I love to sing.  I really love to listen to people sing.  Listening to the melodic voices of the nuns in residence at the Benedictine Convent on Country Club is like having angels for neighbors.  This may be hard to replicate in California. Their angels are probably too busy to sing.

There is no more glorious sound than a choir of nuns singing and making melody in their hearts. There is no sound on earth more heavenly than the sound of singing saints. There is an ancient saying, “there is no such thing as a sad saint.”  Bishop Walsh, a friend of mine, who lived briefly at Regina Cleri, when I managed it, once said to me, “if you sing, why would you want to go to heaven.”

Everyone in my family sang. My mother played the huge pipe organ at our church, my grandfather was a pianist and was a professional orchestra leader. My uncle Bill sang in the Notre Dame choir. My aunt Dorothy who was educated by Benedictines used to live the dictum of the nuns at the school where she was the Principal, that “to sing, is to pray twice.”  Singing by being universal, is possibly one of the few ways of dropping all differences and entering a state of pure joy.

To dampen other peoples joy by refusing to participate in it may be one of the greatest sins of life.  Should you ever want a dose of pure joy, and be prompted to participate, visit the Benedictine Convent on Country Club and you will get a little taste of heaven. We have angels in the neighborhood.  I will so dearly miss this place of refuge and peace that I have visited for nye on 40 years.

While sitting in my clinic at the VA Hospital, awaiting a routine appointment, I became acutely attuned to the voices of the staff, voices I have known and respected for 25 years. Even though I could not see the clerk Mary Ellen, I knew her voice, and it comforted me to be amongst competent  medical providers whom I know and know me.

Then, minutes later as the staff Nurse opened the door to signal the next patient, I could hear the voice of my Doctor, David McKenzie in the hallway. This man is a saint and a savior to many vets. Again, the sound of his voice afforded more comfort….like home.  And from that moment forward for next hour I became intensely aware of all the voices of the innumerable number of staff I have come to know at the VA. This attunement  to voices remained with me the balance of the day.

How marvelous is the human voice. It is clearly an appendage of the soul. We know each other by our personality and intellect and physical features, and spend so little time listening to the melody and unique signature of  each one of our voices.  It is the voice of my wife that transports me to tranquility- especially in the shrill coarse climate of urban living. It is the voice of my friends in Tucson that have brought me 52 years of  joy and adventure. It seems that a friend never really has to identify themselves when they call as their voice has an immediate melody of recognition. I want to record all the voices of my pals and listen to their tones and tempers when I leave. So much more heartwarming than the static nature of a picture.

A voice is born near the heart. A voice is more US than virtually any other attribute. When a loved one dies, it is their voice we hear. When children speak and laugh it is their voice that is absent of deception.  I love to sit on my porch in the early morning and listen to the voices of the children at Sam Hughes Elementary School. It gives me hope to listen to the children who embody hope.

There is nothing that matches the grown up voice of a child I coached in Soccer. Even though they have reached adulthood, their voice is still similar to the one I knew when they were 10 and 11!  It is the source of the bond.

The voice and laughter of my daughter is on the horizon of our move to California. The humor and wit of my son draws me toward him. The voice of family, may be the most powerful force we know. It is the voice of love that trumps all material existence.

“His voice is as the sound of many waters” Revelation

“He ceased but left so pleasing on the ear

His voice,that listening still they seemed to hear” Homer, Odeyssey

It is the voices of Tucson that I will miss the most.

By Mike Brewer

Some guys join fraternities, some join the Elks,some just join the neighborhood tavern. Either way,fraternal behavior leads the way. And that is how I ended up as a fan of the Poco Loco tavern on the south side of Speedway just before Alvernon.

Tending bar at the “Poke” as it was affectionately known,was my first job fresh out of the Marine Corps in 1969. I actually tended bar during the day and attended the U of A at night.  The owner was a jar-head, Joe McGuire, who also owned the Poco Loco North in Flagstaff. The loyals would often head north in ski season, and return with some, well….adventuresome tales of imbibing and other ribald activity. The Catholic boy in me put a governor on those trips. Yet I did manage to tag along on the infamous Poco Loco Aquatic Club excursions for tubing down the Gila River. How we survived those days must be from the pure grace of God, as risk taking was the daily menu.

I will testify however that the social network at the Poco Loco was remarkably tight. Many of us, mature and wise old men are still pals to this day.

Thursday nights was a known commodity at the Poke as few ever missed the Dusty Chaps perform as regularly and religiously as a local pastor. I always used to quip about the attendance on Thursday’s being close to a Religious event. And since the Greek root of the word Church, just means “people,” I guess we were literally going to Church! Be assured there were many confessions too!

To this day I have never known of a neighborhood tavern that exhibited such a broad demographic base of  customers. University Professors and Fireman all gathered for the dancing and incredible Foosball Tournaments.  I do recall that us Poco Loco clanners were pretty dominant in this most aerobic of all sports.  Our primary competition was the Bay Horse, Grant Road Tavern and the Green Dolphin. Hard to imagine, but those four taverns  covered most all of the College students in those days.

One striking feature of our hobnobbing in the early 70′s at the Poke, was that a ton of us were Vietnam Veterans fresh home from the war, but not a one of us ever spoke of the Nam. We were so mute, that some of those men only recently shared with each other that they had served in Vietnam.  Now that is repression squared!

Memories of Tucson would not be complete without a nod to the glory days at the Poco Loco. And do remember our beloved University of Arizona was founded by four guys in a Tavern!