America's Oldest Postmaster

Going was rough. My legs were so short they often spurred the saddle blanket instead of the pony's flank. Said Redfield, his kindly blue eyes lighting up in memory, "I must have been a swift riding kid. Bears, Indians, or highwaymen never caught up with me. You see, I was determined to be a postmaster."

About this time his father gave up the mail route out of Riverdale. He went to Benson, Arizona. There he settled his family on an arid claim. Indians roamed the hills. Water and food were scarce.

"When I came to Benson as a boy, I still wanted to be a postmaster," recollects Mr. Redfield, "but there were no people to postmaster. Our nearest neighbor was forty miles away. Indians wielded tomahawks, instead of pens. We spent most of our time getting food and water, and keeping our eyes peeled for red-skins."

The worst fright Redfield had as a boy from Indians was when Geronimo, the fiercest Apache, of them all, suddenly opened the door of his father's ranch home.

"My father was away," said Redfield. "I can still feel the fear that leaped through me when I saw Geronimo standing in the door opening, his Indian shadow stretching across the floor. I thought he was after that part of me that I wanted to be, a postmaster's scalp. My mother's face was like alkali, but she quickly got the old savage some hominy. He took it and rode away. After that we always gave the Indians food, so they didn't bother, except to frighten the wits out of us sometimes."

When Redfield was a stripling of thirteen his father died. From then on the boy became his mother's sole support. Managing the arid ranch wasn't easy. How to coax growing things from the dry soil was a problem, for in those days water in the great southwest was scarce. But the boy liked plants and he did his best. Time went on. The gun toting days gave away to the law. Reclamation devices were put into practice and more people trekked into the new land. Benson became a struggling desert town. Redfield still wanted to be a postmaster. Suddenly when he was 26 years old, he petitioned Grover Cleveland for an appointment as postmaster at Benson. "Pronto" the president appointed him. For fourteen years he had dreamed of being a postmaster. Now his cherished desire was fulfilled. He was a postmaster.

For 43 years Redfield has continuously served Benson, Arizona, having been reappointed by every succeeding president, whether Republican or Democrat. Now he is known as the oldest postmaster in the United States, in point of service.

SEPTEMBER, 1939 "Postal Inspectors tell me I have been a postmaster longer than anyone else," said Redfield, "and I guess the United States Inspectors know what they are talking about, even if I was a postmaster before many of them were born."

The town is a shipping point for a wide area of cattle country. According to Mr. Redfield, the post office serves miners, cowboys, horse wranglers, farmers, dudes and Benson residents.

The famous postmaster lives in a little white house, that reflects the staunch character of its owner.

In leisure hours Redfield, who will be 69 years old in December, spends his time with his lily pond, his gold and silver fish, and takes delight in the fact that where once the land was arid, now he grows cannas and cosmos.

He has a picket-fence. "When this house was built it was stylish to fence yards, and people liked gates in those days." The original fence still encloses his yard where he and Mrs. Redfield have reared three children and an adopted daughter. Seeing Redfield's cheerful face and his useful hands clasping the old gate post one is convinced that within that small home, good living has taken place, for here is a postmaster who for more than 43 years has been helping to build a community.

"I'm a coward though," laughed Redfield. His remark came about when a certain event was mentioned.

"I'm a coward though," laughed Redfield. His remark came about when a certain event was mentioned.

The time was 1936, when Redfield suddenly discovered a burglar attempting to rifle his precious post office safe. "Stick 'em up!" Redfield commanded, feeling his own knees knocking against his denim apron, "Stick 'em up!"

The burglar, Clyde Murray, a transient, glanced over his shoulder. Redfield's pants pocket had an omninous bulge that must have seemed to Murray as if Benson's postmaster had the entire U. S. Army tucked in his pants all set to mow down nosey burglars. Murray went a sickly green, cowered, and submitted to arrest. With the intruder safely arrested Redfield pulled his shaking hand from his pocket, clutching an innocent ring, lumpy with keys. Murray was later sentenced to a year in a federal penitentiary. "It was an exciting experience," admitted Redfield, "the sort that makes a postmaster sweat. But," he concluded, "even with burglars, being a postmaster is a swell life."