TELLER OF TALL TRUE TALES

To the home ranch with much disgust. His remark was, 'That boss over there couldn't get a dog out from under a wagon with a pitchfork, let alone get cattle out of the brush.' Upon completion of his army service he returned to the University and began a career with the Extension Service, but in a short time, he teamed up with the Cowden Livestock Company as a foreman. The teaching urge was strong and in two years he was again with the Extension Service serving Yavapai County as Agricultural Agent. From there he went to the University as livestock specialist in which capacity he described himself as a travelling teacher whose pupils were all stockmen of Arizona and where he had all out-of-doors for a classroom.

You go to any cattleman's gathering in Arizona today, and if you see a knot of men listening intently, then begin to chuckle, and finally roar in laughter, look for a large, silver-haired, youngish looking man in the center smiling roguishly. You will have found Charlie Pickrell. If you listen he will tell one on his best friend. We heard him tell this one on Manford Cartwright, whom he affectionately calls Geronimo, at the time of the annual Yavapai Calf Sale at the Hays' Ranch in Peeples Valley.

"Geronimo attended one of the early conventions of the Arizona Cattle Growers at Tucson. That city had recently installed electric lights which were new to him. The bellboy failed to tell him how to turn out the light. When bedtime came, Geronimo wanted the light out. After several failures in his attempt to blow out the light, he thought of a plan-he tied one of his boots over the light and accomplished thoroughly satisfactory results."

Another old friend of Charlie's is the subject for this one. "While I was county agent in Yavapai, a girl in the East wrote me saying she would like to correspond with a real cowboy. Tot Young was still a bachelor, and since I knew Tot to be a real old cowhand, I gave her Tot's name. Soon after Tot received a letter. Tot says, 'Well, I'm not much on writing letters, but I can't let Pick down,' so dutifully he took up the job of writing letters to the Eastern lady. After a few exchanges of letters she asked him to send her his photograph. Tot replied, 'I don't think postal regulations would permit my sending such material through the mail, but I'll try to give you a description of myself. I'm supposed to be one of the homeliest men in Yavapai County, and that is one of the largest counties in the United States; the barber can cut my hair with my hat on; and I know I have a good set of teeth because I paid sixty-five dollars for them less than two years ago.' The next time I saw Tot, he said, 'You know, I never heard any more from that girl."

Of course politics and politicians always are an open sesame for story tellers and one of Arizona's came in for this one. "In the old days there was a Spanish custom that prevailed for many years. It was called 'venting' and meant simply that the placing of the same brand as the original on another part of the critter's body was recognized as a cancellation of ownership in that brand. Once while Tom Campbell, who was afterwards Governor, was campaigning for the office of Tax Commissioner, he approached a former Texas cowboy who was then working as a miner. When it was time for Tom to bid this newly made friend goodbye, he remarked, 'I hope I can count on your support in November.' The former Texan replied, 'I like you, and I would like to vote for you, but you are not on my ticket.' Tom Campbell, with the aid of a sample ballot, explained how it was possible to vote for Campbell up in the non-partisan block, where the office of tax commissioner appeared, and still vote his straight party ticket. The cowboy was not convinced. Said he, 'My old man always taught me that if I put a brand on twice, it was vented."

When asked about his technique in regard to stories, Pick said, "Well, Padre, when I was in school and during the years of teaching I spent my vacations as a cowhand. Then, too, I always had a horse and spent considerable spare time around livery stables, the stock yards, and the race track, all of which Tempe had in those days. These places were the real habitat for stories-even if you do have to disinfect them a little for parlor use.

"Next to cattle people, in the values of the range, come the wonderful horses with which they still spend a considerable portion of their time. The love of man for horse, and the co-operative endeavor that exists is nowhere else exemplified. A cattleman once told me, in speaking about his favorite horse, 'If this old son-of-agun could throw a rope, I wouldn't even have to go out with him.' There is an old English saying, with which I concur, 'The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man."

"Once while officiating as a starter at some races, a friend of mine, who had several horses in the races, approached me in a very quiet and, as far as possible, unobserved manner, and said, 'Pick, you know I wouldn't ask none the best of it for all the world, but that old sorrel horse of mine is kind of lame, and I sure would appreciate it if you saw he didn't get off to a bad start.' You see what you are sometimes asked to do for a friend -or for his horse?

