STREET VENDORS OF MY CHILDHOOD DAYS

the Street Vendors of my Childhood Days STORY BY

Almost a year ago business took me back to Tucson for a short sojourn. My, how that place has changed! It's just not the Tucson of my child hood days any more. Like almost all American cities it has grown in length and breadth, and its population has more than doubled. It now has a freeway which, in avoiding the heart of the city, has severed one of its main arteries. Then there are the block-long shopping centers, and countless modern buildings that have re placed many of the old adobe landmarks that dated back to the colonial days of the Southwest. With these innovations the Mexican barrio, which for scores of years had clung to the customs and traditions of old Mexico, has fast. disappeared. Oh, there are still areas where my paisanos (fellow countrymen) predom inate, but they are the new generations who in the process of acculturation have left behind large portions of the heritage which our parents brought to this country. A discussion of this topic could be the subject of a book, but right now I only wish to share with you my reminiscences of yesteryears. More specifically, I wish to acquaint you with the colorful street vendors who were so much a part of the Tucson which I associate with those delightful years of my early life. When I revisited my old tramping grounds. I looked for them. I even opti mistically cocked my ear to see if perchance. I could hear theit once familiar calls. They are no more. Those vend ors are now history. They had to give way to the drive ins, the supermarkets, or, let us say, to the jet age: "Tamaleees! Tamaleges calientes!" This was the call with which Doña Ramona lured her customers to her delicious home-made tamales in the late afternoons as she drove through the streets where so many of the

SKETCHES BY Ted De Grazia

Spanish-speaking people resided. She was a woman in her late fifties and sort of mannish in appearance. Some of the older boys used to say that she had to shave, same as a man. With her dark rebozo (shawl), however, which she wore over her head both in summer and winter, she seemed to regain much of her femininity. Her transportation was furnished by an obedient, nottoo-well-fed, old mare that lazily pulled a light-weight wagon on which Doña Ramona stately sat up front not too far from her tamales. The horse had been on the job for so many years that it automatically stopped as soon as a customer would some out so that Doña Ramona could attend to the sale. Then it would be off on its course again as soon as the purchase was made and it heard the lid being placed back on the steaining pot of tamales.

Doña Ramona was not the only vendor that provided the Mexican colony with tamales. There were other vendors whose tamales were just as good and whose lungs were just as strong. Yet this old lady was the dean of them all. The secret of her trade was that with each sale she always managed to share with her customers choice bits of neighborhood gossip. Whenever my mother would buy tamales from Doña Ramona, she always felt as if she had read the newspaper for the week. To her competitors she was la vieja chismosa (the gossipy old lady), but to her regular customers she was simply Doña Ramona or, jokingly, la señora periódico (Madam Newspaper). Some of Doña Ramona's envious competitors were always trying to undermine her successful occupation. One of them, I recall, once circulated the rumor that she was using cat meat in her tamales. I do not know how much this hurt her business, but it became a known fact that she finally got rid of the ten or twelve cats that she used to keep.

The most colorful vendors of all were the Arabes, as they were called, who in broken Spanish were heard calling out their "specials" of the day. I don't know why they were called Arabs, for years later when I grew up I discovered that most of them were Jewish. Their stores were on Meyer Street, but on Saturday mornings, or whenever the workmen from the Round House received their pay checks, these vendors would load up and peddle their goods along the streets where the Spanishspeaking people lived.

One of these peripatetic merchants who particularly stands out in my mind was a man called San Dimas. Nobody knew his real name, but it was said that one of his early unsatisfied customers, upon seeing him coming her way again, made the sign of the cross and exclaimed: "Ahi viene San Demonios." (There comes Saint Demon.) Thereafter, not wanting to call him Saint Demon to his face, the people decided in favor of San Dimas. Like a good business man that he was, he accepted his new name in good spirit. He even adopted it as part of his call. "Aqui viene San Dimas, marchante," he used to say with a strong Yiddish accent.

When San Dimas went on a selling mission he was a sight to see. He would put on as many hats as he could carry all sizes, shapes, and colors. Dangling from his coat, or shirt on a hot day, were combs, curlers for the ladies, rattles for the babies, watches, pins, buttons, and even a few rosaries. You name it; he had it. The only problem was getting to these items, because over all this merchandise, thrown over his shoulder, were multicolored bolts of cloth. As if this was not enough, on both hands he carried dresses for both women and girls and sometimes even a man's suit. In the summer time it was almost pitiful to see the plump, round, little man walking the streets in the blazing Tucson sun.

