For one of Tucson’s first rodeos, the Arizona Ice & Cold Storage Co. offered a prize much more valuable in February 1925, the year the rodeo began, than it would be today: a giant block of ice. And while the event — traditionally known as La Fiesta de los Vaqueros — has grown and changed over the past 100 years, it continues to showcase the Old Pueblo’s Wild West allure and entertain winter visitors and year-round residents.
During the early days of the Great Depression, a Phoenix voice teacher decided to bring some joy to the community by forming an all-American chorus. Douglas Russell posted a notice in The Arizona Republican asking for men to join the Orpheus Club — named for the Greek god of music. The club’s first meeting was held on November 5, 1929, and attracted about 25 men who performed on Christmas morning during a KTAR radio broadcast.
Newspaper writers in the 1920s were known for hyperbole, but sometimes, their enthusiasm ended up being prophetic. That was the case in September 1925, when The Arizona Republican announced the opening of the Gold Spot, a concrete and stucco shopping center on the northeast corner of Roosevelt Street and Third Avenue in Phoenix.
From the geological wonders of the Huachuca Mountains to the Spanish expedition celebrated at Coronado National Memorial, Sierra Vista offers access to plenty of natural and human history. Half a century ago this month, this growing city along Arizona’s border with Mexico made history again — with a concept that hungry commuters, frazzled parents and millions of other Americans take for granted today.
When you walk through downtown Gilbert today, it’s hard to imagine that this historic area used to be home to several grocery stores — including Liberty Market, whose building has been turned into a popular restaurant of the same name. In contrast, Sam Lee Grocery survives only in photos, but it was a mainstay downtown, offering pantry staples and fresh produce, for nearly half a century.
Sylvester Mowry’s life was short but eventful. Some called him an egotist, a braggart and a liar. But when the news of his death, at age 38, reached Arizona in 1871, one newspaper noted: “In the death of Mr. Mowry, this Territory has lost the most faithful friend it has ever had. … We can ill afford to lose the advocacy of a man so influential and so earnest.” Mowry’s influence included the mining town that bore his name — and was one of Arizona’s oldest mining camps.
Long before an artificial lake became a gleam in the eyes of civic leaders, one of Arizona’s first Olympic-size pools was the pride of Tempe. Wanting a wholesome attraction for young people, members of the Tempe Civic Club selected a swath of land at the corner of First Street (now Rio Salado Parkway) and Mill Avenue for the public pool; the parcel’s owner offered a rebate on the sale price in exchange for naming the new park Tempe Beach.
Tempe is sophisticated and cool. But it looked very different in the 1870s. Instead of the suburban college town it is today, it was a rural community where people came from all over to work in agriculture. Among those who took advantage of Tempe’s fertile farmland was Danish immigrant Niels Petersen, who became a U.S. citizen in 1878 and homesteaded 160 acres of land in town. Today, the house on that property, known as the Petersen House, is one of the last visible reminders of what Tempe used to be.
With some 25 percent of returning soldiers facing “shell shock” after World War I, the U.S. embraced a new model of care, greatly expanding convalescent facilities for the sick and wounded — and the American Red Cross played a key role. “Back of all the physical problems still stands the mental one,” wrote Henry P. Davison, the organization’s War Council chairman. “Depression, discouragement, relaxation of hope … is the malady that requires most skillful medicine, and that if uncured may make all the drugs and surgery of no avail.”
These days, a cross-country flight doesn’t usually make news, but in the early 1920s, America was still getting acquainted with air travel, and the idea of mailing a letter in New York and having it arrive in San Francisco in an airplane was hard for many Americans to comprehend. On December 31, 1920, John Goldstrom, a reporter for what then was called The Arizona Republican, set out to demystify the process by mailing a valuable parcel — himself — from coast to coast.
