Phoenix, Arizona

Welcome back from my vacation.

Phil Gordon, the current mayor of Phoenix, is running for re-election, has embraced the illegal alien community and is siding with those who are accusing our sheriff, Joe Arpaio, who is elected by the voters of Maricopa County and who is the toughest sheriff in America, of racial profiling and blatant racism.

This from the best mayor in the world.

The supporters of illegal aliens apparently have no understanding of AMERICAN government. They went before the board of supervisors–who have no control of the sheriff as they, too, are elected officials who do not appoint the sheriff–and tried to get the board to chastise and discipline Sheriff Arpaio.

When they were told the board doesn’t have the authority to do anything, rather than admitting they were off base, the illegal alien supporters began to say that the board was obviously subservient to the Sheriff. If only that were true.

Shows what that mob knows.

Of course, ole Phil boy embraced the illegal alien supporters–never mind that illegal aliens are killing his police officers ever few months. Ole Phil is their boy.

It’s amazing that some could think that Phil is the best mayor in the world.

He’s not even the best mayor in Phoenix.

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One of the members of the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, who I am not going to name because I’m going to hold her up to ridicule, was once shot in the buttocks during a board meeting. She once was apparently barely re-elected, some feel, because of her vote on our publicly funded-stadium where our Arizona Cardinals play football.

# # #

So the illegal alien supporters are rooting for Phil. You’d think he’d be embarrassed about that, but apparently he’s not.

# # #

Naturally, I support Sheriff Joe.

I’m embarrassed by Phil Gordon.

 

With so many around the world telling us that the citizens of the world hate America, I want to put that into prospective.

I love America.

To me, that’s what counts. If it counts to you, I want to stand beside you.

Most who read this blog count among their families people to journeyed to the shores of this continent, often at great risk, expense, personal pain and sacrifice. Often those who began the journey with them did not finish with them. We’ll never know how many were buried at sea whose hoped was to come here to start a better life.

And the way across the continent is marked with marked and unmarked graves.

Then, somewhere along the way, things went bad when very bad human beings–both White and Black–began to trade human beings into slavery, mostly, in those days, on the African continent. And yes, there were American Indian slaveholders.

In the midst of all of this, most of your families met my families.

We were here first. We tried, very hard, to stop you, and, in many cases, wipe you out.

We weren’t successful.

Now, many American Indians–some insist they are Native Americans–harbor anger and grudges against those they say don’t belong here. Many children and descendants of slaves are bitter, too.

But this is where I stand.

In the darkest hours that have faced our nation, people of all ethnic have banded to together to fight our enemies. They have spilled their blood and given their lives to protect America and Americans. And perhaps we did some of those things in wrong ways–segregating American troops during World War II, for example.

But we are freer and stronger because those segregated troops and servicemen and women stood their ground and piloted their airplanes into the face of the enemy and thoroughly beat them.

So, this July 4th, when many are fighting our best efforts to make our country the very best they can be–some of those our own citizens, I will probably still shed a tear when I hear the flute trio in Stars and Stripes Forever and The Stars and Stripes forever and other patriotic music, and see the fireworks shows, because those things remind me what a great nation we have and what a great people we are.

I guess my wife reminded me of what it means to stand together and forgive past grievances.

I was watching the movie Gladiator the other day. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll remember that in the opening sequences, the great Roman army led by General Maximus–played by Russell Crowe–took on the last of the defenders of Germania.

In that battle, the warriors of Germania took on a technologically- and numerically-superior army.

I realized something at that moment, something I hadn’t known the first time I saw the movie. Those particular warriors of Germania would have been the ancestors of my wife and my children.

My wife’s family came from the poor people of Germania’s forest regions whose trade was to make coal to sell to other communities and consumers.

“Those are your people,” I said to her, ever the smart-mouth of the family. “What are you going to do about it?”

I envisioned my brave wife one day marching up to Russell Crowe and kicking him in the nuggies in revenge.

“What can I do?” she asked. “That was a long time ago. It’s only a movie, and I can’t help the history.”

I present that challenge to America. We can’t help the history. I propose, then, that we stand together and continue to work to make our nation better and return to greatness, hanging on to the principles and characteristics that created the United States of America.

So enough with rubbing our hands in worry that they over there and some of them over here don’t like us. Let’s take back the Fourth of July from Bill Pullman in that movie and return to the reality that We, together, are Americans.

That we are Americans.

That we are Americans.

. . . my kids’ mother.

