Today (March 15) I joined many others to celebrate the life of Thomas Norman Turner, a newspaper man who spent his career at The Arizona Daily Star. He was a good friend and a talented colleague.
His sons Mike and Kevin offered loving tributes as did the Star’s cartoonist David Fitzsimmons. They caught Tom’s spirit, his hearty laugh, exceptional talents for theater, writing and editing.
He was and will continue to be well-remembered.
Back in the day, The Arizona Daily Star sponsored a book and author event, and one year — 1988 or 1989 — Shirley Temple Black was one of our authors; her autobiography “Child Star” was the book. The B&A event was a big deal, difficult to assemble, manage and present. The effort was led mostly by June Caldwell Martin who spent the year before scouring the planet for writers willing to hype their books in a desert backwater. Some authors were easy to work with, others not so much; Ms Temple Black was in the latter group.
John Peck, then the Star’s managing editor, came to me to announce that Ms Black had certain requirements. She would be coming from the East on a very long flight and requested that we pay for a first-class seat in the smoking section. We did not pay air fare. But in this case we did.
She was an enormous draw. Tents were set up outside the convention center Music Hall where the event took place. People lined up to buy books and get autographs long before the 10 a.m. start time. They brought all manner of memorabilia, clothes, dolls and the like. The chain-smoking Black refused to autograph that stuff. Only the books. She gave her talk during the event and left after having sold, I’d guess, around a thousand books.
I got to spend a very little amount of time speaking with her. I was curious because I remembered that some years previous to this when Black was our nation’s delegate to the United Nations, she had attracted the attention of William Loeb. He was the prick publisher (a redundant phrase to be sure) of the Manchester (N.H.) Union-Leader, a newspaper then well-known for its conservative, if not reactionary, editorials. He wrote one concerning Ms Black under the memorable headline, “Dimples is Dumb.” In that short time talking with Ms Black I could see she was anything but dumb. That was a good for it provided additional evidence in support of my long-standing conclusion regarding newspaper publishers.
(The most engaging and charming authors I met in these events were Kitty Carlisle Hart, the actress and singer who wrote an autobiography and Richard Selzer, a surgeon, who wrote “Taking the World In for Repairs.”)
A note: Thanks to Bunny Fontana a valuable source when it comes to Tucson’s history.
The United States has been relatively free of hostile invasion by land. I can think only of two invaders: the British in 1812 and General Francisco Villa in 1916. It might seem strange that Tucson would have a monument to the Mexican invader. If you have been in this town long enough, it seems like a good fit.
It was not always so. There was a time that Tucsonans would fume over the heroic statue of Villa in the downtown Veinte de Agosto park, which is less a park and more a traffic island on Congress. But the Villa monument has endured, surviving furious critics and defacement. It is here because former Arizona Gov. Bruce Babbitt did not turn down the gift from Mexico, and Tucsonan Tom Price — a war hero —made it possible.
I called Babbitt recently and asked him about how the statue made its way to Tucson. He told me that he had a visit from journalists who wanted to know if Arizona would accept a friendship gift — a statue of Villa. Babbitt said he did not think Maricopa County would welcome such a statue, but he said he would call around and speak to people; he wondered if Pima County might accept it.
One person Babbitt consulted was Bernard “Bunny” Fontana. Bunny said he thought it was not a particularly good idea. He explained in an e-mail:
“I don’t recall the year, but when Babbitt was still governor we were both attending what for a few years was an annual fiesta held at Coronado National Memorial on the border on the south side of the Huachuca Mountains. It was there he told me about the statue that had been offered to Arizona and asked if I thought Tucson would be the proper place for it. As I remember the conversation, I told him most Tucson Mexicans had close ties to Sonora, especially considering that Tucson was a part of Sonora until 1854. I also said Villa, while popular in Chihuahua and probably elsewhere in Mexico, was roundly disliked by Sonorans because of his actions during the time he spent fighting there. The most egregious example is what he visited on the people of San Pedro de la Cueva. He executed the village priest and all the adult males, 84 people in all.”
“It’s a pretty chilling story.