"Talking about horses, reminds me, not so long ago I had a short visit with a fine old friend of mine, who is now well up in his eighties, and who retired from the cattle business several years ago. When I first knew him, he had a very beautiful and wonderful top horse named 'Rosebud.' In our conversation, I asked him, 'Do you still ride?' 'Yes,' he responded, I have an old pony I ride to get a few quail and a rabbit once in a while.' Then I mentioned Rosebud. With genuine restrained emotion he told me, 'You know, Charlie, my dream is that when I die, if I go to heaven, I hope that Rosebud will be there waiting for me.' the cattle business several years ago. When I first knew him, he had a very beautiful and wonderful top horse named 'Rosebud.' In our conversation, I asked him, 'Do you still ride?' 'Yes,' he responded, I have an old pony I ride to get a few quail and a rabbit once in a while.' Then I mentioned Rosebud. With genuine restrained emotion he told me, 'You know, Charlie, my dream is that when I die, if I go to heaven, I hope that Rosebud will be there waiting for me.' "Sandy Huntington was another character of the old days. He spent most of the latter part of his life with George Ruffner's Livery Stable. Well, Sandy used to tell this story on one of his cowboy friends: "One day when the roundup was camped on Camp Creek, some 50 miles north of Phoenix, someone brought a newspaper out from town.

"This cowboy after reading the paper remarked, That Doe family must be a hell of a mean outfit, because every time I read about them, they are in trouble."

Charles Pickrell was no office Director of Agricultural Extension. He still prefers the open spaces for a classroom. He likes his own kind of people and they like him. Once he called me on a night when a snow storm was closing in on our community. He was at the hotel and was going over the mountain to spend some days with a cattle outfit on spring roundup in the desert. He had his saddle and bed roll with him. He told me, "I'm to the place where I am no good in the office. I have to get out in the wind and under the stars awhile to get so I can think again."

So he began another story. "I think you knew Mert Stewart, He and his brother Ben were that wonderful team of cowboys and cattlemen who owned and operated the T-Anchor Ranch in Yavapai County for nearly 40 years. The T-Anchor still continues in the Stewart family, now in its sand year as property of that family. Brad, a son of Ben, now owns and operates it today.

"Mert was not only a real cowboy, but one of the very finest looking men I ever saw on a horse. No matter what he was riding, the mount and rider seemed as one, always making their charges, turus, or quick stops perfectly together."

"Well, Mert had a saddle mule that was a real mount. Not only was he superb as a male but in rough country, especially, where the cattle might be wild or mean, this mule excelled many horses that were considered good on the range."

"This mule's name was Sem. As near as we could determine, the mother of Sem was predominately of thoroughbred blood, which no doubt was largely responsible for many of Sam's outstanding qualities."

"Whenever I went to the T-Anchor Ranch, I felt highly honored to have Sam assigned to me as a mount. The first time I was to ride Sam, Mert instructed me as follows: 'Never whip him, because if you do, he will get the idea that you think he is a mule or a burro and will act like one and will slow up with you; but, if you con time to spur him, he will believe that you think he is a horse and will give you the best he has.'"

In 1919 Charles Pickrell married Anna Wallace, a native daughter of Bisbee whom he met while both were students at the U. of A. The Pickrells have four children and sight grandchildren. All four children attended the University at Tucson. Charles Jr. and Bob served in World War II. Charles with the navy in the South Pacific and Bob with the infantry in the Mediterranean Invasion of France. Both are married and reside in Phoenix. Charles is with Arizona Public Service and Bob is Attorney General of the State of Arizona. The daughter, Frances, is married to Roy W. Brown, now a member of the Goodyear Research Staff at the Atomic Energy Center at Portsmouth. The youngest son, James, is a veterinarian in Santa Cruz County.

Charlie comments that, "One of nay chief sources of pleasure has always been the exchange of stories with my children, especially the boys. I taught them at an early age that if they heard any good stories at school or at any other place, to be sure and bring them home to Dad. They were also good listeners since their allowances could be somewhat dependent upon this. We frequently have visits with our children and their families and, of course, we still enjoy an exchange of stories. Our grandchildren seem to enjoy it also."

In 1952 Charles Pickrell was employed by the British Government as a land consultant to accompany a mission into the Kalahari region of the Western part of Bechuanaland Protectorate in South Africa. The purpose of this expedition was to examine a body of some 80,000 square miles of virgin grass land and determine its potential value for the production of beef cattle and sheep tender grazing. He was selected for the job due to his experience in the grazing areas of Arizona, which were believed not unlike the African conditions. He was to study and advise as to the grazing value of the land, and to determine if production would pay the cost of water development and other necessary ranch improvements. The trip lasted through October, November, and December-spring months in Africa.

