Along the Way

ALONG THE WAY Prescott, My Town

When people find out that I am an old-time Prescottonian, they always ask, "Have you lived here all your life?"

I answer, "Not yet." I am going to keep on answering the question the same way as long as I can.

Some wise image maker, a few years ago, called Prescott "Everybody's Hometown." To me that term sums up the character of the community. Somewhere in this town, there is something that reminds us of Iowa or Massachusetts, Minnesota, or even Texas. A threestory native granite courthouse, surrounded by statuary, old trees, and green grass, is the centerpiece. It looks as if it had been transplanted from Vermont. Here, solid brick buildings and fussy Victorian homes are revered, restored, and cherished. This also is the home of a different drummer.

When I opened my eyes to this on March 17, 1918, I was added to the count of 4,112, plus or minus, souls. There was a covered bridge over Granite Creek, and about 10 acres of orchard spread out where State Route 89 now heads toward Wickenburg.

The most exciting place in town was the firehouse. The steel doors of the station were open every day for all to see the two bright red American La France fire engines. Two paid firemen and a gaggle of volunteers protected the town from disaster. Gerald Fitzgerald and Eddie Sweeney always permitted us kids to climb the steps to their living quarters and slide down the steel pole. The community fire bell, housed in A high tower, rang at 8 A.M., noon, and 5 P.M. When a fire was reported, the number of rings indicated the location.

The picture show on Friday nights at the Elk Theater usually starred Hoot Gibson, Tom Mix, or Ken Maynard.

During those days, Prescott had more black families than we do now. There were three barber shops in town, and the two most popular were owned and run by African Americans. Mr. Jordan, who had an artificial leg, had four chairs in his shop and was busy all the time. Two brothers ran another shop.

The best restaurants were run by the Chinese. Slim at the Palace was considered locally as sort of a Granite Creek cordon bleu. His saddle-blanket steaks, lyonnaise potatoes, and sliced tomatoes were the favorite fare.

Most of the Mexicans worked in the surrounding mines. The exception, I joyfully recall, was an elderly couple who sold tamales for a living. Every morning the products of their kitchen were loaded into an insulated box, which was mounted between the two rear wheels of what once was a bicycle. The old man, sporting a white apron and straw hat, pedalled this contraption all over town until all the tamales had been purchased for a nickel apiece.

Every time the "Human Fly" came to town, the Prescott merchants would sponsor his performance. As Saturday was always the busiest business day, they usually booked him for midweek. Beginning on the sidewalk, he scaled the front of a three-story building alone and unaided. The Head Hotel or the Knights of Pythias Building were the usual sites of the exhibition. School attendance dropped dramatically when the Human Fly performed during the week, and the ranch-ers and miners appeared asif pulled to town by a magnet. Visitors were always a community event, and for a small sidetracked town, Prescott had a distinguished roster. Tom Mix often arrived for a rodeo appearance or to make a movie. He remained a hero of Prescott youngsters even after we discovered he sometimes kissed a costar other than his horse, Tony. The beloved Will Rogers attended several Prescott rodeos. New York's onetime Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, who spent his boyhood in Prescott, returned to visit friends and update the equipment of the Prescott Fire Department.

Change? Certainly. Those 4,000 souls in the Prescott of my youth are now 36,000. With a lot of luck and some vision, Everybody's Hometown has managed to maintain its charm and character.

I have not yet lived here all my life.

But I intend to.