An important part of his paraphernalia was a stack of lined cards about ten inches in length by three inches in width. Since most of his sales were on a credit basis, he had a card for each one of his customers. The grapevine had it that once you were entered in the deficit column on one of his cards, the amount never seemed to diminish no matter how much you paid up on your account. Maybe he was appropriately named after all. Fridays and Saturdays were the days when the Papago Indians from near-by San Xavier or far-away Sells were expected in town with their wagon-loads of wood. They were the ones that provided the fuel for our stoves and our fireplaces. Unlike the other vendors these were the silent type. About the only way that one could tell when they were in town was through the squeaky wheels of their wagons and the clippety-clop of their horses. During the winter months people were seen anxiously waiting for them, but during the summer the wagons would roll over and over again through the same streets.

The Papagos from San Xavier usually arrived on Friday, but despite their lead on their blood-brothers from Sells they apparently had a harder time selling their wood. This might be explained by the fact that the quality of their wood was not as good as that brought in from Sells. The Papagos from Sells specialized in palo verde, which was just what the housewives wanted. It lasted longer and gave a more intense heat, but palo verde was more expensive. Then, too, the Papagos from San Xavier had the reputation of stacking their loads; that is, they camouflaged the green mesquite wood, which nobody wanted, by neatly covering it with selected pieces of dry wood. Buying wood from the Papagos was an art in itself.

To begin with, they spoke very little, either in English or in Spanish or in their native tongue. Usually they just sat on their wagons until the right price was offered to them. When the Indians from San Xavier were willing to bargain they would invariably say "leña seca" (dry wood) in their slow, quiet manner of speaking. The ones from Sells, who were not any more loquacious than the Indians from San Xavier, simply said "palo verde."

This was sometimes amusing, because they would consistently say the same thing even when all they had to sell was mesquite. In the winter time when wood was in demand and the price offered to them was not to their liking, they would nonchalantly drive off saying "mañana vengo" (I'll come tomorrow). Interestingly enough, once they put their wagons in motion they very seldom stopped. Instead, they circled the block and, if in the process of doing this they did not get a better offer, they would return and station themselves right in front of the place where they had heard the best bid. In a tough bargain the number of times that the wood vendors went around the block usually depended on the buyer's stock of patience.

The menuderos were the early risers. As early as five o'clock in the morning one could hear them calling: "Menudooo! Menudooo!" Then they would stop and wait beside their two-wheel, hand-pushed carts in the hope that someone would come out to buy their product which they carried in extra-large pots. If no one came out, the vendor would let out a couple of less-animated calls and continue with his route.

Menudo is a kind of soup consisting of tripe, the cow's hoofs after they have been especially prepared for cooking, and hominy. People with a weak stomach may find the ingredients a bit offensive, but in effect they make a very nourishing and tasty dish, particularly when spiced with a little chili, chopped onion, and a pinch of oregano. Those who have had one too many the night before may discover that a bowl of this hot soup can be more effective than a glass of Alka Seltzer.

In my neighborhood the two best known menuderos were Don Pedro and Don Angel. The latter lived up to his name. He used to dress in white and was immaculately clean, but Don Pedro, well . . . Don Pedro was about fifty years of age, a bit younger than Don Angel and heavier built. Sometimes Don Pedro wore a hat, sometimes a cap, and many times he just displayed a shock of curly hair which was foreign to a comb. During the summer he appeared only half dressed, and it seemed that the only water that ever touched the rags he wore was that which came from the infrequent Tucson rains. In winter he wore a long, threadbare overcoat that some said originally belonged to Father Kino. Don Angel's voice was high pitched and did not carry too well, but when Don Pedro let out with one of his calls he could be heard all over the block.

There was no doubt that Don Angel sold more menudo than anyone else, but Don Pedro had the most fun doing it. Sometimes when he did not get a response to his call, or should we say roars, he would direct a barrage of insults to his customers that went something like this: “Levántense, viejas feas, que no tengo todo el día para esperarles!” In English this would be comparable to saying: “Get up, you old hags, I don't have all day to wait for you!” For Sunday mornings he had a special call: “Levántense, borrachos, que aquí les traigo la cura!” This was the summons to those who had imbibed too freely the night before. “Get up, you drunkards, I've got the cure here for you!” he used to say.