Now I’ve used the phrase my kids’ mother in the best meaning. I once knew a lady who referred to her late husband as the kids’ dad because she was still bitter about the way he treated her.

On the other hand, I use the phrase my kids’ mother because my wife has established a standard of being a wife and mother that I don’t see many mothers meeting very much anymore.

My wife, Barbara, married me and then she began to raise our family. Without fanfare. She didn’t run out and adopt children like Angelina Jolie to the celebration of the press.

She didn’t make excuses for her children as some mothers do when they got into trouble. Mothers who go to great lengths to explain the trashy behavior of their behavior–such as when their children go into rehab by age 21–as their offspring finding their own way, or them acting in freedom.

Huh. If our kids got into trouble, their exercise of freedom included getting a paddling across their bottoms or grounding or being stood in the corner or all three. And woe be the social worker who tried to come and take the children because she spanked them. The social worker likely would have one of two choice in that matter: life or death.

But when our kids weren’t in trouble, she worked hard on their behalf. She stayed at home so our children wouldn’t have to come home to an empty house after school. She worked hard to stretch our budget so that each of them had the clothes, shoes and school supplies they needed to attend school.

She established our finances so that we could even take an occasional vacation. (One Christmas, we decided, we would go to Disneyland and have our vacation in the motel room before going to Disneyland. Well, the day before Christmas, we ate lunch at a nice, inexpensive restaurant, then went to the beach. Now I admit that mostly the Beach Boys weren’t singing about the California sun and sand at Christmas time. And our boys did what most boys do when they get to the beach. They jumped in fully clothed. To this day, they insist that the Pacific Ocean created a tsunami exactly where they were standing, jumped its boundaries and pulled them into the water. Barbara and I don’t believe it, of course.

Because we lived away from her family, Barbara cooked every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner except for three or four, for many, many years.

She made every Christmas special.

And we still have a special Christmas eve tradition. The first Christmas eve we were married, we needed to eat out because we would be late to family activities and likely miss dinner. The only place we could find open was a pizza place.

Every year since then, we have eaten pizza every Christmas even but one–either out, carried in or made at home. Our boys still observe the tradition if they have to be away from us at Christmas time–except one son, which I’ll tell you about later. We still observe the tradition and, Lord willing, will do so this Christmas eve again.

Then, one day, most of it was over. Our boys were old enough that, on Friday evening, Barbara would pass out money, and we’d see them again sometime Sunday morning. We would go to church Sunday morning, then they’d disappear again until that evening.

So Barbara and I were essentially free. When our two oldest boys left, our two youngest were still at home, attending high school. Barbara and I discussed the possibility of moving to Japan to teach English. We discussed it with the boys still at home.

Then, suddenly, we had to make a decision in one weekend. Our two youngest children came to live with us and, boom, we were back to 6:30 baths and 7pm bedtimes and buying toys and clothes for children.

So our children range in age from 45 to 23. And when our youngest boy turned 18, he joined the Marines, spending two tours in and around Ramadi.

That’s tough on a Mom. You worry every time a strange car drives down you street, or a strange car is parked on your street when you come home. Because the Department of Defense comes to your home to tell you personally that the boy, or girl, you’ve loved and raised won’t to coming home to your house anymore.

But we supported our Son while he served his country–making every parents’ day and activity at Camp Pendleton that would include us. And twice, we had the happy experience of our Son coming home safe from Iraq.

He is now in paramedic training and is considering joining the fire department.

One son is becoming a recognized Biblical and apologetics scholar even before working on a doctoral degree.

One is partner in an upcoming pest control business. One has his own pedicab business and is considering become a bronze sculpture. Another is working on his degree in business.

And our baby is living in Iowa.

Our daughters-in-law have added to our family because of themselves and the fact that they’ve added or are adding eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren to our family photos.
All of this because Mom Barbara has loved, cared for and fed our family for these years.

So Happy Father’s Day, Barbara. Happy Father’s Day.

. . . nothing to me. Boring and commercialized beyond belief. The fact that our own Phoenix Suns have been eliminated because they couldn’t play defense . . . .

Well, they all should have learned from the Phoenix Indian School Braves.

At the property that is now Indian School Steele Park, northeast of the intersection of east Indian School Road and north Central Avenue, was the Phoenix Indian School.

Now I know the name of the park is the Steele Indian School Park, but to those of us who were once part of the Phoenix Indian School, it is, we think, Stolen Indian School Park–but that’s a whole different story.

The property of the Phoenix Indian School was once much larger than the 75 acres sold off by the federal government–another promise broken to Indian people, of course–to private commercial interests with the proviso that they remand a certain portion of the land sale for a public park.

