Sunday Stanza: The Castle Valley Pageant
(1979-2018)
It’s one hundred sixty miles, round trip at best,
 From Springville to the old homestead west. 
The roads aren’t paved with glory or gold— 
Just gravel and stories our ancestors told.

We load up the truck with a cooler and hope,
Some snacks, and a prayer that the brakes can still cope. 
It’s a long way to travel just for a peek at the past,
But the echoes out there have a voice that can last.

Out near the buttes where the blue clay will bake, 
You’ll find faded headstones and one leaning stake. 
The sagebrush is thick, and the signage is thin— 
Yet the memories call like a whispering wind.

It’s not written fancy. No flourish, no spin.
Just truth from the page of a hand-calloused kin. 
Their lives weren’t loud, but their legacy grows, 
Like cottonwoods sprung where the old river flows.

They carved out a life in the driest of dirt,
Raised babies and barns in a Caste Valley skirt.
They fought off despair with hymns, hope, and a plow,
And whispered their prayers through the sweat on their brow.

It’s a long way to drive just to sit and to feel,
But it humbles a soul in a way that is true and real. 
So, I turn off the engine, just breathe and be still—
As the wind whispers the tales that it’s telling me still.

We come for the pageant when summer is here,
When twilight spills soft on the sandstone and deer. 
It’s more than a show—it’s a soul-stirring rite,
The Castle Valley Pageant under blinding spotlight.

Head north out of Castle Dale, where memories load, 
Just drive north, on the old Des-Bee-Dove Road.
Up where the hills meet the steep cliffs in a straight line, 
At the base of East Mountain, carved deep with time.

And Montell Seeley—God rest his kind soul— 
Breathed life into stories that made our hearts whole. 
He penned every line with the weight of their truth,
 A steward of memory, a giant of my youth.

The stories he wrote are our marrow and bone—
Of those who made homesteads from blue clay and stone. 
With lines pulled from journals and truth on the stage, 
They breathe life once more into history’s page.

We walk where they walked, boots soft in their dust, 
Their journals still speak with a reverent trust.
One part in the script always tightens my chest: 
When baby Joey dies and is then laid to rest.

Joe and Tilda, with grit in their gaze,
Built dreams with bare hands in the harsh desert haze.
She laughed through the dust; he prayed through the flood— 
Their love ran as deep as the San Rafael’s blood.

Wink and Anna, kind hearts wrapped in grace, 
Turned a dugout and dirt into homeplace and lace.
He’d sing to the stars, she’d hum while she’d sew,
And their names are still whispered where the wild grasses grow.

John and Clara, with faith firm and wide,
Weathered both childbirth and cattle that died.
She wrote in her journal, about the barren and desolate space,
“Damn the man that would bring a woman to this God forsaken place.”

And Abe and sweet Neva, steadfast and strong, 
Their story still dances through pageant and song. 
They carved their devotion from rock and from will, 
And their echoes remain on that wind-silent hill.

Now children sit cross-legged, wide-eyed in the dirt, 
While actors in bonnets replay all the hurt,
And the hope, and the heartache, the fire, and the frost— 
Each scene a reminder of all that was lost.

But also of courage, and kin by the score,
Who dreamed of a valley and settled much more. 
Their names might not echo in marble or brass, 
But they left us a legacy rooted in grass.

So, we drive the long miles, year after year,
 To remember the voices, we still hold dear. 
It’s history, yes—but it’s family, too,
In Castle Valley, beneath skies so blue.

And when lanterns are lit and the hush fills the air, 
I swear I can see them still standing there—
Joe and Tilda, Wink, and his bride,
John and Clara with Abe by Neva’s side.

No spotlight required, no grand curtain call—
Just a stage in the desert where memory stands tall. 
And a people who honor, with hearts true and fast, 
That long, sweet journey into the past.

The pageant has faded, its scenery now still,
No voices at dusk on the rocky orange hill.
But the stories still echo in hearts that recall,
And the spirit of Castle Valley still stands, after all.

DocBott