that this side of the dump grounds.
However, in so speaking, I hold a grand respect and admiration for the
transportation company and its drivers who struggled so faithfully over those
long dusty mountain trails, successfully transporting supplies and people to
and from the railroad centers to the most isolated yet most important little places
in this part of the world.
The bus was a
battered up mess of steel with some spots of yellow paint still clinging here
and there and with at least one window glass left unbroken and still in place.
The big tires on the wheels were apparently in splendid condition and I learned
later that was the all important thing--the tires tor the roads we were about
to tackle.
I must have
presented a funny spectacle to my bus companions with my new permanent wave, my
pretty black dress with crisp white collar and cuffs, dainty little one-ear hat
cocked coyly over my curls, white gloves and high heeled pumps. I felt very much
dressed up--when I started on my journey to Uravan.
The bus was
one of those accommodation affairs with space for the baggage in the rear directly
behind the seats. The baggage consisted mostly of bed rolls—a half dozen of
them, some suit cases, boxes of groceries, packages, two large spare tires and
a crated alley dog puppy.
There were
nine passengers. One middle aged woman who had a big sore on one cheek and an
eye that was drawn to one side by a new scar, sat down by me and enlightened me
with the fact that she was returning home to Nucla after being away to Denver.
She had been receiving treatment for injuries suffered in a car wreck. The car
had gone over a high embankment on that very road and she would show me the exact
place when we got to it. "Oh! It is a terrible bad place" and she
hoped our bus driver knew his business or "we will never make the turn
with this old wreck," she explained. Her dress was a very plain grey suit
that had probably been her wedding outfit at least thirty years before, with
tennis shoes and a brown bandana tied over her head.
Two young
women took the seat directly behind, the driver and after giving me a
"once over" look, one said to the other, “Wonder where that came from?
She sure don't know where she's headed
for or she wouldn't put on them glad gay rags. She'll learn."
The woman by
me laughed heartily and said to me, "You city folk don't know much do ya,
about these mountain roads."
The audacity!
I was no "city folk" and
certainly not an easterner. I was just a
plain Colorado native, a farmer's wife and the mother of seven children, all
nearly grown by this time. Nevertheless, I had been taught always to look my
best at all times and I certainly had not reckoned with the sort of trip I was
experiencing. The girls were dressed in Levis and plaid shirts with bandanas on
their heads—very sensible garb as I was to learn.
The other
passengers were men all in work clothes--men that one might meet in any place
where work is all that is uppermost in the mind. These men were not different
and yet each was a distinctive individual. All had but one thought; the idea of defense
work, licking the Japs and Germans so that the Joes and the Bobs and the Bills could
get back. And if they didn't? Their teeth clenched down harder and their faces
took on an even more determined look of vengeance. They were determined to win the war with just
their muscle and brawn alone and buy bonds for Uncle Sam.
Conversation
among them ran in this channel: each telling of his son or brother or other
relative in the armed forces and each with a nasty word for the so-and-so who
turned him down and wouldn't let him carry a gun or fire a cannon. "Why,
dad-gummit,” two or three fingers off or a short leg or being, past sIxty-five
wouldn't keep them from being good soldiers. But they guessed someone had to
stay at home and do the little jobs on the home front.
The girls
were going back to their jobs at the boarding house. They had been to town to shop but, for the life
of me, I couldn't see, anything they had purchased. However, as time went on, they talked of shopping
for dresses and, believe it or not, one produced from her huge purse an envelope
that contained a beautiful rose pink silk, knee-length frock. What a laugh! No one in the world could picture that
"dame of the desert" in anything half so beautiful or feminine like--but
time would tell. The time would come, the occasion arise when she and others of
the little mining camp would stand out, as fairies in their gay colors and
ruffled finery.
But back to
my journey.
By eight a.m.
we were rolling along over a smooth oiled highway. Early morning breezes wafted in through the
open windows and bore the lovely fragrance of roadside flowers and fields of
new mown hay. I was receiving the impression
of there being real pleasure in bus trips when, all at once, a right turn in
the road threw me up into the air, off the seat and all but landing me into the
aisle in a heap.
We had left
the main highway and were jolting off over rough alkali roads. These were taking
us across the Gunnison River and bearing up into the mountains away from the beautiful
Gunnison and Grand Valleys into the sand rocks and cedar trees of the
foothills. As I hurriedly grabbed for the seat in front of me to steady myself,
the man across the aisle held out a big brawny arm that· looked to me husky
enough to hold the bus itself but without touching me, he merely watched me settle
back into my seat as he said, “Be careful, lady, this is rough goin’.”
A “smart"
young guy from another direction grinned at me and said "Didn't ya bring
along yer spurs? You'll need 'em to ride
this here thing.” The girls giggled and
one said, "Sure 'nuf. I wouldn't
think of comin' this trip without my spurs any more'n I would without my Levis.”
By now I had
begun to realize how very much out of place my garb was for that trip. The four
inch crack in the door together with the open windows, or rather pane-less
windows, was letting in clouds of white dust. My pretty white collar was
beginning to wilt down—like a snow ball in summer--under the strain of the hot
air borne in with the dust that was turning my pretty black dress to an ugly
grey. I had given up trying to keep my hat on my head. But neither would it stay
in the seat beside me, so I was forced to hold it with one hand and my purse with
the other. It took only a short distance
over that road to make me know that I had to hold on with all the force I could
muster from both hands and both feet or else I would be on the floor jolting
around with the junk that was heaving and sliding from the back of the bus up
under our feet as we climbed the Nine-mile Hill.
And nine
miles it is. But the longest nine miles anyone ever traveled. That was the old road. A construction company was busy then building a
new road down the canyon that would out off considerable distance as well as
eliminate the steep climb.
The conditions
were terrible but the crowd on the bus was jovial. I was game. I had to be. Very soon I accepted the crowd as the well-meaning
people they were and listened to the interesting tales they told of the various
places and things along the way. Well up
in the Unaweep Canyon is the skeleton of an old stone house, a once beautiful structure
from all appearances. An old legend has it that a wealthy young Englishman once
owned it and had established a dude ranch there where he lived in luxury with a
valet. These two people disappeared. So
the 'story ends. Nevertheless, it affords much food for interesting tales of
wandering imaginations.
My seat
companion had moved to another seat and as we came to a somewhat smoother piece
of road, had dozed off to sleep. Likewise the howling little puppy in the crate
became quiet and slept after his master, Charlie, had given him a meal of warm
milk from a thermos bottle.
Charlie
talked. In fact, he, talked most of the time-- if not to the pup then to most
anyone or no one in particular--just rattled on. He had prospected most of the hills in that
part of the country for gold in the earlier days and was still gold crazy. But
the new black carnotite metal was luring him at this
time. He talked on "I don't know what all they do with vanadium besides
hardening steel but they say they get radium out of uranium and what Uncle Sam
wants with it, only God knows, but if Uncle Same wants it, we'll get it for him.
Does look like he could wait till the war's over and let us guys all have jobs
in the ship yards or somewhere where we could do some good, but he thinks he
needs this stuff so we'l. get it mined. Yonder is a big vanadium vein. Watch up
that gulch for the mine dumps."
Despite the
rough roads, the heat, the wind, all the discomforts, I was thrilled when I got
my first glance at a vanadium mill at Gateway.
We were passing through some of the most beautiful country in the Rocky Mountains.
We had climbed over three thousand feet up the mountains through the fertile
valley and low table lands where cattle and sheep are plentiful, over the divide
and were going downhill and up, it seemed, at the same time.
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