But this is about the Phoenix Indian School Braves, and not politics.

(Now, for those who are recoiling in horror that I use here the name Braves because the name is not now politically correct, I dee-double dare you to walk up to an old graduate of the Indian School and tell them that the name Braves is, these days, an impolite pejorative, and should not be a part of the contemporary vocabulary. I suspect you will come away, at least, with a moderate-to-devastating bawling out, or, at the most, a punch in the nose.)

Because the Braves were our team. Oh, now I know I didn’t attend the school. But Dad was an employee of the school, at various times, the head basketball coach, sponsor of the Indian Club and teacher, and most recently, the librarian.

But I was a campus brat, the child of Indian School employees who lived on campus. We participated at the periphery of student life and smack-dab in the middle of faculty and staff life.

We–the students, the faculty, staff and brats–were the supporters, athletic (You’ve heard the joke) and otherwise of the teams. Our teams.

Now our football team after the 1930’s and 40’s weren’t so much to brag about. Before then, we were a power to be reckoned with. We played much teams from much bigger schools including the Phoenix Union Coyotes, the Tempe Normal Bulldogs (which later became Arizona State College at Tempe, and still later, Arizona State Univerity–of VOTE YES ON 200 fame.)

Our Braves–once also called the Redskins–regularly beat these teams. One story told by the late M.R. “Bill”Hagerty, history teacher at Phoenix’ North High, was that, one year in the Thanksgiving game, the Phoenix Union team was sweeping the end, the ball being carried by a large boy who later became a judge in our state. One of our boys, whose name is now unremembered, was throwing aside PU–their choice of designations, now ours–blockers and interference men, until he came to the ball carrier. Our lineman reached over and picked up the ball carrier and simply stood there with him, holding him like the back was a baby, until one of the officials decided to end the play.

“Do you remember that, Your Honor?” Mr. Hagerty asked.

“How could you forget?” the judge, smiling, said.

But, then the Arizona Interscholastic Association came up with a plan and a deadly device that affected all Arizona high schools, but probably the Indian school more than the others.

This dirty little device was called the birth certificate.

It may have been okay with the Lord for 20 and 30 -year-old guys to play high school football, but apparently not with the AIA.

So, afterward, our football teams were regularly beaten by other schools, but not our basketball teams.

Ah, yes. Our basketball teams.

They were the run-and-shoot Braves decades before the NBA caught the concept.

Our game would have made ol’ Hank Iba and Coach Wooden run screaming in terror into the night.

The names of the run ‘n’ shooters are legendary among Indian School old timers: Chico and Edison Johnson and Arnold Bilagody and Roy Calnimptewa and . . . and Joel Querta . . . and . . . and . . . so many others.

Especially in the years of Coach Joe–Joe Famulette. Our tactics were simple: Run and shoot the ball, steal and shoot the ball, run and shoot the ball, steal and shoot the ball. Our strategy was similar: Run and shoot the ball, steal and shoot the ball. Call a quick time out, run back on the floor before the other team. Run and shoot the ball.

Get the idea?

In these days of so-called power players, our guys could’ve run Kobe Bryant and his expensive shoes into the floor. He would have to call a lot shoestring-tying time outs. And maybe our Phoenix Suns would beat them soundly, but the Braves would have had their fun. Our Dan Majerle would be able to keep up with them, but I have to wonder about the rest of them.

In the days before they built the new gym, attending a Phoenix Indian School home game could a dangerous but always an exhilarating experience. The gym was an old WPA project, put together from concrete, block and mortar and cold water in the showers. The seats were painted planks set atop about 12 tiers of concrete set around the interior of the gym. After World War II, the gym was painted the same battleship gray of the fleet, leading to speculation that the school got a special deal on the surplus after the Navy finished painting the Missouri and the Hornet and the Midway.

A former sports writer for our local rag, Jim Dobkins, once noted the floor was so small, and the space so tiny between the court lines and the first row of spectators, that you might accidentally find yourself in the game if things got wild.

Well, there are those who I am certain believe I speak in hyperbole.

But in my mind, when I dream, the perfect basketball game takes place in a battleship gray gymnasium where the roar of the crowd bounces off block walls and steel rafters and the Braves are the good guys.

At Memorial Day time, I think of Peter Hell.

I met him while I was in college. During the summers, I worked for a diaper delivery company doing routes for guys who were on vacation, plus other responsibilities.

