Page A2 / The Joan De Arc Crusader / Friday, December 24, 2021

Front Page A1 / Tales from Sahuaro School A3 / Christmas Nostalgia A4 / Crossword A5

 

EDITORIAL PAGE

“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


 

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‘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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