Tempe Buttes Sunrise (Part 4 of 4—starts Feb. 14)

Yesterday on the north side of the buttes I found one other vestige of old Tempe—Double Butte Cemetery, resting place of Tempe Pioneers since 1903. It sits between the stadium and the dry river bed, in the foreground of the view from the Restaurant above. I suspect its presence may be the only reason the freeway doesn’t run right next to the base of the butte.

Today I am on the south side of the buttes, with the entrance to the stadium on my right. The sky is just beginning to light, and the moon hangs to my left. Hundreds of birds ecstatically welcome the day, singing and chattering and sailing between the low trees. I watch the buttes as the light becomes brighter and the moon turns to a piece of tattered lace behind me.

The sky is pink at the horizon with a blue band above it, that clear striation you only see in the desert. Both buttes have a matte finish; no light bounces off of them. The sun begins to climb from my right—it would have been behind Great Grandfather as he drove the road between the buttes. A train whistle cuts the air, then the train thunders past. Would he have heard that? I think the railroad came in the late 1800s, so he probably would have.

The smaller butte, on my right, has a shoulder that resists the light moving up its right side. Its left side, in shadow, looms large and dark. On my left, the larger butte begins to glow all at once. It slopes up gently to the left from the stadium, which sits squarely on the old road. A green carpet from recent rain softens the slope that supports wispy brush and cacti in its thin, light brown soil. I think the butte on the right would have kept the opening between the big rocks in shadow as long as it could in my great grandfather’s time, but eventually the soft first light would have captured it.

Within twenty minutes, sunrise is over. The sun is bright and small, creating a silver lining on scattered flat clouds. I pull down the visor of my hat. No more matte finish—the buttes, the stadium, the trees, and the long-tailed dark birds are all brightly lit.

Last night, I noticed several small caves on the north side of the buttes. Today I notice more of them near the top of the large butte on this side. My great grandfather had one “wild child,” a boy who “kept his own schedule,” as my great aunts said. I can imagine him hiding in those caves, creating havoc by throwing rocks and fighting with other boys. He later took up partying, and as an adult even ran tequila across the border during Prohibition. He would have loved the idea of a bar called “Tequila on the Rocks” up where he surely consumed his share of tequila on those rocks.

That boy was my grandfather.

Old Tempe—Only a Place of the Mind (Part 3 of 4—starts Feb. 14 )

I'm back in Tempe, with a Google map route to the road on the north side of the buttes. Clutching my map, with daylight on my side, I'm confident I'll find it this time.

Very little remains of old Tempe. ASU swallowed the barrio in the 1950s, and my great grandfather's home in the 1960s. The ancient canals, first built by native Americans 1000 years ago and re-dug to give life to the nascent agricultural town about 140 years ago, are covered by modern Tempe streets. The church where my family worshipped is now Newman Center on the ASU campus.

The Salt River was finally dammed into non-existence after a huge flood in 1980 took out a bridge and seriously hampered transportation between Phoenix and Tempe. All that remains is Rio Salado Lake at the end of Mill Street, on which my great grandfather's store once stood, but is now boutique stores and restaurants for the college crowd.

The buttes are perhaps the only things I can see that have the same location and shape as in Great Grandfather's time—ignoring, of course, that pesky stadium and hotel in the middle!

I make several 90-degree turns, follow a winding road over a freeway, and pass on-ramps for two freeways. No wonder I couldn't find this in the dark. A valet takes my car on the circle drive between the hotel, restaurants, and spa. There's not much room for a parking lot half way up two tall rocks.

I head for the "Tequila on the Rocks" bar and sit at a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Phoenix. I order a virgin pina colada and a quesadilla and watch the clouds change from pink to blue, then to gray. I see the butte become two-dimensional in the fading light and then turn to a looming dark shape, an absence of light. It probably would have been barely distinguishable from the night sky in Great-Grandfather's time. Today, it is very distinguishable—because the line of lights of the Phoenix airport runs straight into the middle of it.

I sigh happily. I have it—that indefinable sense of connection with old Tempe. I also have a comfy chair and good food. This is my kind of research!

Trying to Find Great Grandfather's Tempe (Part 2 of 4—starts Feb. 14)

I'm flying into Arizona. I'll spend one night in Tempe then I'm off to Yuma to see friends before returning to Tempe for another night.

In the late 1800s, my great grandfather and his contemporaries drove their horse carts between the twin Tempe Buttes to get to the best place to ford the Salt River. My great aunts remembered walking the road to get to a beach at the river's edge. I'm determined to see the route they took. This is made a little harder by the fact that Arizona State University (ASU) built Sun Devil Stadium on the buttes. The old timers are still mad about that.

