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.

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.

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!

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.

Team Brasa

By Michael Brewer

On three occasions I have sat to pen my memories of  30 years in the sport of soccer. Just this evening I came to the simple conclusion that it is not possible to do in one sitting.

Were I to include the brief time I played on a youth team in Redondo Beach, Ca.. that time frame would span 46 years, with some recreational play while in the Marine Corps.

Hard to imagine, but we did slip in some beach soccer at China Beach in Vietnam  during a brief  respite from combat. We played by “Jungle Rules.” No Red Cards allowed!   We told everyone that we played for the University of  South Vietnam Varsity Soccer Team!  Some folks actually believed us! I still have those joke shirts preserved in storage.

One time while traveling with the Amigo’s  Soccer Team, I actually met a man after the match in El Paso, Texas, who was a Vietnam Veteran and remembered those pick up games on China Beach!  We were clearly a minority sport in those days. Not so much anymore.

The memories of evolving with the sport as a youth and high school coach and official in Tucson are jam packed with tons of friendships and a level of camaraderie that rivals that of the  Marine Corps.  Soccer folk have their very own “Semper Fi” and “esprit de corps” that is quite unique to the sport. It would be inappropriate to name all the families I have met over those coaching years, but let it be known, I can not imagine a better way to be involved in a community than to be entrusted with ones children for several months each year.  Twenty four years as a youth coach, with approximately 15 kids each year is 360 families!  Some of those kids, now grown with their own families are friends to this day.  Now that is nostalgia with glue! God love Facebook!

In addition, I was honored to be the AYSO Area Coach Administrator for nine years, certifying 710 coaches. Again, memories of people and fun that will be relished for life.

The hosting of the renown Ken Aston, a former FIFA honoree and World Cup Referee, was a highlight of those glory days.

The captioned picture is of our team named Brasa, that went on to play Club soccer and then remained together in the Adult Leagues. We won innumerable Tournaments over the years, including a  State Championship at the Copper Cup  in 2006. The picture is of our Championship Indoor Team in 2003.  My son and daughter are in the front row. I had the uncommon honor of knowing and coaching some of those team members since they were 9 & 10 years old!   For that, I am a man in full.

Thank you Team Brasa. And thank you Tucson soccer community for some of the best years of my life in the valley.

To be continued.

Me and my bodyguard arrive at the train depot

By Lydia Brewer

I brought my bodyguard along for an exploratory jaunt back to Tucson from Newport Beach in 1974. He’s the guy in sunglasses on alert just behind my suitcases, a six-shooter on each hip.

Pshaw, you say?

A hippie chick traveling to the Wild West of Tucson on the same rails earlier ridden by the Clantons and the Earps was well-advised to travel with security capable of crystallizing outlaw ruffians.

Headed for two weeks at the holdout of my younger brother Allan, this lady from the land of flower garlands was assured daily safety under the protection of a sibling whose childhood tactics resulted in what our father fondly referred to as Allan-ized.

The new generation was ready, willing, and able to fill the out-grown shoes of Allan-ization. An active boy, my son Christopher was held in shock and awe, often leaving a path of mayhem in his wake. My father quickly dubbed the detritus of Chris’s methods as crystallized.

Christopher clears out the bad guys

Christopher was appropriately rewarded for his unending efforts at remaking his environment as today he is Devin-ated, Blake-ized, and riled by Reilly. That rolling thunderly sound often heard in Tucson? I’m sure it’s my father’s rumbling laughter as he watches retribution in action.

Riding the rails of memories

By Michael Brewer

When my wife and I discussed our approach to this journal of nostalgia we decided we would not attempt to scribble our history in chronological order. Memories do not happen that way.  So, why push the river?

Life in Tucson for me has been infused with memories of  4th Avenue and the Old Pueblo Trolley.   All through Vietnam  I wore a leather wrist band that I bought on leave from a true craftsman on 4th,  for which the Avenue has  always been known.  I swore my lucky talisman got me home alive. If nothing else it gave me hope.

In 1983 when Old Pueblo Trolley formed and began the restoration of the  vintage street cars and the tracks, ( with all volunteer labor), the Cleveland Developer and owner of La Placita Village, with whom I was employed, made a small donation to the cause.   Our breakfast club, El Centro de Tucson with 62 vibrant downtown boosters, made the promotion of the Trolley one of our missions.

Ten years later, inside Tucson time, the operation of the Trolley became a reality.  The 20th Century enterprise was not unlike the first one in the waiting.

“When on earth is Charley Hoff’s street car going to be finished?’ asked one the University folks yesterday.

–Arizona Daily Star April 7, 1898.   So, you see not much changes in Tucson in our view of  timeliness!

“There is no excuse now why the people of Tucson can not visit the university as the famous horse street car line is now completed.  –Arizona Daily Star  May 19, 1898.

And now we are considered a vital link for commerce and development of the downtown.

Well today, 112 years later, I get the honor of being  the Conductor along the same line and the same set of tracks as our ancestors traversed.  And, as a Certified Tourism Ambassador I get to tell tales of the wild and woolly west.  There is never a Saturday evening that is not full of  laughter and joy. There is something about the Trolley that soothes the soul.  Ah… and the children, the smiles and the bliss of ringing the bell.

I wear that leather band to this day–every Saturday night, in fact, as I greet tourists and locals to the clang and the conviviality of the Old Pueblo Trolley and  relish the hope that this area once gave me.  This is hard to replicate anywhere.  Puttin’  my Conductor hat on the rack ain’t gonna be easy.

The Old Pueblo Trolley is an operating transit Museum with a very fine display of the history of transportation offered in our stand alone museum at the end of the Amtrak Station and Southern Pacific Depot.  For more information call 520-792-1802

The La Placita Angel

By Lydia Brewer

Vengeful spirits at La Placita Village have never been a problem for me. There is also at least one angel there, one who has given me many gifts, including my special Valentine.

In 1982, I was a legal secretary at Miller & Pitt, P.C., in the building across Church Street from the Placita. One warm January day, I left the office at one o’clock—my turn for the bi-monthly late lunch required of all secretaries. I crossed Church Street to grab a bite at the Brown Bag, intending to head back to my desk to while away the hour.

I was paused at the curb, watching the traffic, when an angel tapped me on the shoulder. She pushed me south past the loading dock to just beyond the patio at Samaniego House where she turned me to the right, and I soon found myself sitting by the fountains outside the Music Hall.

Two businessmen discussing sign infractions at La Placita strolled by, catching my attention as I had once been the office manager there. The one with the twinkling blue eyes and melodious voice introduced himself as Michael Brewer, manager of the plaza. After a few minutes of mutual flirtation disguised as small talk, they walked away.

Charmed by this fortuitous encounter, I threaded my way back to Miller Pitt through the Placita maze. Out a door flew a woman who asked, “Are you married? My boss says if you’re not married, I should ask you for your work number.”

Michael had been sitting on the patio at Samaniego, but cut short his lunch, telling his friend, “Come on. I need to follow that woman. I’m going to marry her.”

Our La Placita angel has been sitting atop our Christmas tree now for 28 years. I trust she will enjoy her new perch on our California tree next December.