Well of course they read books in California. I bet they dominate in the audio book category, with all that freeway spare time!

What they do not have in California is something I will dearly miss about Tucson, which is a tight network of friends and families and community-minded individuals who can organize and gather so many Tucsonans for events like this last weekend’s Festival of Books.

Californians surely have a ton of events, but not one like the Festival of Books that embodies that heart and soul of our city.  It is like one big breakfast club and high school reunion wrapped into one weekend.  There are very few places in America where a population of a million people can come together and have so many that know each other.  That aspect of Tucson is one of our most unique characteristics.

With 51 years in the valley, I have been  privileged to know folks from every walk and strain of life; doctors, bakers, and candlestick makers, and best of  all at this event, storytellers, nationally acclaimed ones to-boot!

Yesterday, as my wife and I roamed the campus, I decided to keep track of all the people I encountered whom I knew by first name. Twenty-eight exactly–28 people in four hours!  That is just darn right buffed! Where else can that occur, save the small town Tucson?

My son Ryan once said, “Now that we have gone over the million mark in population in the valley, will you still know the same 1000 people, Dad?’  “Yup, it seems that way son,” I said. “But then that is just the nature of Tucson.”

Events like the Festival of Books and the upcoming 4th Avenue Street Fair are the kind of cultural experiences that already have me dripping with nostalgia, especially for the fine folk of Tucson, Arizona.

Toga party anyone?

By Lydia Brewer

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?” Recalling first friends from my childhood on a beautiful day like today leaves me humming Mr. Rogers’ sweet song, a song yet to be written back in 1957 when my parents transplanted me from the rolling, green hills of Pennsylvania to the blue-skied Desert Southwest. We moved into the last house on the last street on the southeast corner of Mission Manor near my father’s work at Hamilton Aircraft. Across the street was acre upon acre of mesquite bushes, right up to the fence that marked the edge of the Reservation, the San Xavier Mission easily seen from our house—the lovely white Dove of the Desert.

It was June, school was out, and possibilities for friends were limited by our location and the desert heat. My mother said what all mothers say. “Go outside to play. You won’t find new friends staying in the house.” Actually, for me, she usually tossed “get your nose out of that book” somewhere in that sentence.

Well, there were no kids in the backyard either, so I played out front, drawing pictures with sticks in the dirt. My talented mother had designed a shirt to keep me cool—a backless halter top that tied behind my neck. My very first friend came up behind me from three houses down, shocked, but curious to see this new girl brazenly standing on the sidewalk, apparently topless. I’m Facebook friends with Carol today, but despite my attempts to corrupt her, I don’t think she ever fully recovered from her first impression.

Carol had beautiful long brown straight hair that she kept pulled up into a ponytail—a striking contrast to my frizzy, dishwater-blonde locks. I loved to watch her mother (who had beautiful long gray straight hair) feed their yellow shepherd dog, Sally, food from a can. Sally was the only dog I’d ever seen fed canned dog food, and she not only ate food from a store, she also had biscuits. Imagine that! Cookies for a dog. I no doubt reinforced my feral reputation by eating a few dog biscuits myself.

Across the alley behind us lived a family with two kids. Clarice was 13, and I idolized her teenager-ness when she’d let me hang around. Her younger brother, Mike, was three years older than me, but as Clarice’s little brother, he was still a pest. About five years later, that perspective changed permanently, but that’s a tale for another time.

My next friend was Belinda, who lived on the more rural east side of 12^th Avenue. She knew a lady with donkeys we could ride for 50 cents an hour who also kept pigeons she sold for 50 cents apiece. Homing pigeons—a concept I didn’t fully understand at 8 years old. The pigeon lady explained how to clip every other wing feather so they wouldn’t escape, but either I was a poor student, or she was a poor teacher. The pigeon would fly away, and back we’d go for another 50-cent pigeon which looked remarkably like the last escapee.

Despite the absence of drifts of autumn leaves to kick through, the day after Labor Day I began the two-mile daily trek to Mission Manor Elementary where my now berry-brown self met more new friends, more new neighbors. It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood!

Keep, throw, or give away?

By Lydia Brewer

“Is this bag of stuff going to Goodwill?” my husband asked as he started out the front door.

I auto-replied, “Yes, it is,” and then immediately backtracked. “Well, no. Some does, some doesn’t. Thanks, but just leave it there for now.”

In truth, the bag was ready for Goodwill, but if I let Michael take charge of it, I will find half dozen things from the bag back in the house somewhere. It’s not a one-way issue, of course. If he filled a bag with household donations, I’d definitely go through it.

Moving always involves clearing out, re-organizing, deciding what to take and what to leave—even if you are only moving a few blocks. Moving to another state, particularly from a place you have spent nearly your entire life, is wrought with much more sentimental baggage.

About 10 years ago, my mother gave me a cookie press, the kind where you change the tip to plunge out different shapes—flowers, stars, trees, dogs, whatever. The press itself has no monetary value as there were probably millions of them manufactured. It’s no antique.  Mom was past the cookie making stage in her life, but so was I. We had no kids living at home anymore, and around that time found myself gluten-sensitive, so cookies were a no-no. I was as likely to be pressing cookies as to plant a wheat field in my back yard.

I came across the cookie press last week while sorting through drawers. What to do? I could pass it down to my daughter. She’s much more likely to use it some day, but she’s highly allergic to wheat herself. With her own children coming up over the horizon, she’ll probably find a gluten-free cookie recipe, and her gramma’s press will be back in the cookie business. But maybe not.

Deciding what to keep, what to throw, and what to give away when moving to another state is: Do I want to transport this to California? A small, lightweight cookie press is one thing; a thousand other similar items is another U-Haul.

It’s not just me that struggles with these decisions. Michael struggles too, but his assessments generally involve his stuff, and household stuff tends to fall within my purview. Once a decision is made, I don’t want to find a worn-out towel from my “going to Goodwill bag” back in the house.

The cookie press? It’s sitting on top of a disguised Goodwill bag, its fate as yet unknown.