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TALKING TURKEY

“Turkey Town, Alabama, is now considered a ghost town.”

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, although around our household, that doesn’t mean a reprieve from eating turkey. Christmas Day, as well as New Year’s Day, often sees a brown and succulent Butterball turkey sitting on our table. Leftovers such as cold turkey and dressing always grace the refrigerator afterwards.

I’m not sure why my wife buys a Butterball brand turkey, but I suppose it has something to do with her mom and my mother having been brainwashed that Butterball is better than the rest. I asked Miss Purdy, my AI (artificial intelligence) helpmate, what’s so great about Butterball, and she offered up the following:

“Butterball turkeys have become a staple in American households during the holiday season, known for their consistent quality and convenience. The brand was established in the 1950s, and its name was chosen to evoke the image of a plump, tender, and juicy turkey. Today, Butterball is recognized as one of the largest producers of turkeys in the United States, maintaining its reputation for excellence and reliability in holiday feasts.”

During my research on turkeys and where they come from, I found that five states in the US actually have Turkey in their name. Let me begin with the state in which we live.

Turkey Creek, Arizona, is a small, unincorporated community named for the creek that flows through the area, which was once abundant with wild turkeys. This region in Yavapai County, 222 miles from Lake Havasu City, has its roots in the late 19th century, when settlers and prospectors were drawn to Arizona’s rugged landscapes in search of mining opportunities and ranch land.

Over time, Turkey Creek became known for its scenic beauty and played a modest role in the broader story of Arizona’s frontier development. The name was changed to Cleator in 1925 after the new town owner. Today, Turkey Creek, or Cleator, remains a quiet area, a ghost town, reflecting the pioneering spirit and natural heritage of the American Southwest.

Turkey, Texas, is a small city located in Hall County in the Texas Panhandle. The area was originally inhabited by Native American tribes, including the Comanche, before European-American settlers began arriving in the late 19th century. The town reportedly received its unique name from the abundance of wild turkeys along a nearby creek. “Gobble-gobble.”

Turkey, TX, was officially established in 1907, and its growth was closely tied to cattle ranching and farming, which remain important to the local economy. The arrival of the railroad in the 1920s spurred further development, connecting Turkey to larger markets and communities in the region.

Turkey Town, Alabama, was a historic Native American settlement located in northeastern Alabama, near the banks of the Coosa River. The town was named after Chief Little Turkey, a prominent leader of the Cherokee Nation. Established in the late 18th century, Turkey Town became one of the largest Cherokee towns in the region, serving as an important center for trade and diplomacy.

During the early 19th century, it played a significant role in the events leading up to and during the Creek War, ultimately declining after the forced removal of the Cherokee people along the Trail of Tears. Turkey Town, AL, is now considered a ghost town.

Turkey, Louisiana, is a lesser-known community with a history rooted in the state’s rural traditions. Located in East Feliciana Parish, Turkey emerged as a small settlement primarily centered around agriculture and local trade. Like many communities in the region, its development was shaped by the agricultural economy and the close-knit nature of rural Louisiana life.

While Turkey, LA, never grew into a large populace, it remains a testament to the enduring character of small Southern communities and their contributions to the cultural tapestry of the state.

Last but not least is the state of North Carolina. Turkey Creek, North Carolina, is an unincorporated community whose origins can be traced back to the early settlement period of the region. The area is named after the creek that meanders through the landscape, which, much like its counterparts in other states, was once home to abundant wild turkeys.

Over the years, Turkey Creek, NC, developed as a small rural community, shaped by agriculture and the traditions of its residents. While it never grew into a major town, it continues to reflect the quiet charm and enduring heritage of rural North Carolina.

I’ve never visited any of the above-mentioned Turkey towns, but I have been to Chicken, Alaska, for whatever that’s worth. A couple of drumsticks with some mashed potatoes and gravy, perhaps?

BESS BLANCHE BAKER

“One thing that still remains of him is his house at 1608 Highland in Salina, Kansas.”

A mushy and very romantic postcard sent in 1912 to Miss Bess Blanche Baker in Asherville, Kansas, had me wondering if the sender, going by the initials G.D., was successful in his attempt to court and then perhaps marry the young woman. I decided to investigate. What I found regarding the town of Asherville and Bess Baker was most interesting.

Asherville, Kansas, is now a ghost town, although some 19 residents still live in the area. It is a small, unincorporated community nestled in Mitchell County in the north-central part of the state. Though modest in size, Asherville holds a unique place in the tapestry of Kansas history, serving as a testament to the endurance and adaptability of rural American communities.

Asherville was founded in the late nineteenth century, during a period when settlers were moving westward in search of new opportunities and fertile land. The town was officially platted in 1870, named after one of its early settlers, George Ashe. Like many Kansas communities of the era, Asherville grew up around agriculture, with early residents establishing homesteads, farms, and small businesses to serve the surrounding rural population.

In its early decades, Asherville developed the basic institutions typical of rural towns: a general store, a blacksmith, schools, churches, and a post office. The Asherville post office, which began operation in 1869, served as a critical lifeline for communication and commerce until its discontinuation in 1980. Community gatherings, harvest festivals, and church socials provided opportunities for neighbors to come together, reinforcing the strong sense of local identity.

Asherville’s economy was rooted in agriculture, with wheat, corn, and livestock forming the backbone of local livelihoods. The arrival of the railroad in Mitchell County in the late nineteenth century, though not passing directly through Asherville, helped connect the region to broader markets and facilitated the shipment of goods. Small businesses catered to the needs of farmers, and for a time, Asherville served as an important local hub.

