Arizona Humor

rizona Humor

My seven-year-old son Luke land I were on our way to Willow Springs when we stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant on State Route 260. It was a typically Western steak-and-burger place rough wood, checkered table cloths, deer antlers, and wa gon-wheel chandelier. After lunch, I reminded Luke to use the rest room before we continued our journey. He quickly disappeared through a door beneath the "rest rooms" sign. Some time passed, but fi nally Luke emerged from the doorway looking befuddled. "Well, are you ready to go?" I asked. "No. I haven't been to the bathroom yet." "Why not?" He paused, then asked: "Mom, am I a 'filly' or a 'stud?'"

It was an unusually warm day during a fall roundup on the edge of the Blue Range, and we were running out of fresh horses faster than we were running out of daylight. As the greenest hand, I was elected to finish the day on a mule. As if that weren't indignity enough, the mule decided to show its independence. When I headed it off into a steep draw, it balked and refused to move. When I insisted, it sim ply sidestepped and brushed me off under a low-hanging juniper. One of the cowboys re trieved the mule and brought it back. "That's the difference be tween a horse and a mule," he said, grinning. "They both know they're smarter than you, but a mule's plumb up pity about it."

Back in the 1930s in the little village of Cactus Garden near the main shaft of the Inspiration Consolidated Cop per Co. north of Miami, we kids often rolled tires for rec reation, usually with a friend curled up inside hanging on by fingers and toes. Because we lived on a steep hill, the ride was wild and sometimes dangerous. If the tire headed down the grade, it was best to bail out before hit ting a cactus or a cliff. My little brother contends I once deliberately rolled him down the hill, over the cut bank, across the road, and in to the creek. He zipped across the road just ahead of Dad's approaching car. Dad slammed on his breaks and emerged from the car and headed up the hill for me. My brother, eager to see me get a licking, was at his heels. "Charles, that was a stupid thing to do," my dad yelled. "That was my best tire. Use one of those old casings with holes in it when you roll tires in cactus."

To make the last night of our eight-week cross-country va cation really special, we decid ed to have dinner at El Tovar on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon before heading home to California the next day. My husband and I, our sev en-year-old son, and four-year old daughter were seated in the hotel's beautiful old dining room relaxed and reflecting on our travels. But, typical of our daughter, she began asking me if I had something of hers in my handbag. "Sue, could I have just one meal without your being at me?" I pleaded. "Sure, Mom, but not this one."

I was 10 years old when my younger brother hooked me behind the ear with his new bass plug. Traveling over rough country roads for what seemed like hours, we finally arrived at the clinic in what was then Clemenceau, Arizona. After a brief examination, the doctor muttered, more to himself than anyone else in the room, "I'll have to cut the hook off first." Alarmed that he might lose his fishing plug, my little brother spoke up: "Ya only do that when they swallow it!"

One day I accompanied my husband to the Pima Indian Reservation and strolled around looking at the scenery while he repaired a tractor. To my amazement I found a stone used for grinding corn. I interrupted an Indian man busy at work and asked him, "Can you tell me what they call this? And please say it slowly so I can pronounce it." The man wiped his hands, took the grinder from my hands, and said, "Raaaocccck. Is that slow enough?" Send us a short note about your humorous experiences in Arizona, and we'll pay $75 for each one we publish. We're looking for short stories, no more than 200 words, that deal with Arizona topics, and have a humorous punch line. Send them to Humor, Arizona Highways, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85009. Please enclose your name, address, and telephone number with each submission. We'll notify those whose stories we intend to publish, but we cannot acknowledge or return unused submissions.