Being a college student with a wife and two sons to support, I often didn’t have any extra money to work with me to buy something cold to drink during the day. That was a tough thing when it was often 110-112 durings by noon.

On day, I was on a run out by Luke Air Force base located about 24 miles from downtown Phoenix. I had a couple of stops in base housing.

At one of the stops, a tall-impressive man answered the door. I told him I was delivering clean diapers and picking the soiled ones.

He asked to come in while he got them from the bathroom.

“Would you like something cold to drink,” he asked in excellent English, flecked with a German accent.

Well, let’s see, it was about 116-degrees in my truck.

“Really be nice,” I said. He shifted direction toward the kitchen. “I’m just making myself a sandwich,” he called from behind the refrigerator door. “Would you like one.”

In a few minutes, he returned with two bottles of Coke and two sandwiches and potato chips.

We sat in the living room and ate and talked.

He introduced himself as Peter Hell, and told me he was a pilot of the West German Air Force taking advanced fighter training. I introduced myself and told him I was a college student, and a member of the Kiowa Tribe of Oklahoma and my father was a member of the Creek Tribe. (Now they insist we are Muscogee Creeks. I don’t buy it. Creek was good enough for my Dad.)

That grabbed his interest Germans apparently have a great interest in American Indian people. (Remember, no politically correct labels here.) I have heard the largest American Indian museum in the world is in Mannheim.

We talked for a while as I took my lunch break, then I had to go.

The next week, Captain Hell invited me for lunch again, and we visited some more.

Captain Hell–my friend Peter–was a very nice man with a sharp mind and an excellent representative of his country and his Air Force, and a friend of America. A man I admired.

So I was sad to read a few years later that Captain Peter Hell was killed in Germany when his jet crashed.

So every Memorial Day, I think of Peter Hell.

A man I was proud to know.

And this Memorial Day, I hope you’ll think of him too.

They say that Casey Stengel, my all-time favorite manager of the New York Yankees–Yeah, Joe Torre was slimed by the Steinbrenners!–used to tell his ballplayers who did something well, “You done splendid.”

I’m not Casey Stengel, but I want to tell you about Robbie, who did something really special.

Robbie is not his real name–I don’t remember his real name–but the name fits because Robbie is a great All American name, and Robbie was a pure example of the All American average boy.

He was average because he was below average in being able to play baseball with great skill and ability. He was above average in his willingness to be a good kid and to try hard even though he often didn’t succeed doing something great.

But one summer . . . . Well, judge for yourself.

I first met Robbie on the first day of early spring baseball practice. I was coaching a team of teenage boys–I was then in my early 20’s–in a fairly tough league.

Our team was fortunate. We inherited the starting infield and two starters from the local metro Phoenix high school freshman baseball team. So, as far as I was concerned, all we had to do was figure out the outfield.

We started out with 17 boys, the eight really good kids, eight average kids–and Robbie.

On the first day of practice, Robbie got there a half-hour early and went went out to run four laps around the high school track. It took him nearly the whole half-hour until practice, until I actually called them in to begin practice.

My coaching philosophy was simple. I coached the way I had always been coached. Teach and develop the fundamentals of the game. So we started out with some simple loosening exercises–Robbie looked awkward, but he tried.

That first day was exhilarating. Infield practice was sharp, Luis played first like a combination ballerina, taking high throws with grace, and a bulldozer, taking into-the-dirt skips with polished skill.

We had a couple promising outfielders, too, taking high flies–I could hit fly balls into the stratosphere.

Batting practice went well. I did have to tell Jerry to plant his foot and not turn from the pitch.

But that day was also discouraging.

Robbie could do none of these things. He couldn’t hit, couldn’t field and, he was afraid of the ball.  And he was many times worse than Jerry about turning away from the pitch.

Every practice and every game–I resolved that every boy would get to play in every game–I would coach, encourage, then threaten and cajole Robbie:

“Robbie! Plant that back foot and keep your eye on the pitch.”

“Robbie! Drop down on that grounder.”

“Robbie! If an outfield has to look up at the the ball, it’s already over your head. You have to turn toward the ball and go after it.”

“Robbie! Plant that back foot and keep your eye on the pitch.”

“Robbie! Remember that, if you have to look up at the ball, it’s already behind you!”

I drilled hard with Robbie and a couple of the other boys. We would often stay for a half-hour or forty-five minutes after the other boys left. I would work with Robbie especially, working on his batting stance. I kept the other couple of boys so Robbie wouldn’t feel I was picking on him. The two other kids knew what was going on, so they were cooperative, both good kids also.