Although Don Pedro's appearance was unsightly and the salesmanship methods that he used were unorthodox, to say the least, he stayed in business thanks to the kind people who bought his menudo, although it may have been in self-defense.

In the late afternoons the bakers took their turn on the streets. “Paaan, pan caliente!” they used to shout as they carried on their heads baskets full of freshlymade bread. It must have been the load on their heads that precipitated their walk, or maybe they just thought it was good business to keep one step ahead of their competitors. Their call was not always a simple one.

El Canario, who had a rather pleasant voice, as one might suspect from the name that was given to him, used to sing out the names of the different kinds of “goodies” that he had for sale. No, that is not quite true, because his lyrics really depended more on his mood and the time of day than on what he actually had for sale. At the start of his rounds, and if he happened to be in a jovial mood, there seemed to be no end to the extensive variety of Mexican pastries that he had available. My mind does not serve me well to recall his complete repertory, but here is a good start: Pan de huevo, semitas, pastelitos, polvorones, conchitas, roscas, besos, empanadas, chamucos, cuernos, moños, corbatas, and cochinitos. The way El Canario would combine all these terms to give them harmony was truly commendable. The only trouble was that his customers never did know for sure what he really had for sale. Now if this singing baker happened to be in the neighborhood late in the day, by which time he was tired and perhaps even low in spirit if business had not gone well for him, there was no reason to disbelieve his call. By that time his previously lively song was reduced to a mere chant of paaan, paaan, paaan.

One of these wandering bakers, however, was neither swift nor melodious. He croaked like a frog and moved like a turtle. Ironically, he was called El Venadito (the Little Deer). A handicap which was attributed to polio had not only left his mouth pointing in two different directions but also had made a cripple of him. Some people found him so repulsive to look at that doors were slammed shut and window blinds pulled down at the sight of him. None the less, he had more than his share of devoted customers.

El Venadito used devious methods to promote the sale of his merchandise. For example, the boy or girl that first saw him coming in the afternoon always received a cochinito (a small gingerbread cookie in the shape of a pig) as a reward. As soon as the children would see him coming they invariably stampeded, shouting: “El Venadito, El Venadito, El Venadito!” With this kind of a reception, how could the neighborhood fail to know that he was around?

When the children were in school he would knock on the door of one of his steady customers. This person would then be asked to call out her neighbors. Usually this produced the right results for him, particularly if he was able to find someone like our neighbor from across the street. My, how that woman could yell!

But the success of El Venadito was in knowing how to make use of the local Spanish idiom dar madera, (the act of praising, to compliment, to laud.) Yes, he could really flatter the women, who, incidentally, were the ones who usually bought from the street vendors. To him, the fat ones were slender; the skinny, well-filledout; the old ones, young; and the young, grown up. To his eyes there was not a homely woman in the world. The Spanish language is rich in adjectives to describe beauty. He knew them all, and at one time or another even the unsightly, shapeless, misproportioned, haggard, and ill-looking women that bought his pan dulce (sweet bread) must have been thrilled to have these descriptive terms applied to them. So while his competitors tired themselves walking the streets of the neighborhood, this handicapped but clever man probably made more money in his business than all the other bakers put together. As in the race between the tortoise and the hare, speed did not prove to be an advantage over astuteness.

One thing that could be said for the bell was that it gave the children plenty of advance notice so that they could work on their parents for a nickel. However, there was always the problem of getting Palillo to stop for a sale. He did not like to make frequent stops, so we had to chase him for blocks before he would stop. "Palillo, Palillo, Palillo!" the children used to yell as they ran as fast as they could after the ice cream man. Perhaps it was the challenge of getting him to stop that made the youngsters want to patronize him that much more.

This work would be incomplete if I did not include Palillo (the Stick), a seasonal vendor who hibernated during the winter months and made his appearance only in summer. His business was selling leche nevada (ice cream), paletas (popsicles), and cimarronas (snow cones). Palillo, as his name implies, was on the skinny side. To tell the truth, his ribs seemed to merge with his spinal cord. But he was strong. He had to be to control And so end these portraits which are a part of my impressionable years. I hope that I have captured the life and spirit of those people who have now passed into the realm of folklore.

ARIZONA'S ROADSIDE REST AREAS

So cactus, yucca and other desert shrubs are a feature of roadside rests in the southern part of the state, while piñons, junipers and pines give welcome shade in the north. Where there is abundant water for irrigation, some decorative exotics are introduced, such as palms and cypresses, and in desert areas groups of the former give the appearance of oases. On each plan the land scaping is worked out and the different species of plants are listed.

