Go West, Middle-Aged Man, Go West

 

It all started with Sam. He was a New York State Trooper and a neighbor. He lived a few doors down from Painters in Henrietta, New York. Because of a heart problem, he retired early and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona, with his wife and two daughters. A year or so later, Dick and Maryann flew down for a visit. After touring the area and liking what they saw, decided to find a place to call their new home.

The following year, Painters found a community – Mission Monterrey on Scottsdale Ranch – and negotiated the purchase of a patio home. Because he was still gainfully employed, Dick rented out the house, under Sam's watchful eye. After retirement in 1987, Dick sold the Henrietta property and hauled his spouse and Basset Hounds to his new digs, where they all settled down to their new life. Dick found employment (as a volunteer) on the Mission Monterrey Board as well as on the Scottsdale Ranch Board, where he ruled with an almost-iron hand.

The following year, Shirley and I decided to haul our travel trailer across this vast country, stopping in Scottsdale for a nice visit. We were given the 50¢ tour, were impressed enough to decide to move here before continuing on to California. After returning home to talk with a realtor, we came back to a KOA in Avondale for the winter to house-hunt and find a builder. Our location of choice was Tierra Santa on McCormick Ranch. After we completed the purchase negotiations, we headed back to Ontario, New York, to house-hunters and garage sales. We wound up living in our trailer in Shirley's mother's yard after the house was sold – we had been next door neighbors. We rented a U-Haul to bring to Scottsdale what few possessions we kept, and stored them in a rented locker that Dick had found for us.

Eventually, we camped at Valle Del Oro in Mesa and made frequent trips to our lot to check on construction progress, taking ownership in February 1990. Sam, who started this migration from Henrietta, wound up having a heart transplant in February 1991, and, I'm happy to report, is doing quite well. So thanks, Sam, for leading the way to paradise.

The True Trans-continental Rail Connection

From an historical sign near Strasburg, Colorado:

THE RAIL CHAIN'S FINAL LINK

PACIFIC ATLANTIC

A CONTINUOUS CHAIN OF RAILS FROM ATLANTIC TO PACIFIC - A LONG VISION OF PIONEER RAILROADERS AND FRONTIER FARMERS - BECAME REALITY AT 3:00 P.M. ON AUGUST 15, 1870. AT A POINT 3,812 FT. EAST OF THE DEPOT IN WHAT NOW IS STRASBURG, COLORADO. NEAR COMANCHE CROSSING, NAMED FOR A USUALLY DRY, SOMETIMES RAMPAGING CREEK, THE LAST RAILS WERE SPIKED BY KANSAS PACIFIC RAILROAD CREWS DRIVING WEST FROM KANSAS AND EAST FROM DENVER TO GIVE THE NATION ITS FIRST TRULY CONTINUOUS COAST-TO-COAST RAILROAD. ON THE FINAL DAY THE CREWS LAID A RECORD-BREAKING 10 1/4 MILES OF TRACK IN 9 HOURS TO WIN A BARREL OF WHISKEY WHICH CANNY FOREMEN HAD PLACED MIDWAY IN THE FINAL GAP.

ERECTED BY THE UNION PACIFIC COMPANY IN COOPERATION WITH COMANCHE CROSSING HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

Sorting Out

As far as I know, I've never met an illegal immigrant. How would I recognize one? They come from all directions: North – Canadians; East – Europeans and Africans; South – Mexicans, Central Americans and South Americans; West – Asians, Orientals and Australians. They come in all sizes, shapes and colors: male, female, tall, short, heavy, slim, women, men, children, white, yellow, brown. I do know one thing: they are not here legally. Somehow, they violated our laws and borders to be here. I also know that some are murderers, as witnessed in the local newspapers recently. I'm also sure, as Donald Trump has said, that some are nice people. I wish the nice ones could become citizens and stay here to make a positive contribution, but nobody seems able to sort them out. Any ideas?

Being a Cowboy

“Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoof-beats of the great horse Silver. The Lone Ranger rides again!”

All the boys in our little neighborhood area of Batavia, New York, would religiously head for their parlor radio after dinner in time to listen to The Lone Ranger Show. It transported us to a time and place where we could become the hero cowboy and drive the villians and varments out of the wild, wild west. After saving the beautiful storekeeper's daughter and restoring law and order, we would ride off into the sunset on our handsome Palomino. It was difficult to come back down to earth after such nobel adventures, but reality would settle in a day or two later, after we had all told each other of our exciting imaginary deeds three or four times, each telling becoming somewhat more embellished.

Then in 1939, the cowboy gods smiled down on us. Uncle Henry, Mom's younger brother, sent a package for Fred (my brother) and me from Tucson, Arizona, that contained cowboy vests, cowboy chaps and two gun and holster sets. Shazam! I was a real, live cowboy!

