Help
Sign In
history
October 2009 
A Place Called Home
Posted on Oct 19th, 2009
by 
drechanteuse
drechanteuse
I was not born there, nor did I grow up there, but the first time the town revealed itself to me, I felt this immensely overwhelming aura of deja vu. It was as if I had lived a whole life there, not this life, but some life that I really don't remember, or didn't remember until I felt that sense of place that I couldn't logically explain. It was Clifton, Arizona, my home town by choice.
I had always had connections to the town, friends and relatives that lived there, that went through the struggles of gaining a voice and gaining equality in a system that was set up to socially striate the people. I knew of long and bitter labor strikes of the past, knew the dangers of working in a copper mine, open pit or not.
My mom and dad almost moved the family there in 1973, during a recession that had them looking for work. I wanted to go. My parents made the four hour drive from Phoenix so my dad could interview with the local paper. I remember being so disappointed when he didn't get the job.
Arizona was changing, it had always been the three C's that drove the economy - copper, cattle and cotton. In grade school, Phelps Dodge Corporation used to provide these little cardboard sheets that held samples of rocks and minerals that came out of their Morenci mine. I grew to love rocks, if not Phelps Dodge. By 1983, when 14 unions went out on strike against the company, the C that reprensented copper in the three C's was being replaced by computer chips. Importance in history can change quickly.
The strike of 1983 was never settled. I prefer not to say that it was "lost," because while the union members wound up being decertified, their struggle served to blaze a new path for modern labor unions to follow. A more cautious path, indeed.
What was lost, however, was the identity of Clifton, itself. Once billed as "the town tougher than Tombstone," which would mean that it would surely refuse to just lay down and die, it didn't. Instead, it just lingered. Stubborn families remained, determined not to leave their beloved land, even if it meant driving 40 miles to get groceries or go to the doctor. Local businesses held out for better times as long as they could, but good times were not around a near corner. Now there are more boards on windows than there are open stores serving cheerful customers.
A citizen of Clifton recently wrote a letter describing how he sees that Clifton's demise is eminent, mostly because it's citizen's are too stuck in a rut. They aren't willing to step up and try to rescue their beloved community because maybe they think it isn't possible. Of course, anything is possible. If you believe, and I do.
When I remember Clifton, I remember my camera, a cheap little range finder that I bought in college for under $30. Yet, given such an amazingly rich and diverse subject, it could take pictures that made my jaw drop in awe. Pictures of red cliffs, locomotives, desert sunsets, the river that runs through it, the downtown drag, snowmen built with every flake of snow that could be gathered before it melted in the relentless Arizona winter sun.
I think of the rocks, and the energy that I could feel coming from them. It was like the answers to the universe were buried in those hills. It was a feeling of being so close to understanding what it is all about. It was nature in all of its captivating glory. Rollign hills and jagged peaks, and catfish jumping out of the river, tickling my toes as I waded through. Even as I write this, I cannot find the words precise enough to describe how it feels to be there at the foot of the Coronado trail, the country's most scenic route. My senses have experienced what my words can't convey.
I think of people, even in the darkest hours of their lives, who would give you their last bean burrito if you were hungry, or offer you their pull out sofa if you had no place to sleep. They could find the humor in anything, and they did. It was a shared characteristic of the citizens of Clifton. Sure, they gossiped and argued and did things both right and wrong like anyone else, but life in the secluded little mining camp had made them strong and taught them the importance of being kind to one another.
It breaks my heart to think that my self-appointed home town is dying. They say the hotel has closed, and so has the gas station. They say the miners chose to live in Safford, 40 miles away, instead because they know they hold jobs that once belonged to the citizens of Clifton, and even now, after 26 years, there is still guilt associated with the situation The schools' enrollment is dwindling down to nothing, and the majority of the money that is spent in the county bypasses Clifton completely.