Mr. Earley and his co-workers also showed me scale models of ramadas, rest rooms and other facilities. They were neat and attractive in subdued greens and browns.

"Up-keep is one of the biggest jobs," commented Mr. Earley, "so we try to incorporate as much built-in maintenance as we can."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Making everything as resistant to wear-and-tear as possible," he said. "For instance, the palm fronds on ramada roofs are sprayed with green fire-retardant paint; tables and benches are durable, high-finish, sealed cement; and we mix in colors where we can instead of using surface paint. We urge the public to carry char coal for use in the grills, so that trees and the structural wood of the areas won't be disturbed."

But even so, keeping Arizona's roadside rests ship shape and inviting is a continuous and exacting task. Nevertheless, it is one of the most important aspects of the work, particularly in public relations and gaining good will for the state. Because, as Mr. Earley points out, people respect a well-cared-for area and tend to keep it that way, while a run-down, cluttered roadside rest breeds carelessness, vandalism and litter. Up-keep is the state's responsibility and is financed with state funds. The Maintenance Coordinator in the Roadside Development Division is Mr. Dewey Little. He is a field man who works closely with the Highway Depart ment's more than thirty-five maintenance sections. Their crews service the rest areas by policing the grounds and emptying the refuse. They also check damage and recommend repairs.

"Everybody cooperates and so far the system seems to work out fine," said Mr. Earley. Arizona's roadside rests today total some 315 acres, which makes an average of about 1.4 acres per unit. But for the new dual highway system areas the recommended minimum size is two to three acres each. Traffic and usage counts show that over six per cent of all traffic stops, and at the present rate it means that annually between 4,000,000 and 8,000,000 motorists make use of them. The average is about thirty cars a day per area. Exact counts would be impossible, but there isn't a question that the popularity of the state's roadside rests is skyrocketing. Both residents and visitors are appreciating them more each year. Out in our still wide-open-spaces we don't yet have some of the problems of the more populous states. For example, our dog is as enthusiastic about roadside rests as my wife and I are. She runs, romps, plays and strikes up tail-wagging acquaintances with pooches from New York, Illinois, California and even Alaska. But in several states the family pet must be on a leash at roadside rests, there are specially designated exercise grounds, and sometimes "dog boxes." However, such restrictive measures are necessary and are not the result of dictatorial policies. Roadside rests are an integral part of modern highway development. In the new Federal Interstate Highway System, right-of-way landscaping and planting will play a significant role in the over-all design. Here again, however, safety, not aesthetics, is the primary factor.

There is nothing more deadly to the motorist than monotony. It causes symptoms of the “autohypnosis” that Wayne Earley mentioned — eye strain, inattention, drowsiness and exhaustion. In the Caretaker's Manual, issued to his staff, he wrote: “Our main job is to keep the motorist rested, interested and above all alive while traveling our high-speed Interstate System.” Each year the Arizona Highway Department issues an up-to-date road map of the state, which is distributed Free. On it all rest areas are indicated by little symbols resembling trees. My advice is: get a copy and use it as a practical guide to these welcome and refreshing roadside stopping places. Doing so makes a pleasant, relaxing habit which adds a rewarding bonus to driving Arizona highways. SLOW DOWN AND LIVE isn't a bad slogan for us modern motorists to remember — and keeping yourself and your fellow travelers alive is a worthy ambition.

COLOR OF SUMMER

The lake with hue of lapis lazuli mirrored a fringe of trees green as malachite and one dropped token leaf sailing in ever widening bands of light. - V. Trollope-Cameron

MOENCOPI WASH

Golden sands unchanged and everchanging Since the start of time, Tracks of dinosaurs beside the stream, Scarlet, orange cliffs in symphony sublime. -Elizabeth M. Holland

NEW CALENDAR

Greetings to all the not-yet days Enough of them to fill a year! Here they all are in neat arrays Of rows and columns that appear Quite innocent of all intent To harass us with what they hold. We like to think not one was meant To tell us things that must be told. We'll take what they have for us, one by one, Woe unforeseen and joy unsought Then tear them off when the month is done, Remembering most the good they brought. -Roland English Hartley

JEWELS

The moon hangs like a lavaliere Upon the breast of night; A circle of stars and diamond bars Glow with brilliant light. -F. J. Worrall

MAGNITUDE

West is the land where dreams Wake in reality; Winds and the white moonbeams Know its old history: The magnitude of age In God's great anteroom; The smell of sand and sage, The sight of cactus bloom. -Grace Barker Wilson

A DOLLAR DOWN

Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stood. The smith a mighty man, was he. But still, I doubt he could In this day of easy credit maintain a solvent plan To look the whole world in the face And owe not any man. -Jene Merrick Ueberroth

SAN CARLOS APACHES:

The May issue of your magazine just arrived and I feel I must write you immediately to commend you on one of the best issues put out in a long time. The San Carlos Apaches are a wonderful people, and I have spent many enjoyable hours visiting with some of them.

