The closure of the Questa VFW Post 7688 feels like the loss of something far greater than a building.
Officially shut down by the State VFW on May 1 due to compliance issues after years of declining membership and difficulty maintaining a quorum, the post represented generations of service, sacrifice, and community in Questa. For many, it was a gathering place. For others, a second home. For me, it holds some of the most meaningful memories of my childhood.
Growing up, every single Sunday at 3 p.m. was like clockwork.
My grandfather Richard Rael would pack his dinner, throw extra snacks into his lunchbox, and head to the VFW Hall at 2597 North Highway 522 to prepare bingo packets. He didn’t speak much about his service in Korea, but his unwavering commitment to Bingo told me everything I needed to know about what the VFW meant to him.
The bingo wasn’t just bingo.
The money raised helped fund scholarships for graduating seniors. Veterans hosted pancake breakfasts, sold poppies, and spent countless hours serving the community. I remember helping make poppies every Memorial Day and Veterans Day. They did this faithfully for 15, maybe even 20 years.
On Bingo nights, Michael Gaillour and my tío Clyde Cisneros would take turns calling numbers. And when someone yelled “Bingo!” the veterans would rush to the microphone to verify the card:
“52 — valid.”
“3 — valid.”
“17 — valid.”
“27 — valid.”
As everyone held their breath—
“68 — valid.”
“That’s a valid bingo. Are there any others? This game is closed!”
Often, Tiffany Cisneros and I would sneak behind the concession counter with our grandpas, coloring with bingo markers, drawing with chalk, and sharing snacks while the veterans worked.
When the night ended around 8:30 p.m., they would walk the hall collecting marked cards, cleaning up, and heading home around 10 p.m.
Back then, it all felt ordinary but now, I realize it was sacred.
I have no photographs of those nights. No recordings. No real proof of how deeply important they were to me or to so many others. But after sharing my memories on Facebook, something unexpected happened.
Questa remembered with me. Story after story poured in, carrying the unmistakable echoes of Sunday nights at the VFW Hall.
Maria Gonzalez remembered attending with her Tía Elvira. “You just brought back some of those memories for me too,” she wrote. “She would smoke cigarros y siempre tenía una botellita de whiskey in her purse.”
Diane León remembered the rhythm of Sunday nights vividly. “As I looked around the office on Monday when we went to help move things out, I envisioned much of what you described,” she shared. “I too spent every Sunday growing up watching, helping, and eventually playing Bingo.”
She laughed remembering the unofficial seating chart everyone somehow respected.
“I could still tell you where most people sat—and the looks they gave if, God forbid, someone else sat in their spot!”
Lora Arciniega quickly chimed in:
“I went to Bingo with you and your mom at least once or twice”
James Ortega remembered attending with Jerome when they were barely old enough to understand the magic of it all.
“I remember the heavy smoke and the great burgers,” he wrote. “Every time we yelled BINGO, we always heard, ‘Cabroncitos, where are their parents?’”
The boys laughed, won money, and felt rich whenever they walked out with $50 or $100 in winnings.
Most importantly, he remembered seeing his grandfather, Bernabe Ortega, surrounded by friends. “War heroes,” he called them.
The cigarette smoke became part of the memory.
Dean Archuleta remembered the pull tabs, better known as “pickles,” along with Frito pies and a parking lot packed every Sunday for years.
Vikki Sandoval painted one of the clearest pictures of what Bingo meant. She and her mother were regulars every Sunday in Questa and Thursdays in Cerro. She remembered sipping Pepsi while her mom drank Coke, sharing flower seeds, opening packets of Bingo cards, and choosing from a collection of colorful Bingo dabbers. “What color do you want tonight?” her mother would ask. Then the game began. “I need one more. I need one more.”
And suddenly—
“BINGO!”
Everyone would turn, offering what she jokingly described as an “unwanted smile” before smashing up their losing papers.
“Stay home next week!” players would tease. Those nights became ritual for Vicki and her mother who has passed on. “I miss my mom.”
Bernadette Gallegos Weldon remembered her father helping build Bingo packets while the crew gathered with lunch meat sandwiches, bread, and chips. The regulars had traditions of their own.
Players even carried on side games like caballito—their own quiet rituals happening alongside the official Bingo cards.
“There were great friendships among the vets and players,” she said. “It is sad to see it close.”
Adria Cordova remembered going alongside her grandparents and aunt, hoping her grandmother would let her help play the Bingo cards before helping clean afterward.
“The men drank their whiskey and the ladies chatted away,” she remembered. “Great times.”
Arlene Sanchez remembered staying until the very end every Sunday night.
She recalled waiting for my grandfather Richard to close out the night and take the deposit home. She says she often followed behind to make sure he got there safely.
“We watched from Cabresto Road until he crossed the bridge at his house so he wouldn’t get robbed.”
Sometimes, she said, he would call asking for help feeding the volunteers.
“We don’t have cooks tonight. Will you feed us?”
“He always had a menu,” she said.
“They loved cooked meals instead of sandwiches.”
These weren’t just Bingo nights. They were rituals.
Friendships. Fundraisers. Scholarship drives. Smoke-filled rooms. Pull tabs, Frito pies, whiskey bottles tucked into purses, favorite seats no one dared take, and veterans who kept serving long after war had ended.
The closure of Questa VFW Post 7688 is not just the loss of a building.
It is the closing of a chapter in the living memory of Questa.
And yet, in the stories shared by so many, one thing feels certain:
The building may be gone, but the echoes in our memories remain.
Today, the Questa Friendship Circle is placing supplies into storage while determining how to continue comidas for grieving families following deaths in the community. Questions also remain about what will happen to Pueblito Cemetery, long managed by the Questa VFW.
As developments of the future of the former VFW hall come available, we will provide updates to the community.