“My contact with Babbitt on that occasion was very brief and informal. But I was surprised when I learned the statue was coming to town.”
Babbitt told me he got a call out of the blue from Tom Price, then the city of Tucson’s director of operations. Babbitt said Price told him that there would be no problem in bringing General Villa to Tucson. He would take care of it.
Sure enough the Julian Martinez sculpture of Villa astride a muscular horse resides downtown in what is now called the Veinte de Agosto Park where it mostly watches over the homeless. He was at ground zero during the Occupy Tucson protest. Protesters had set up a makeshift tent city in the traffic median where the statue resides.
Between 800 and 1,000 gathered for the installation and dedication of the statue. Mayor Lewis Murphy was pissed off. He boycotted the ceremony, proclaiming Villa was a bandit. Normally, Murphy would have been there because he was natural at ceremonies. He was tall, possessed a soothing baritone voice, distinguished gray hair and a George Hamilton tan. He was a hail fellow well met, a devout Republican, sort of a mayoral Warren G. Harding. He served 16 years. An overpass is named for him.
The statue is beautiful. It was created by a Mexico City sculptor, Julian Martinez. I think the horse’s neck is out of whack in terms of perspective. But Martinez seems to have had a problem with horse necks. He also made the Kino statute on Kino Boulevard where the good priest is depicted astride a horse whose neck could not slink lower and seems for all the world about to croak.
Tom Price was a Mexican-American born in Tucson and raised on the south side. He was a burly Marine who won five ribbons in Korea, including Inchon, Chosin Resevoir and the two Chinese spring offensives.
He died in February of 1988 after an eight-month battle against leukemia. He was 57. Price presided over the city’s sanitation department where his guys developed a reputation for throwing trash fast, roaring through alleys and getting it done in time for lunch.
He ran the operations department, which included not just sanitation, but also communications, fleet and street maintenance and care of public buildings. At the time he died, he was in charge of 801 employees and a $32 million budget. He was in every sense a public servant.
The Villa statue used to provoke protests. Now it just presides over them.
I don’t remember Jack Sheaffer without a cigar in his mouth, lit or unlit. He was also memorable for his speech. To Jack, “chingadero” was a pronoun, adjective and conjunction. Odd that a photographer should be so well known for his use of language.
Once a year he put on pink tights and a tutu and did a dance for patrons of the annual press club gridiron show. Jack was in line with several men in pink tights and tutus. I remember instructions from the show’s director Marge Hilts was “grab your balls.” And then I think it was pirouette. It brought the house down.
His everyday costume was a suit. I have no idea where it came from, but it always looked like his tailor was a Russian with a Stoly problem. It likely was because of his build. He was a big man, a bit overweight. He drove a big car.
Jack owned a bar out on Mission Road on the edge of the Tohono reservation. Ted De Grazia had painted the side with typical De Grazia stuff he did in those long ago days of more wine than roses.
The liquor store building is still there on Mission. The art was painted over, but I am told it’s beginning to show through, demonstrating in more than one way the power of spirits.
Jack had a way getting in the middle of things. He loved gossip. He had more tips than a crooked stock broker.
In 1982, a great electrical explosion rocked the newspaper building at 4850 South Park Avenue. Four people suffered burn injuries. Frank Delehanty, the Star’s business manager, died from his burns. Frank Johnson, the managing editor, and production exceutive Wayne Bean received less serious injuries. Jack suffered the worst burns, took years to recover.
Jack was born in 1929 in Southern Arizona. His family had a ranch at Amado. He died in Tucson in March 1999.
It was after the accident that he produced his book of photos with the late Steve Emerine, who worked for both daily Tucson newspapers, taught journalism at the University of Arizona and even served a term or two as county assessor.
Here is one Jack Sheaffer story as recalled by Bill Waters who was city editor and then ombudsman at the Star. He retired a couple years ago after a couple decades at the Santa Fe New Mexican:
Chingadero stories, caray — so many.