Pick was the only American. Other members of the party were all Britishers except the guide who was a rare combination of White Russian and Afrikaan (Dutch Boer.) He reports in part, "Our trip took us right into the home of the Afrikander cattle. Those livestock people were like us in many respects, their first interest being in rainfall, grass, and stock water. And, speaking of cooks, we were supplied well with black boys as camp tenders and cooks. We out here in Arizona don't have any monopoly on knowledge of the use of the Dutch ovens; those black cooks could make the finest whole wheat bread in a Dutch oven and cook anything else."

While in Africa, Charlie, who had much experience riding horses, was introduced to an even older type of riding-the Arabian saddle camel. Discussing this experience he says, "Although South Africa is several thousand miles from Arabis, the home of the African canel, these Ships of the Desert do very well in that part of the country. They are still the most dependable source of transportation there where warer is so scarce since a saddle camel can carry 600 pounds 100 miles through the deep sand in 24 hours.

"While we had no official use for the camels, I had an opportunity for several rides on them, and I came away immensely fascinated with these queer looking creatures, Most foreigners to that arsa do not take readily to camels chiefly because of several of their ill manners and habits, such as biting, spraying you with a liquid cudd resembling a thin chew of tobacco, and running away with you through the high thick brush. I was so thrilled that Ialmost wished that I had been present when Lt. Beal came through Arizona with his camels on his way to the Pacific Coast nearly too years before. How does it feel to ride a camel? It was a combination between a Ferris Wheel and a pacing horse!"

Speaking of word usage he says, "We had much fun trying to combine our vocabularies. I easily persuaded them to change their name of Bill Tag for sun-dried meat, to that of jerkey. They thought that jerkey was a most appropriate name and seemed to enjoy the change. They also changed quite readily from Donkey to Burro. But I couldn't persuade them to call a track by that name;they preferred their name of lorry, and would not change from their word spoc spoor to track or trail. A horseor burro-powered pump is an animal gear; a squeeze chute to us is a crush to them. They use the word corral moch as we do, but a pasture to us is a paddock to them.

"The one that really bowled me over was a Walt a Bit. Ever since I can remember, I have heard Texans call our Cat Claw Garra by the name Wait & Bit. The name being quite well taken, it being generally necessary after coming in contact with this plant to Wait a Bit in order to become unfastened. Well, they have some shrabs over there that have any of ours backed off of the map when it comes to stickers. I heard some of my British companions speaking of these bushes as Wait a Bits. I remarked that they must have had some Texan with them over there and absorbed this name from him. Do you know what the Chief of our party told me? There you Americans go again taking our good old English words and claiming them as your own. I assure you, Sir, that Wait a Bit was a name for a sticker bush in Old England long before America was discovered.' There was little olse left for me to do but retreat."

Recently, at the Orme Ranch Barbeque, Charlie was selling a group about Bill and Joe (two old carlemen of Arizona whose names here are fictitious).

"An Arizona cattleman, we call him Bill, after many hard years on the range, disposed of his sizable herd at a good price and moved to town to devote his time to business of a less strenuous nature, and to complete the education of his children.

"It so happened that the wife of this cattleman, though deprived of the opportunity of regular attendance at church while living on the ranch, had maintained from her girlhood very close religious ties, and when the family took up residence in town again she became very active in the affairs of her church. It was not long before the untiring efforts of the wife began to bring the old cowman closer to the fold. Finally, he gave in and consented to join the church, but delayed until after he could return and visit one of his old neighbors back on the range before taking the final step. Well, Bill came back to visit Joe and after some discussion as to the weather, the times, and the general condition of the cow business, Bill informed Joe of his mission somewhat as follows: "Joe, I've decided to join the church, but I can't do it with a clear conscience, and I've come to settle with you for the calves I stole from you when we were neighbors. I've checked over my old tally books and I believe that I branded about (?) calves that were yours."

"After another cigarette and some meditation Joe says, 'Well, wait a minute, Bill, and let me check up in my old tally books.' "In due course of time Joe made a check of his records and came forth with the following report.

"Bill, I believe that I stole a few more cattle from you than you did from me. Least we can call it square."

"They shook hands. Bill returned to town and joined the church and continued as an outstanding citizen in urban Efe. Joe remained on his ranch. They were good friends all the remaining days that they numbered together until they both joined in the Last Roundup."

When the understanding chuckles and head-shaking had subsided, he turned to this one, "Padre, one of my old cattle friends here in Yavapai lost his fortune in the financial reverses of the Thirties, but still having a love for the cattle business, and no experience in anything else, decided to stay on as a cow hand. While working in another section of the country, he roped a wild bull, which jerked his horse over, and in the accident he was instantly killed. When the body was brought back to his old home for burial, one of his buddies of former cowboy days in Yavapai looked at the face of his old friend for the last time and said, 'He died like a man-- he got killed by a bull and a horse.'"