Robbie slowly began to learn a little, but teaching him some of the finer points were difficult. A hook slide was just beyond him.  And it took a long time to teach him to dive back to the bag head first rather than feet first, if someone was trying to pick him

As the season progress, we played well enough to end up second in an eight-team league, but with the season tournament approaching, we began to experience the bane of all summer baseball coaches–families began to leave on vacation.

We had trouble winning with Robbie playing more and more to fill in for more skilled players. But there was no one with a better attitude or wanting to win more than Robbie. But to that day, Robbie had never caught a fly ball for an out against the other teams, and he had never gotten a hit.

By the time the second game of the tournament, we were down to exactly nine guys.

On that day, Robbie showed up early as he always did to help me carry the equipment from my car to the field. He arranged the bats, then he went out to run around the bases a few times to loosen up. (Rules of game days were no swimming, no excessive exercise, and no heavy meal right before the game. But the laps around the bases were fine.)

When we began the game, Robbie started where he always played–right field.

In the last inning, we were down by one run. I think we were all a little resigned to a loss, because Robbie was up with two outs and a runner on second.

My coaching philosophy was simple: always let the players do as much as they can for themselves.

Chad, our catcher who could throw the ball to the basemen with the speed of a bazooka rocket–I guess today we’d call it a rocket-propelled grenade–was coaching on third. I could tell that when Robbie came up, Chad was discouraged, though he continued to chatter, trying to keep up our courage.

In those days, baseball was a game of pep and effort. Baseball has become a silent game with whistles from the outfield, poor substitutes for good old-fashion chattering and encouragement.

What do you say to a poor player at a moment like this?

“Just try your best“?

“It’s okay, Robbie. Take your cuts“?

I didn’t know.

Robbie went up to the plate, swinging the bat. There was something a little different in his stride, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

Because the other team was facing the same dilemma that we all were–players swimming on the beach at San Diego or hiking in the Rockies or enjoying summer camp–they saved two innings for their best pitcher. (The rule was that a pitcher could only pitch 10 innings a week, so they had take him out early in the last game because they had been ahead. Another pitcher had come into their game, which they had won. Their ace was down to his last two innings for the week.)

Their pitcher worked a one-one count on Robbie. Then Robbie backed out of the box and looked at me. He had already taken the sign–hit away–from Chad. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I could tell he was scared–terrified. I gave him the hit away sign again, then, because of the look on his face, I started to call time.

But he turned back to look at the pitcher. He reached down, got some dirt on his hands, adjusted his helmet and stepped back in.

The pitcher was apparently confident he was going to strike Robbie out so, even with our man on second, he went into a full wind up. I looked at Robbie’s stance. It was different. His back foot was planted and his bat was set. It couldn’t see the look on his face, but his shoulders were square.

The pitcher delivered, and Robbie stepped forward. He took the pitch right over the plate.

There was that distinct crack of a wooden bat when it has smacked the ball just right.

The ball began to climb and our runner took off, as he should have.

I knew the ball was still climbing, so I looked at their centerfielder.

He was looking up at the ball.

Without hesitating, he turned to chase ball. We knew he had a strong arm.

Robbie was heading toward second, touched the bag, and turned for third. Chad was screaming and yelling, going hysterical.

Their centerfielder had already played the ball on one bounce, had turned and fired a rifle-shot throw to their second baseman acting as relay man.

I could tell by Chad’s body language that he was getting ready to hold up Robbie at third to try to give us a chance to win because Luis, our lead-off hitter would bat next.

Then Chad shifted his feet and began to scream at Robbie to go for the plate.

“Go! Go! Go!” Everyone was yelling at him. We on the bench all stood and began to scream and shout at him.

Their second baseman turned and fired, a perfect throw towards the plate. Their catcher went down to block the plate from Robbie. We all knew Robbie was done for.

Then Robbie threw his left foot to the right, did a perfect fade-away slide and reached back for the plate, slapping it was his hand just before their catcher tagged him.

The umpire threw out his hands, making that famous sweeping motion.

“Safe!”

I don’t even know how to spell pandemonium, but it broke out. Everyone on our team, parents and everyone ran toward the plate, screaming and calling his name. Guys began to dogpile him. Chad got to the dogpile, began to pull guys off of him and snatched him to his feet. He grabbed Robbie in a bear hug and began to jump up a down.

Parents, guys and everyone began to slap him on the back.

Robbie was beaming. It took fifteen minutes for things to finally quieten down and get back to normal.