I know that Clifton is worth reviving, and I am hoping that a few strong citizens will stand up and carry the torch forward. It is a place of rich Old West history, and it is a place that speaks to me in the deepest core of my being. I feel the connection to my town as strong today as I did 13 years ago, the last time I set foot there. I am willing to help however I can. I hope I will not be alone.
I had always had connections to the town, friends and relatives that lived there, that went through the struggles of gaining a voice and gaining equality in a system that was set up to socially striate the people. I knew of long and bitter labor strikes of the past, knew the dangers of working in a copper mine, open pit or not.
My mom and dad almost moved the family there in 1973, during a recession that had them looking for work. I wanted to go. My parents made the four hour drive from Phoenix so my dad could interview with the local paper. I remember being so disappointed when he didn't get the job.
Arizona was changing, it had always been the three C's that drove the economy - copper, cattle and cotton. In grade school, Phelps Dodge Corporation used to provide these little cardboard sheets that held samples of rocks and minerals that came out of their Morenci mine. I grew to love rocks, if not Phelps Dodge. By 1983, when 14 unions went out on strike against the company, the C that reprensented copper in the three C's was being replaced by computer chips. Importance in history can change quickly.
The strike of 1983 was never settled. I prefer not to say that it was "lost," because while the union members wound up being decertified, their struggle served to blaze a new path for modern labor unions to follow. A more cautious path, indeed.
What was lost, however, was the identity of Clifton, itself. Once billed as "the town tougher than Tombstone," which would mean that it would surely refuse to just lay down and die, it didn't. Instead, it just lingered. Stubborn families remained, determined not to leave their beloved land, even if it meant driving 40 miles to get groceries or go to the doctor. Local businesses held out for better times as long as they could, but good times were not around a near corner. Now there are more boards on windows than there are open stores serving cheerful customers.
A citizen of Clifton recently wrote a letter describing how he sees that Clifton's demise is eminent, mostly because it's citizen's are too stuck in a rut. They aren't willing to step up and try to rescue their beloved community because maybe they think it isn't possible. Of course, anything is possible. If you believe, and I do.
When I remember Clifton, I remember my camera, a cheap little range finder that I bought in college for under $30. Yet, given such an amazingly rich and diverse subject, it could take pictures that made my jaw drop in awe. Pictures of red cliffs, locomotives, desert sunsets, the river that runs through it, the downtown drag, snowmen built with every flake of snow that could be gathered before it melted in the relentless Arizona winter sun.
I think of the rocks, and the energy that I could feel coming from them. It was like the answers to the universe were buried in those hills. It was a feeling of being so close to understanding what it is all about. It was nature in all of its captivating glory. Rollign hills and jagged peaks, and catfish jumping out of the river, tickling my toes as I waded through. Even as I write this, I cannot find the words precise enough to describe how it feels to be there at the foot of the Coronado trail, the country's most scenic route. My senses have experienced what my words can't convey.
I think of people, even in the darkest hours of their lives, who would give you their last bean burrito if you were hungry, or offer you their pull out sofa if you had no place to sleep. They could find the humor in anything, and they did. It was a shared characteristic of the citizens of Clifton. Sure, they gossiped and argued and did things both right and wrong like anyone else, but life in the secluded little mining camp had made them strong and taught them the importance of being kind to one another.
It breaks my heart to think that my self-appointed home town is dying. They say the hotel has closed, and so has the gas station. They say the miners chose to live in Safford, 40 miles away, instead because they know they hold jobs that once belonged to the citizens of Clifton, and even now, after 26 years, there is still guilt associated with the situation The schools' enrollment is dwindling down to nothing, and the majority of the money that is spent in the county bypasses Clifton completely.
I know that Clifton is worth reviving, and I am hoping that a few strong citizens will stand up and carry the torch forward. It is a place of rich Old West history, and it is a place that speaks to me in the deepest core of my being. I feel the connection to my town as strong today as I did 13 years ago, the last time I set foot there. I am willing to help however I can. I hope I will not be alone.
Access: Public