A little later with a plate full of beans and a chunk of barbeque beef, Charlie was sauntering over to a shady spot and it occurred to us that we had never heard him tell a story about the early feuds in Arizona. So we asked him, "Pick, why is it that you have never told a story of the old feuds between the sheep and cattle men?"

"No, Padre, I don't because I can't recall any that are humorous, and I doubt the propriety of my doing so in my position. Also, I have a brother who is a very devout sheepman sad he might cause me bodily harm." But we learned when he added, "Anyway, I still like to drop in and eat at both camps."

.. And How It Grew

He arrived in the town of St. Nicholas to continue his studies at the conservatory there. Surviving to complete them, he made a hopeful return to the military hospital where, thumped, pounded and carefully reconsidered, once more he was solemnly informed that he had just six months to live.

"They were pitiless," M. Van Hulse recalls with a shudder. "Always, 'Six months.'" But the Van Hulse family doctor was wiser and kinder. "Always do what you like to do and never do too much of that, and I think you will get along very well," he told his young patient.

On consideration of the additional advantages of a warm, dry climate, the young Van Hulse was about to set off to pursue this advice in Johannesburg, South Africa, when there loomed up on the horizon a traveller from that exotic, faraway land, Oklahoma. The Oklahoman praised his state with such conviction ("It is," he assured Camil Van Hulse, "as warm and dry as South Africa and much more civilized."), that, faster than he could say "Five Civilized Tribes," Camil Van Hulse was in Oklahoma. From there it was a short hop to Arizona.

Arizona was, he learned, even warmer and drier and, by a lucky glance at the right spot in his newspaper one morning, he read that a determined patroness of the arts named Madeline Heineman Berger was raising funds to build a Temple of Music and Art, which made it seem even more civilized. And this was the happy chain of coincidences which brought the very much alive M. Van Hulse to the position where he could be elected to the position of conductor of the Tucson Symphony.

"I think I can say that our impact on the community was tremendous," says Camil Van Hulse today.

"We played together for the simple reason that we wanted to make music together, but even as poor as we might have been, for certainly we were not what the Symphony is now, we were virtually the only chance they had to hear good music played live."

TEA AND SYMPHONY

"Musicians, once quipped the late, beloved Uni versity of Arizona professor, Rollin Pease, in his bitter vein, 'are born and not paid.' But this lighthearted philosophy, even taking care of the lion-share of the burden, did not account for all of the cash outlay in volved in making music and the infant Symphony only began to wrestle with the age-old problem of finances. It has been, astonishingly enough, rarely outmatched.

"When we began, we had absolutely no funds," says Cecil Van Hulse, "and then we gave a concert and we had some funds", a state of affairs that has rarely ceased to exist. There are today, according to one source, thirty two primary, professional symphonies in the United States and over six hundred community symphonies, and few can equal Tucson's almost perfect record of thirty one years of operating in the black. (One year they were mudged into the red by gas.)By 1932, with seats selling at 50s a concert ($.50 to $3.50 today), though it might cost the Symphony Soci ety the hard-won, carefully entailed sum of $97.15 (as the minutes show) to stage a production (no matter how hard the volunteers worked), still the treasurer, Mrs Charles Solomon, could report triumphantly that the necessary continued $200 to meet expenses.

Reaching out into the community in 1932, a newly expanded Symphony Society included music lovers who did not actively participate in the orchestra. (The first two boards had been made up entirely of orchestra mem bers. Today's Symphony Society Board, incorporated since 1959, contains only two currently playing members. An additional two, of the now legally restricted twenty five members, have played in years past.) As was to be hoped from exponents of the cause of culture selected for their abilities to administer, the new board went right to work drumming up more business. In short order they had organized a Patron's Society which was able to contribute an additional $100 to the treasury and they further stirred the enthusiasm of the town by inaugurat ing concerts for children. It is true it cost the kiddies a quarter each, but it cost the Symphony Society more.

There were occasional dark clouds.

The minutes of the Symphony Society Board in 1932 contain the information that rumors were abroad that the American Federation of Musicians, Local #77, was going to demand $10 per concert per Union member. "Impossible," implied an emphatic minority, "disband." Said the more practical, looking at the treasury, "promise to divide up any monies left over at the end of the season." Added the conciliatory, "Go before the Union and explain the problem." A motion for the third solution was so made and carried.

The explanations were apparently accepted. But the following season the Union was back, and for two or three years it became a sore sign of spring for the minutes to carry the motion that a small group be appointed to go before the Union and explain the problem. Once, Union members in the orchestra were paid on