My first contact with Jack was when Hubert Humphrey came flying into Tucson, and I’m at Channel 4, John Paul at 9 in those days, and Hubie comes down a staircase onto the field; Jack does his Jackie Gleason/Reggie Van Gleason act with his 4×5 Press Graphic, and woops, his glass plate goes flying 15 feet away, and all’s on hold until he can replace it.
Not long later, during the strike against the Star/Citizen, Jack shows up to shoot the strikers, who give him the blanket-toss into the air and his jaw strikes a parking meter; undeterred, he gets a shot, bless his big heart; better than what I got for Channel 4.
Jack was one of the biggest-hearted guys I ever knew. Couldn’t make a deadline to save his soul (“It’s just coming off the dryer, was his sister Lucille’s standing instruction to tell me when I’d call for the umpteenth time — a great and dear individual), and one evening Jack came in with a loada bull about his delay, and I sent him to a typewriter to write the cutline since the rest of the staff was gone, and Jack sat trying to make out what to do — borderline illiterate — until Rippey, that grand individual, says “I’ll do it” and I said BS, Tom, about time he learns to do something, anything, on time. Tom ended up writing the cutline.
Earlier, there was a time when I was on sports desk and we’re on our way to interview Bobby Hull down in Tubac; Jack hasta stop at his bar out on Mission Road, and we’re going 80-90 along a back road along the mines when a pickup truck comes rooster-tailing dust from the west; I alert Jack that he ain’t gonna stop at his stop sign, so Jack gases his Chrysler 300 and we get hit — on the very tail of his Chrysler. Both drivers finally get to a stop, back up, and all that’s dented is some chrome on Jack’s back bumper. Jack magnanimously forgives the lout, since we’ve got an intvu coming up …
Jack was given to calling this or that a chingadero, as you well remember, or a chingaderito, depending on circumstances. He and I went to an interview with Barry Goldwater, who quickly greeted Jack as “Chingadero,” to the chagrin of various GOP fatbacks …
But most memorable was when Ford and Echeverria met in Nogales, like in ’75: Jack and I were walking down the center of Obregon, which was blocked off — only way to get to the theater where the presidents were meeting. From a block and a half north came the shout of one of Jack’s billion friends, this one with a gringo accent: “Hey, Chingadero!” Deadly silence. Jack spins around with a wave to acknowledge the guero, to whom it might not have occurred that he was in Mexico … truly one of the greatest characters you or I ever knew …
At a Gridiron Show visit to Phoenix, he took off with our daughter to buy some candy bars, to Julie’s and my alarm, not knowing where she was, Jack coming back with a hangdog look and a bag of candy …
Jack, unwittingly, was a great reporter, having the ability to overhear and pass on all kinds of stuff; , some worthwhile, some, well, nice try; probly a better reporter than photographer. A wonderful human being.
Jack was born down, or up, in Amado. I think he was a war photographer, which got him his start as “Jack Sheaffer, Star Photographer,” the sign on his office on Stone Avenue half a block north of the Star.
Note: I wrote this little tribute to Fitz in the fall of 2011. Recently when my website went fubar, it was dropped from the database by a company that cost me lots of misery and money, HostGator. In any event, this piece is as I wrote it. There is an album of Fitz photos that you will find here.
David Fitzsimmons has raised millions for Tucson’s charities for a quarter century. He has not given money, but his time and talent. He has been the provocative and entertaining master of ceremonies at thousands of charity-raising event, from chicken dinners to overflowing auditoriums Fitz is there — thick black drawing pen in hand, big pad of paper and easel at his side and a joke at the ready.
Unless he is already booked, he will not say no. Fitz will stand and amuse. For free. Any time as long as the cause is noble, the audience tomato-free and there are a few big names in attendance that can besmirch, belittle, beguile and charm.
He has been the evening’s entertainment since he returned to Tucson in 1986 and began his career as the editorial cartoonist for The Arizona Daily Star. He was born in Merced, but was but a few months when his parents brought him. He went to Rincon High School and then to the University of Arizona where he majored in several subjects, but mostly he was cartoonist for the Wildcat. He graduated and found a job as an artist for the Oklahoman of Oklahoma City.