Now what better thing to do than to put on our own cowboy show? What, indeed? So Fred and I invited the neighborhood to our show, at the amazingly low price of one pin. We had wanted to charge real money – one cent – but Mom said just a pin was enough; after all, we were still coming out of the Great Depression, whatever that was.

Being new to the entertainment business, we had no idea what to do, now that we had an audience, so, being the troupers we were, we improvised. Fred would do something and I would draw my gun and arrest him. Then he'd have an idea and tell me what to do, then I'd set the next scene, and on it went. Thunderous applause at the end? Well, not quite. Any applause? Well, a few polite claps.

We did continue our roles as imaginary cowboys, except that now Fred and I could put on our outfits and become the “real thing.”

Fast forward to 1949! Here I am enrolled at Oklahoma A & M College, right in the middle of the Indian Territory (school nickname: Cowboys; mascot: a cowboy named Pistol Pete). Like all my New York buddies, I rushed right out and bought flight boots, the nearest thing to cowboy boots I could afford, then asked one of my neighbors to make me an authentic lasso. Whallah! Instant cowboy!

Really? Well, close enough so that I could visit some friends on a farm in Hoyt, Oklahoma, and practice roping the young pigs. That is, until the father told me to practice on his fence posts, as roping affected the quality of the pig meat. Who knew? So I became an expert at roping fence posts – so to speak. I was even asked to mount up one of the horses and go shag a couple of cattle that hadn't come in for the night. So off went Cowboy Bob, into the dusk, to save the 1,000 head of longhorn steers from being rustled by them thar varments and villians. Except the horse knew he had a pilgrim on his back and proceeded to try to rub me off against a tree along the path. Managing to head the cayuse away from such shenanagins, he and I brought the errant herd to the barn for the night.

And so ended the career of Cowboy Bob, who went on to other adventures, but always cherishing his days ridding the Wild West of varments and villians.

Barbers and Barbershops

It may have started when that first person rid me of my golden locks, but I don’t relish going to the barbershop for a haircut.

I was ten when we moved to Rochester, New York, and my brother and I started going to Frank’s Barber Shop, which was just at the end of our street. Frank was old, in my view, but probably only in his early 60’s, a heavy smoker, but a good barber. My mother would give us a dollar for the 75 cent haircut and remind us to make sure Frank kept the change. As time went on, we noticed Frank’s hands were beginning to shake and more and more he was pulling out our hair rather than cutting it, so we moved on to Norm.

Norm had a shop a few blocks down Clinton Avenue, next to the blacksmith’s shop, where we could stand in the doorway and watch horses being shod. Norm had been a barber in the service during World War II and said he was given two minutes per recruit to strip them of their pride. It was a treat to go in on Saturday when the operas were being broadcast on the radio, because Norm would join right in with the lead tenor, or whoever he decided needed his assistance. We stayed with Norm all through High School and summers home from college, through brush cuts and “the wave” and other such styles as were in vogue.

With moves from place to place, it was a struggle to find someone who could do a good job. Prices rose, and so did my expectations. Having moved to a suburb, I found a place in a shopping mall and went there until the owner was arrested for taking bets on the horses over the phone. He never let a haircut get in the way of taking a bet, but he did a good job of cutting my hair. His younger brother worked there, and had applied to the Sheriff’s office to become a Deputy; unfortunately, his brother’s arrest ended that quest - and sent me on a new one of my own.

Over the years, I’ve visited many shops, some of which earned return visits. However, my quest has finally ended here at Westminster Village with my own personal barber, my wife Shirley. And no appointment needed!

 

                                                                

　                        

Time Changing

Back in the days before the use of logic, some well-meaning citizen thought it would be a good idea if there was another hour of sunshine when people got out of work in the winter. So he presented the idea to his Congressman, who immediately thought that everyone should adjust their clocks twice each year in order to gain the extra hour. Dimwit that he was, a requirement for being a Congressman, he never thought of the alternative of allowing everyone to simply start work an hour earlier in the morning, and leaving work an hour earlier in the afternoon. And so a law was passed that required clocks to be adjusted in all states, unless the Legislature of any state voted to opt out, which the Arizona Legislature promptly did; the Indiana Legislature allowed some areas of Indiana to opt out as well. So here we are some years later when the world has made great advances in the application of logic, when one newly-elected legislator in Arizona announced that he would introduce a law requiring Arizona to conform to that ancient edict. Imagine his surprise when he received an avalance of comments opposing his idea, so he promptly back-tracked. So now the question to be asked is: Should we abolish Daylight Saving Time and allow people the opportunity of changing their work hours? What say ye?