Finally, the crowd broke up and everyone began to head toward a local drive-in to celebrate.

Robbie stayed late, helped me bag up the equipment and take it to the car.

“Robbie, you did great, Son,” said.

He smiled. “Thanks, Coach,” he said.

We talked a few more minutes, then he left on his bike for the drive-in.

“See you there,” he said.

* * * *

I wish I could tell you that our team went on to win the tournament, and that Robbie got a scholarship eventually to play college baseball, and that some of the guys in the team eventually went on to play in the majors.

The truth is,  we were eliminated the next game, and I lost track of all those guys, because the next year I started college again. My schedule didn’t allow me to coach, and, during the summers, I was far too busy trying to put food on our table for me to go and watch our team play.

I’ve heard that we lost one of them in the Vietnam War, but I don’t know. I’ve heard that one of them began a successful business. But the truth is, I don’t really know.

What I do know is that I wish them all well, and I hope they have all had successful lives.

As for Robbie, I remember him well.

Because he taught me so much that summer about what it is to never quit, and to always try.

Thanks, Son. You done splendid.

. . . have just won their first game in the post-season. They–we –are down in the first round of the playoffs three-to-one. The Suns always have a tough time against San Antonio.

So, we will just have to see how they do for the rest.

# # #

Well,there were lights, and they were over Phoenix. So were they the Phoenix Lights Part Two?

When they appeared a week ago over Phoenix, the UFO communities here were excited and convinced the space dudes were back. (Remember, the word dude in Phoenix has meant a visitor.) Right away, they were convinced that the lights were UFO’s.

Well, no, they weren’t dudes.

A man spotted his neighbor launching red road flares lifted by gas-filled balloons. A law enforcement helicopter pilot reported that’s what they were, and no one is in doubt–except probably the types who troll the Beyond Top Secret website. They, of course, believe that all governments cover up all things.

# # #

I will be writing about the Suns against after Tuesday’s game. I believe I’ll be writing about another Sun’s victory.

 

The lights

Imagine, if you will, the first paragraph being recited in the voice of Pepe Le Pew.

“Ze ma-your of Phoeeenix recently read his State of Ze City address. M’sieur Pheel Gordon said everything was wonderful except for the Sheriff of Maricopa County. Ze Sheriff has 40,000 warrants that he has not served in order to harrass the illegal aliens on the streets of ze city.”

That’s right. Phil Gordon actually said that. Well, that was the gist of what he said. He didn’t call the illegal aliens illegal aliens. He tries very hard not to do that.

Every day the citizens of Phoenix are exposed, under Phil Gordon’s auspices and the apparent blessings of the local fishwrapper, to illegal aliens driving around our city and crashing into legal citizens, of illegal aliens shooting our police officers, of illegal aliens committing crimes then being exported, then returning to Phoenix to commit other crimes. All of this is apparently okay with ole Phil.

Under Phil Gordon’s administration, the illegal alien problem has become a Warner Brothers cartoon.

It is only efforts of the City of Phoenix police and the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office along with the first responders of the emergency departments of the City of Phoenix and surrounding cities that are keeping the citizens of Phoenix safe.

And Phoenix is a relatively safe city.

And it’s no thanks to Mayor Phil Gordon.

Whatever you want to call the creatures that roam the forested and swampy areas of our country–I’ll let the foreigners talk about their large, smelly, hairy creatures–Bigfoot, Sasquatch, skunk ape or other, they are indeed a mystery.

The only large, hairy creature encounter in Phoenix I’ve ever heard of happened to a fellow employee of mine–within 30 yards of where I was working at the time.

Where I was working at the time, was in the dormitories of the now-defunct Phoenix Indian School. The Indian school, which was started by the federal government to educate Indian children (remember, there is no political correctness in these blogs) in 1889, and functioned for awhile on the Fort McDowell Indian reservation–now a successful Indian community northeast of Phoenix. Then it was moved to Phoenix and funded by citizens of Phoenix to find the best qualities of the “sterling Red Man.” It functioned as a boarding school, with classes in the liberal arts and manual trades for it’s first decades, finally settling into regular high school curriculum. Incidentally, the Indian School eventually sold property to the Phoenix Union High School District on the north side of the campus. At one time, four high schools functioned within the same square miles, and they snuggled up close, perhaps the only place in the United States with four high schools so close to one another.