He migrated east, finding gainful employment as an artist with the Virginian-Pilot of Norfolk, which was then piloted by a mutual friend, William G. Connolly. Bill was previously with The New York Times. Eventually, he returned to the Gray Lady as an editor and co-wrote the paper’s style manual.
After his stint with that paper, Fitz landed his first full-time cartoonist job with the Daily Press of Newport News, Va. His boss at that paper was the late Tony Snow who went on to become press spokesman for George W. Bush. He died of colon cancer in 2008 at the age of 53.
I interviewed Fitz and his daughter sometime in 1985 in the coffee shop of the Sheraton Hotel in Reston, Virginia. She was active, climbing steps. He said he was anxious to get back to Tucson.
Since then, Fitz has been a part of what critics still call the “Red Star,” his cartoons poking fun at, praising, satirizing and annoying. That is the chief reason, I believe, he has never been selected as Tucson’s man of the year. When I was at the Star, we waged a serious campaign to make it so. Alas, we were not successful.
But Fitz nonetheless charges onward, pen in hand, masterfully conducting the ceremony and raising the money — battling breast cancer (he is a cancer survivor), promoting books or paying tribute to long-time heroes such as Big Jim Griffith. He has given many times over his fair share to the community.
It appears that Gov. Chris Christie emerged from his Washington Bridge cesspool smelling like a plump blushing rose.
It might be said that anyone who would tie up traffic on the world’s busiest bridge because a mayor of a city didn’t endorse him was one mean, nasty-ass son of a bitch, a low, petty politician. But after the governor spent two hours contending he was victimized by his staff and didn’t know the gun was loaded, he was given the benefit of the doubt. That is to say, no one said it amounted to a very big pile of rose fertilizer. Here’s how the New York Times viewed all those gubernatorial mea culpas:
“What makes Mr. Christie’s claim of victimhood hard to accept is his own history of vindictive behavior. For instance, a Rutgers professor lost financing for a project because he voted against the governor on a redistricting commission. A Republican colleague who had a disagreement with Mr. Christie was disinvited to an event in his own district. Mr. Christie has denied that he sent signals to his staff to punish anyone who crossed him. ‘I am who I am, but I am not a bully,’ he said Thursday. But he has set a tone that makes abusive actions acceptable.”
“I am who I am..” What do you suppose that means? And she is who she is; and he is who he is. And you are who you are. And this explains what? It rings hollow, off key, doesn’t set right — like heart burn. Look at the e-mail correspondence between his aides. One person has a smile. The other knowingly approves. This is self congratulations, the equivalent of chest-bumping NFL, high-fives, some air-pounding fists. Whoo-whoo, you lose!
Politics today is a lot like football. There may be some politicians who play the game to make things better, but they are as rare as the Hope Diamond. It’s become a contact sport. It’s not just winning, but in-your-face victory, romp and stomp, beat hell out of the other guy. It’s the politics of loathing by the loathsome. Some of it borders on hate. We have come to the point that it is necessary to have organizations that promote civil discourse/behavior because there are so many bullies and nasty creatures infesting the nooks and crannies of this country. New Jersey is no exception.
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Stephen, what do you think? Please share your opinion with others on Amazon.com.
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Along about the mid 1980s, a local developer decided to build a world-class resort in the foothills. That resort became La Paloma, but the developers George Mehl and his brother David, ran into some stout opposition. For one thing, the Mehls proposed to build a Jack Nichlaus 27-hole golf course with lots of grass and ponds, pretty as you please and needing a ton of water.
In those days, Tucson was a serious tree-hugging community. The outrage swelled not only over the amount of water to be spilled for this play land of the rich, but for all the beautiful flora that would be destroyed as well. But then some very smart people suggested Mehl could irrigate his golf course with reclaimed water. He need only build a pipeline from the city’s resources to the La Paloma site. Mehl quickly agreed and paid for it. There wasn’t much argument.
The Mehls also agreed to hire an outfit to map and preserve all the flora on the development site (not in the golf course area). After the development was in place, the flora was put back.
The La Paloma course was the first private course to use reclaimed water. Today about half the courses in the county use reclaimed water.
