On a quiet day this summer, as I gazed out my window at the landscape and clouds, I realized that Prescott is now my home town. Even though I was born and raised in California — a long time ago — here I am, committed to Arizona, where I’ve lived for 36 years. My home is in Prescott. My friends are here, and I identify with this Arizona setting.
I need to write about this place that has come to be the center of my life for long enough that its streets, homes, weather and public places are my familiar world. How did I come to be in a small high-desert city?
I moved to Prescott because of a job offer, qand I stayed because I married a Prescott man. That’s the sum of it. My sense of belonging in Prescott has evolved, so I muse this morning how that happened, how I came to feel that the high desert is my home. I’m sure time has made the difference. The years have passed, and this place is now my settled world.
More than that, Prescott suits me. I feel I belong here despite my former years in huge, sprawling California. Maybe there’s something in our bones that knows where a person is meant to be. Prescott felt like a storybook place when I first moved here. I felt I’d come to Mayberry and would soon encounter Sheriff Andy Griffith. I enjoyed the western charm, especially our town square and row of frontier-style bars and shops.
In the beginning I thought Prescott was a place where people were safe and everyone was kindly. That was unreal, of course. (Sometimes magical thinking is fun.) The truth is more gritty: we have crime and poverty, our schools need attention, we have limited choices of supplies and services, and we have almost no affordable housing. What would happen if there were homes for all income levels?
I have reasons for staying in Prescott that are important to a sensibility like mine. Here I can find my way easily. There is one of everything — one library, one movie theater, one hospital, one city center. Prescott is neither huge nor sprawling, though overgrowth is threatening our open spaces. Development in the western areas could overwhelm what has been manageable. I hope our City Council will curtail growth and save us from dirty air, traffic and exploitation of the landscape.
Still, this is a place that makes sense to a simple soul like me. My car is serviced nearby, my doctor’s office is nearby, my supermarket is nearby. If you come from a big city, where you need sophisticated skills to manage the mess of streets and services, a small city is a welcome relief. Long lines for events are gone. Locations are easy to find, as are parking spaces. The city government is accessible. This place is livable.
I don’t miss California weather, either. I wish Prescott were balmy, but I tolerate the weather here because I’ve learned the tricks — when to venture out, how to manage air-conditioning, who to call when the snow is too deep. For an older lady like myself, the weather isn’t critical to my life. I’m indoors watching the quail, writing these articles, and enjoying a supply of good books.
What I must admit is that Prescott, like all sequestered places, is isolated from serious issues in America. Because we live in a remote high desert, we can pretend that the troubled world doesn’t include us, so we can stay apart from uncomfortable realities. I’m thinking of recent decisions that demand our attention, like ‘Alligator Alcatraz’ — built to imprison people without due process — and threats to free access to the truth of our past history found in libraries and museums. It’s as if our freedoms are being eroded.
While we’ve three colleges and a performing-arts center, we find it easy to hide from threats to American values. We can turn our backs on the end of health care for those who need it, the silencing of voices that disagree with powerful leaders, and the dismantling of crucial protections and regulations. Our local daily newspaper seems to avoid the crises outside our territory. Do rodeos really matter more than the struggles of the wider world?
I’m hopeful, though, when I witness some of our citizens protesting government overreach and cruelty. Activists remind us that the innocent are being punished in America, our land is being exploited, important institutions are being undermined, and laws are being subverted. The clamor of local protests shows that Prescott has the energy to speak truth to power, and I’m proud of my home town.
Elaine Jordan, author of Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp, is a local editor who’s lived in Prescott for thirty years.