The Phoenix Indian School, the original high school, was located on the northeast corner of the intersection of Indian School Road and Central Avenue, currently property occupied by the City of Phoenix’ Steele Indian School Park and Steele property. North of the Indian School, the Phoenix Union High School District built Central High, the Phoenix high school I attended. North of Central, across the canal, was Brophy High School and Xavier High school, respective boys’ and girl’s school operated by the Catholic Church. (Remember the canal.)

My Dad was the librarian and teacher at the Phoenix Indian School.

While in college, I worked my way through school working in the dormitories at night at the Indian School. It was an amicable arrangement: I gave up all my sleep for five years, made about $1.11 cents and hour, didn’t see my family very much and spent a lot of time trying to keep Indian teenage boys corralled–a job that’s very akin to herding cats–40 hours a week between 10 p.m. and 6:30 a.m. The government called me a night attendant, and the boys called me a lot of other things.

One morning, at 2:30 a.m., a dormitory night attendant from the across the lawn came running into my building, shaking and frightened. He was a portly man, a man of religious upbringing and worried about drinking too much Pepsi Cola, something his church said he should not do.

“Will you come help me?” he asked.

“What happened?” I asked, picking up a flashlight–the buildings had exterior and hallway and some offices lit all night.

What happened was quite a story.

My fellow employee had been making a bed check, something we were required to do four or five times in an eight hours shift, counting each sleeping boy, to be certain they were all account for.

While making his bed check, he said, he checked the rooms, then as was customary, checked the large, common restroom, one student restroom being located in each wing of the building. He said there were no boys in the restroom, but he heard something at the window. Now, boys being boys, and government being the government, the boys spent much of their spare time trying to undo the security provisions of the government. The buildings were all-weather buildings. This meant that the government had spent money being certain the windows were secured and couldn’t be opened.

Naturally, the boys got them open.

So the window was open.

“I heard something at the window,” my fellow employee said, “and I looked up. There was some big and hairy bent over and looking into the window. He saw me. We made eye contact. I flashed my light at him, and it [he said it, and not he or she], turned and ran.”

“It was running, chomping in the river rock, and when it got to the pavement, sparks began to strike from it’s feet.”

I digested the information as we got to the dormitory, then down the hall, then into the hallway wing with the restroom. We pushed through the door, he behind me, and I looked at the still-open window.

Of course, there was nothing there.

We went outside, though he scared. I don’t know what I was.

There were no footprints, as the first place he said the thing–to use his words–ran was a parking area, a bed of three inch river rock that did not even yield tire prints.

“Tell me again what you saw,” I said, avoiding the words, “Tell me what it looked like.”

“It was big,” he said, “and it was bending down looking into the window. It had a face that looked very human, was very hairy and his feet hard enough to strike sparks when it hit the blacktop, off toward the canal.”

Hmmm, I thought, let’s see what we have here: 1. Big; 2. hairy; 3. human-like face; 4, hard, sparking feet.

“What do you want to do,” I asked, hoping he would not say, “Let’s call the police.”

Our options. Call the police. Call the supervisor, who was at home with his family, fast asleep. Write a report.

We did the only logical thing. We kept our mouth shut, because the conversations above our pay grade would have had the words “We’re paying these guys to watch over 120 boys a night?” somewhere in them.

So we said nothing.

But wait.

As things happen, I mentioned the incident to a fellow night attendant who would be duty the next night and didn’t know anything had happened. I didn’t want my friends walking into the grasp of the big guy.

I expected my friend to burst into uncontrollable laughter or, at the very least, spend the rest of our time working together with a constant smirk as we spoke.

Then he told me a story. My friend lived on the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian community reservation, a federally set-aside reservation east of Scottsdale.

He told me of the Salt River creature. He said that residents had reported a large, hairy creature that sometimes was seen on the reservation ,apparently, he said, trying to remain unnoticed. How does a six- or seven-foot creature remain unnoticed?

He said he thought he had encountered it one night. He lived in the Lehi area of the reservation, and when he looked out his front door at night, he could see the lights of Mesa. He said, after dinner one night, he was looking from his front door. It took him a few minutes to realize that part of the Mesa lights were obscured by something with a distinct shape. It was big.

His heart thumping a little, he made a slow turn, got his shotgun off the wall and picked up a strong beam flashlight. He went back to door, and sure enough, what ever it was blocking the lights, was still there.

What do you to say to challenge a bigfoot-type creature? Who goes there? Advance and be recognized? Hey, do you want a ham sandwich?

In slow motion movements, he raised his shotgun and, then, he snapped on the flashlight.

He he did, he heard the creature snort. Nope. It wasn’t bigfoot. It was a horse facing the other way. If you get the drift, my friend was thoroughly prepared to shoot a horse in the–well, you know.