I'm too eager to find the road to the buttes to wait until morning. I drive my rental car directly from the airport to Sun Devil Stadium, despite not having been blessed with a sense of direction and not knowing where I'm going. (Thank you, Arizona highway department, for big stadium directional signs!)

In the dark, I don’t find the road up the north (Phoenix) side of butte, but I find a back way from the south, where the stadium is situated. Natural formations don’t look natural in the eerie glow of street lights. It seems odd to drive a car to a point between two ancient buttes where, for centuries, people journeyed to the Salt River. Even odder is finding a sign that indicates the space I thought was just the size of a road is actually wide enough for a stadium, a Marriot Resort, and an upscale restaurant.

The stadium is dark and deserted, but the hotel parking lot is alive with well-dressed people laughing and talking. I’ve spent so much time imagining this spot in 1893 that it’s hard to adjust to the reality of 2008. The diners will enjoy an expensive meal and view–the same view my great-grandfather saw for free when he headed for the ford in his horse cart. Of course, there are thousands of lights and a freeway he never saw, but I’m not sure they make the view any better.

I want to see the sun rise and set on both sides of these twin buttes. I want to get a feel for the way the formations may have looked to my great grandfather. I will have to come back a few more times—once, just to find the right road—and twice again for sunset and sunrise. The buttes and this project are larger than I anticipated.

No One Told Me about My Great Grandfather (Part 1 of 4)

My Mexican-American great grandfather was a founding father of Tempe AZ, a fact no one bothered to mention to me until about 10 years ago. He was respected in both the Mexican and white communities in racially prejudiced times. He managed his dry goods store well enough to send his seven children, including the girls, to college in the early 1900s. He went to church every week, he admired and strove to emulate Abraham Lincoln, and a city park is named after him.

But beneath that staid exterior beat the heart of an adventurer. He worked underground as a gold miner to save money for his dreams. He married his best friend's 16-year-old half-sister out from under the nose of her disapproving mother. He dared to give credit to Mormons when they were shunned by other store owners.

I think someone should write his story. I suspect that since no one else even thought it was worth mentioning, that someone has to be me. I've been gathering family stories for 10 years—but everything else will take a lot of research.

Curiosity Saved the Tree

I inherited a Neantha Bella Palm tree (a 3-foot palm bush, really), from someone who was moving. "How often do I water it?" I asked. "Once a week," was the answer, "water it until water comes out the bottom."

I've never gotten water to come out the bottom. I water it, watch the dish under it for signs of moisture, and give up because I don't want to drown the poor thing. Since I'm leaving on a trip for a week and a half, however, I thought I should do it right today. I watered and waited, watered and waited--nothing happened. I emptied the quart-sized watering can into it. I tilted the pot a little and ran my finger around the bottom to see if I could feel any moisture. Not only did I not feel moisture, but I couldn't find a hole! Surprised and curious, I tilted the whole big pot over so I could see the bottom.

Bad idea. Did I mention I just poured a quart of water into the pot? A quart of water that was just waiting to run out the top onto the carpet?

As I was standing on a pile of rags soaking up the spill, I remembered the old saying about curiosity killing a cat. Curiosity caused a big mess on the my carpet, but it probably saved the tree. Other old sayings, about silver linings and ill winds, come to mind--but I will spare you. (You're welcome.)

Where Did I Leave My...?

Young Geezer gave me a book I really wanted for my birthday. It's titled, "Where Did I Leave My Glasses," and the cover photo shows the top half of a woman's head, with her glasses up on her head like a headband. It's about normal middle-aged memory loss. It seems that we Boomers don't know how much of our weird behavior is just age-appropriate, and when we should start to worry. Forgetting keys? Probably normal. Forgetting my phone number? Kind of worrisome!

I finally had time to read last night. I settled down on the couch, pulled the comforter over my lap, reached for my book--and found an empty spot on the end table. Wha-a-? I know I left it there! "Where did I leave my book?" I wondered out loud. I dragged myself to my feet, grumbling, to search the rest of the living room. Then the rest of the house. I couldn't find it anywhere. (This will come in handy at Easter, when I can hide Easter eggs from myself.)

I found it this morning, in my work bag, ready to be taken to the cafeteria at lunch time. What great planning--and how amazing that I don't remember doing that!

Gosh, I wonder if that's normal. Good thing I found the book. I can look it up and see.