Your article on the Rev. Uplegger was superb. In fact, everything you had to say about the San Carlos people should be a real boost to their pride. I know you only had so much space to cover all this material, but it was too bad that Joe Bullis, the district tribal judge, was not written up. Joe, who happens to be an Aravaipa Apache, spends many hours working with the Apache youth, and is one of the many fine Apache people who live on the San Carlos Reservation. You missed a good bet by not giving a few paragraphs to this man, and the excellent work he does among the Apache boys and girls.

Was very glad to see your article on the Arts & Crafts Center at Bylas. Have been a long and ardent supporter of this center and have some of the superb bead work they do and make into bolo ties for men and necklaces for women. In fact, I am making a hobby of collecting certain types of bolos made by one of the Bylas women. Steve and Helen Talbot deserve a lot of credit for the work they have done at Bylas, and for the center.

Again, my sincere congratulations and appreciation for an outstanding issue. I am a great admirer of these people and they deserve all the well-deserved recognition they can get and your May issue certainly was a boost in the right way.

George H. Pittman San Manuel, Arizona

I was delighted with the May issue. At last the Apaches have received some real recognition-though there was much left unsaid.

There is one correction I would like to make. On page 39 there is a picture entitled "Fel-ay-tay." It is none other than QuathaHooa-Hooba, or Yellow Face, who was a frequent visitor at our quarters at Fort Grant in the early 80's. It was he who taught the five Corbusier boys, and others, how to find your "second wind" when running. As one of the "Dandy Scouts" he was assigned to Company B, First Infantry for a time - but I must not reveal too much as you can get more details in my Verde To San Carlos when published.

In 1921-22 father and I visited San Carlos, where he renewed acquaintances with some of the Indians who were children when he accompanied them from the Rio Verde Reservation to San Carlos. That trip is the basis of my book.

W. T. Corbusier Long Beach, California

SEEING IS BELIEVING:

Having received your April issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, and seeing the wonderful pictures of the Petrified Forest, I felt I would like to write this letter to your magazine that I have put off too many times before.

In January, 1958, friends of mine moved to your scenic state. As we kept in touch, many times they tried to explain the beauty of the country, but of course never having seen it, it seemed hard to believe . . . then they sent me a copy of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS . . . and as soon as I looked through the magazine, I believed what they had been telling me and decided right then that I would visit your state. My visit finally came about in July, 1960. Never in my life have I witnessed so many things that seem like a fairy tale land. Since the day I returned East, I made up my mind to visit again as soon as possible to see so many of the things that I know I missed last time I was there (the Petrified Forest for one). Well, my trip is about to take place again, and I am counting the days to September. Since my first visit there I really want to thank ARIZONA HIGHWAYS for keeping me so close in touch with your beautiful land, although I am the entire width of the United States away. I look forward to your magazine every month keep up the wonderful work.

Lois Liccardo Clifton, New Jersey

OPPOSITE PAGE

"PORTRAIT OF THE BLUE" BY CARLOS ELMER. This photograph shows its colorful canyon east of U.S. 666, the Coronado Trail, in Greenlee County. The Spanish name for this stream was Rio Azul; hence, "Blue River." The stream flows from the Blue Mountains. Burke & James Press camera; 4x5 Ektachrome E-1; f. 14 at 1/25th sec.; 90mm Angulon lens; summer; bright day; Meter reading 250; ASA rating 12.

BACK COVER

"LAZY SUMMER DAY" BY DARWIN VAN CAMPEN. Photograph was taken a short distance off the Coronado Trail on the road to Buffalo Crossing. This road turns off from U.S. 666 about eleven miles south of Alpine. 4x5 Linhof camera; Ektachrome; f. 22 at 1/25th sec.; 150mm Symmar lens; August; bright sunlight; Weston meter 200.