George Mehl did the right thing for his community. And the community reciprocated, sort of. The county changed the name of the Foothills Park off River Road just east of the Tucson Jewish Community Center to the George Mehl Family park. It was to honor Mehl and the four other members of his family. All five died in 1991 when the private plane he was piloting crashed near Cortez, Colorado. Mehl was 41. I don’t have an age for his wife, Deborah. His daughters were Natalie, 12, Laura, 8 and Jenna,3.
While the park is named for the George Mehl family, there’s no plaque or other explanation saying who he was,what he did or how he died. Sooner or later, I’m sure, that will change. He did far more than build a beautiful resort.
If you ever had season basketball tickets, this poem will feel familiar. If you haven’t, it will become so. “Season Tickets,” is the title. It is also the title of the book, by Dan Gilmore. He is a man of many talents, a jazz bassist, biz consultant, novelist, short story writer, raconteur and holds a doctorate in Great Expectations. He just recently has a bunch of poems accepted by a bunch of quarterly poetry publications. I don’t know when because he is afraid to ask said bunch. His novel, “A Howl for Mayflower,” is filled with characters you would like to know because you like them. It is set in Tucson’s Coronado Hotel. The “Mayflower” in the title is a lovely woman, one of the most attractive characters I have met. And I happen to know the narrator personally. You can get it through Amazon, and there is a Kindle edition. “Season Tickets” is out of print, but easy enough to find via Amazon used or Abe.Books.com.
Season Tickets
Fifteen years we had them,
the two seats at the end of Row 29,
Section 20. We were real fanatics
back then, screaming, high-fiving,
thinking this would last forever.
We hardly noticed when,
seven seats down, a woman
in her sixties, a city-league
tennis player, stopped coming.
Turned out she’d had a stroke
and died. Next season the woman’s
husband had a heart attack. During March
Madness the person five seats down —
an irrepressible man with a white
beard and a Greek fisherman’s cap
who called himself Uncle Charlie —
died of throat cancer. Treatable
was the last word we heard him say.
Next season, Uncle Charlie’s nephew,
a despondent accountant who
quoted Rush Limbaugh, disappeared
one day. Died from cancer, we heard
from his wife who sold their tickets
to a woman who was killed jaywalking.
Her seat was empty the entire season
but filled with waiting. JoAn is next
in line, then me. The team is younger
this season, less experienced, losing more
than winning. JoAn and I watch
with greater discernment, nod and clap
instead of scream, take deep breaths
between baskets, and look forward
to time outs. An obese adolescent
sits in the seat next to JoAn now.
He eats hot dogs and yells Go Cats
at odd times. We both wish him well and hope
he lives a full and happy life, but it’s apparent
he knows nothing about the game.
I don’t mean to complain, really I don’t. But I today received this e-mail:
| Dear NYTimes.com Reader: We are pleased to announce the launch of Booming, our free weekly e-newsletter for baby boomers.Led by baby boomer, Michael Winerip, the Booming e-newsletter is sent every Tuesday and covers news, information, debates and essays about the topics that interest you most.
Sign up today to receive all this and more delivered right to your in-box. |
All right, I lied. It is annoying to know that from the moment you were born Madison Avenue and the rest of the world has stalked you like a rich relation, trying to sell you deodorant, Ozzie and Harriet, real estate, insurance, The Price is Right and nostalgia in movies, books and bottles. Boomers provide work for Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro, preserve the memories of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and will not permit the world to forget “IN A GADDA DA VIDA.”
I cannot but wonder, albeit idly, what the Times and Mr. Winerip will select as the alleged topics that interest me most. At the moment, I am most interested in how it is that some morons manage to get elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. Somehow, I don’t see the newsletter tackling that subject.
FOOTNOTE: Yesterday, Oct. 2, was the 45th anniversary of the Massacre of Tlatelolco at the Plaza de Tres Culturas, in which mostly students in Mexico City were slaughtered by the troops and police of President Gustavo Diaz Ordaz. Reports were that 300 were killed, then thousands. But the documented dead are only 44. Did I really say only.?
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