Page A2 / The Joan
De Arc Crusader / Friday, December 24, 2021
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“Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.” – Voltaire
Remembering Mr. Mitchell
We lost a wonderful friend and true Joan De
Arc pioneer earlier this year.
The Avenue has never been blessed with a finer resident than Mr. William
Mitchell, who passed away on April 21 at the age of 93.
Bill was born in 1928 in Rolla, North Dakota, just 10 miles shy of the
Canadian border. No small irony resides in the fact that such a warm and
caring human being was born in one of the coldest places in the contiguous
United States. Mr. Mitchell earned his college
degree in accounting, during which time he met and married wife Helen.
Amusingly, the couple was obliged to keep secret their ceremony, since
their respective dormitories did not accept married couples. Upon
graduation Bill joined the Air Force, and in the late 1950s the couple
descended to the much warmer climes of Phoenix with daughter Julie in tow.
Bill was posted at Luke Air Force Base and daughter Kathy came along soon
thereafter. The Mitchells of course were one
of the very first families to appear on Joan De Arc Avenue, moving into
their home at 3231 in 1961. The family has continuously occupied that
house for 60 years now, the all-time Avenue record.
After leaving the service, Bill worked for Crystal Ice and then embarked
upon an enduring career with General Electric, where he worked primarily
in the service shop that maintained the large turbines for the copper
mines. In his spare time, the man became a highly accomplished artisan in
the areas of both painting and woodwork -- the open garage door at 3231,
with Bill laboring away on his latest project, was a common sight on the
Avenue for decades. However, Bill Mitchell
will undoubtedly be best remembered on our street simply for his
extraordinary kindness and unwavering friendship. We’ll give the last word
on this remarkable man to daughter Julie: “He
was by far the most decent man I have ever known. Everything I know about
patience, joy, laughter, tolerance and caring are directly attributable to
him. No one will ever take his place.”
LETTERS
We welcome your letters at
jdacrusader@aol.com.
_______________________________________________________________
‘Twas the night before Christmas
(and still is, actually)
Season’s greetings, fellow Joan De Arc-onauts. It’s that time of
year when my editor asks me to come up with some fresh old Christmas
memories for another special holiday issue of the Crusader.
One of the many problems of writing for what is surely the Valley’s most
respected and longest-running premium residential street name-specific
news and entertainment publication is that I may have already written
everything remotely worth writing about the holidays, and I’m beginning to
forget parts of whatever might be left. It’s an unfortunate double whammy.
Take Christmas Eve for example, an evening my family traditionally spent
at grandparents Howard and Lois’s house, eating dinner and exchanging
gifts. I’m pretty sure I’ve already written about the “spanking machine”
my grandfather inspired me to spontaneously create out of a newly-gifted
tube of Tinkertoys, and the creepy, web-like “angel hair” my grandmother
insisted on draping over her tree each year. I’m sure I’ve touched on the
Flintstone’s Give-a-Show Projector set among many other memorable gifts.
I’m not sure though if I ever mentioned how much I appreciated those giant
tins of Danish shortbread cookies we would often receive as presents,
especially during those college years when non-beer calories were
relatively rare and valuable. I’m certain that
I’ve described the electricity that Santa’s imminent arrival brought to
all of us kids, and those sleepless nights spent anticipating Christmas
morning. I may have talked about how, over the years, the child-like
excitement of receiving becomes gradually displaced by the joy of giving.
I probably haven’t revealed that at about age 65 it suddenly flips back to
wanting to get stuff again, mostly in the form of elective surgical
procedures. Then there was the time a giant
wormhole opened up in my grandparents’ living room, sucking up all of the
gifts, the creepy tree, and my grandfather -- ultimately (and wisely)
spitting my grandfather back out again. I may have totally imagined that
episode though, because again, it was during those college years.
What I can be sure of, however, is that our whole family would always put
on our best clothes and drive to my grandparent’s house on Christmas Eve
with a trunk full of brightly wrapped gifts and whatever food we might be
contributing to the meal. While waiting for dinner to begin, I would
usually pretend to admire my grandmother’s tree while doing secret
advanced reconnaissance on the gifts scattered below. We would be on our
best behavior during dinner, of course, and then apply subtle pressure on
the adults to move into the living room ASAP for the main event. The
youngest and most gullible of the children would be deputized as “Santa”
and so became responsible for the distribution of the gifts, followed by a
flurry of shredded wrapping paper and ribbons.
Eventually Christmas Eve activities were moved to my mom’s house, and most
recently to my niece Camille’s home. A lot has changed since those old
parties at Lois and Howard’s place, and mostly for the better. The Dirty
Santa game we now play has enlivened the gift exchange and my
grandmother’s creepy angel hair spider tree is not at all missed. I do
still enjoy a bit of shortbread every year, though.
Merry Christmas from the Chuck family.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________JDA
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