But his own experience did not cause him to snicker at my story.

For years, I’ve thought about the incident. I saw nothing, and I have no idea what my fellow employee saw.

But here is the only consistent fact I can put to the entire story. The canal I’ve mentioned twice runs from the southeast and runs somewhat close to the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community.

Did whatever the Salt River creature is, somehow wander downstream along the canal–it has roadways along a great portion of the irrigation waterway–and suddenly decide he saw a building all lit up and wanted to see what was inside?

It is the only possible explanation I can come up with after all these years, and that’s only if the creature in fact exists.

Well, that’s the story of the Phoenix Indian School creature, largely unknown but to three or four of us who worked nights at the Indian school.

I visit the grounds that the school was once located on, and I walk to the approximate spot where those dormitories stood. There is nothing to suggest the creature once might have visited us.

# # #

The Phoenix Indian School has a number of strange stories associated with it.

One day, I’ll tell you about the ghosts of P.I. P.I. standing for what the students used to call the Phoenix Indian School.

He can barely keep it together.

Well, what he really said–I’m paraphrasing– was, “We kept it together, barely.”

Former state legislator and present loudmouth Alfred Gutierrez was talking about his efforts to accuse America’s Sheriff, Joe Arpaio, of racial profiling because Sheriff Joe has been sending in Maricopa County Sheriff’s Deputies into hot spots where illegal Mexicans have been gathering, trying to get casual labor jobs.

The business owners have requested Sheriff Joe’s help in clearing the areas because potential customers have been avoiding the area. Each person avoiding the area has his or her own reason, but the subsequence is the same. Fewer customers.

Now Alfred Gutierrez and Krysten Sinema, a Democrat legislator from Arizona District 15, don’t see the situation as Sheriff Joe responding to requests from citizens for help. They see it as Sheriff Joe taking his Maricopa Sheriff Deputies storm troopers into the area and seeking out illegal Mexican aliens and arresting them.

Lately, the illegals have been fighting back, gathering as many as they can illegals and others to install mob rule to try to intimidate the Sheriff’s Department.

And this past week, according to Gutierrez, he and apparently Sinema have been able, barely, to keep their job under control. And good ole Alfie isn’t promising that he and his other mob controllers–are they mob bosses?– are going to be able to keep the thugs and their supporters contained.

So here’s the picture: Alfie and the others have charged mightly into the fray, pleading, reasoning and requesting that the mob members NOT lose control and go nuts, as they might do in Los Angeles. And–whew–he and presumably Sinema et all were able, just barely, this time, to keep those threatening the Sheriff, his deputies and the store owners in check.

Does anyone note a lack of commitment, despite words, to continue to try in the future?

And the Sheriff?

No, he did not run screaming and crying into the night, promising never to try to enforce the law again in his life.

He has promised he will continue to keep the law despite the best efforts of Alfie, the local fishwrapper, Sinema and others to keep him from doing so.

Now, the sharp readers of this blog may wonder where the City of Phoenix and our mayor, Phil Gordon, are in all of this. The area under question IS after all within the city limits of Phoenix.

The mayor appears to be doing his dead level best not to incur the wrath of the supporters of illegal aliens.

Now lest–do you hear sarcasm coming?–I appear to be so one-sided as to not cite what Mayor Phil and his city cronies are doing to contain the problems created by illegal aliens, let me point out that that the mayor charged, in HIZ own way into the fray and called a meeting. And then he wouldn’t answer the phone or e-mails from citizens wondering what in the world he was doing about the problem of illegal immigration in Phoenix.

So into that vacuum of a perserved lack of leadership in the matter emerged Alfie and Kysten Sinema. B-a-r-e-l-y able to provide his own brand of leadership by not promising to keep the mobs of illegal aliens civil and law-abiding, he has promised . . . nothing of substance that I can see.

I don’t want to give the impression that we have bands of roving thugs in the streets of our city, threatening all the citizens and visitors of Phoenix. Alfie and his folks largely congregate in one well-defined area, so far.

And our city police force is carrying on despite the lack of mayor leadership in this matter. Police officers I have spoken with and who obviously I will not identify have said how frustrated they are by Mayor Phil’s lack of action. In the movie of life, they and the Sheriff’s deputies are the brave liberators sent in to subdue Jack D. Ripper, commanding officer of Burpleson Air Force Base.

Trouble is, it’s difficult for me to determine who is playing Ripper. But it’s definitely NOT the Sheriff or the police.