Like many small rural communities, Asherville faced challenges in the twentieth century. The consolidation of farms, advances in transportation, and shifting economic patterns led to population decline. The closing of the post office in 1980 symbolized the waning of Asherville’s role as a commercial center, though the community spirit persisted among those who remained.

Today, Asherville is an unincorporated community with only a handful of residents. Although many of its original businesses and institutions have disappeared, the area is still home to descendants of early settlers and others who value the quiet, rural lifestyle. The history of Asherville is preserved through local records, family stories, and the landscape itself, which continues to bear the mark of those who built and sustained the community over generations.

The story of Asherville, Kansas, is one of perseverance, adaptation, and community. While its population may have dwindled, its legacy endures in the memories of its people and the history of Mitchell County. Asherville remains a symbol of the many small towns that dotted the American Midwest, shaping the character of the region and contributing to the broader narrative of rural America.

When G.D. sent that postcard to Bess in 1912, she was only 17 years old. That had to have opened her mother and father’s eyes when they saw it. A picture on the front of the card shows a wedding ring with a couple getting ready to kiss. The message inside would’ve, or should’ve been, shocking to concerned parents, especially dad.

“April 23, 1912

Dear Bess,

I am so glad that you are coming down to see me. You musn’t work too hard and kill yourself so you won’t get to come. Tell your mama that I often think of her. Is there a rushing business around the depot lately. Confess.

g.d.”

Bess Blanche Baker was born on October 26, 1895, in Peabody, Kansas. Her parents, John and Daisy Baker, relocated to several different Kansas locations throughout the years, searching for work. Mr. Baker was a house painter.

Bess Blanche Baker did not end up marrying the card sender, waiting another three years to wisely wed Melvin Ray McCamon on April 20, 1915. They remained in Kansas for a good while, with Melvin involved in the upstart and prosperous oil business. The McCamons eventually moved to Big Horn, Wyoming.

Bess Blanche Baker-McCamon died there in 1958, at the age of 63, while her husband, Melvin, passed away in 1968. The couple had one child, John Vernon McCamon.

I couldn’t verify the identity of G.D. It appears that the Bakers were keen on G.D.’s plans, and the guy was sent packing, perhaps at the end of a shotgun. One thing that still remains of G.D. is his house at 1608 Highland in Salina, Kansas.

ROUNDUP TIME

I believe in the age-old saying, “Laughter is the best medicine!” A day doesn’t go by that I don’t laugh or chuckle at something. A few weeks ago, shopping in the grocery store with my wife was no exception.

Senior Day at Albertsons typically occurs on the first Wednesday of every month. On this day, customers aged 55 and older can receive a 10% discount at particular locations. Out of a warped sense of humor, and no apologies forthcoming, I sometimes refer to Senior Day as Dinosaur Day, or Geezer Day.

Older folks like myself were plugging up the narrow aisles, indecisive about what they were looking for, and not very observant of where they rolled their buggies. After a couple of near accidents, I quickly changed the name of Dinosaur Day to Obstacle Wednesday, because I could tell it was going to take plenty of patience maneuvering through that crowd.

While rolling down the soup aisle and attempting to not bump anyone or be hit, the image of a postcard I’d recently come across popped into my head. This card shows a cowboy riding a giant jackrabbit while punching cattle. I suddenly imagined myself riding the same and trying to lead seniors to the checkout stand, sometimes lassoing them.

For a brief few seconds, I cracked a smile thinking of such. It’s probably best that none of the older folks around me knew what was going through my mind. A few sour ones would definitely be offended as they easily are.

The card I refer to was mailed from Tucson, Arizona, in 1941, to Mr. and Mrs. C.V. Vinson in Weatherford, Texas. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were the ones sending it. The Stevens had a great sense of humor for picking this card out. Their brief message to the Vinsons also had a humorous tone.

“7/9/41

How about sending you one of these ‘bunnies’ to use to round up your cows. We are on our way to California and are spending the night here in Tucson, Ariz. Will write you a letter when we get located. Hope you are both okay.

Mr. and Mrs. Stevens”

I discovered that the folks receiving the card owned the Circle W ranch in Weatherford, Texas. This much is known from the address the postcard was mailed to. Conrad Van Vinson, along with his wife, Huey Maude Seela-Vinson, were longtime ranchers there. The couple was married on February 22, 1925. They both lived long lives.

It appears from my research that the senders of the card were friends of the Vinsons from church. Mr. and Mrs. Jessie F. ‘Jess’ Stevens lived in Weatherford for most of their lives before retiring to California. I’m sure they got as much a laugh out of sending that card as the Vinsons did receiving it.

Humorous postcards used to be quite popular, but like anything, they are becoming rare to find. Locating a revolving rack of postcards in a store isn’t common anymore. Funny postcards have a rich history dating back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries, when inexpensive printing methods made it possible to mass-produce colorful, humorous images and jokes on cards.

These postcards became a playful way for people to communicate, often reflecting popular culture, regional humor, and social trends of their time. During their golden age, from about 1900 to the 1950s, funny cards were widely collected and sent, especially as souvenirs from travels or as lighthearted greetings among friends and family.

Over time, their popularity has waned, but vintage humorous postcards remain cherished collectibles, offering a window into the humor and everyday life of the past. Sadly, some things have changed over time, although I’m ever so thankful that my sense of humor hasn’t.

UNITED VERDE RAILROAD

“Miss Veda May Thomas, the postcard sender, was the daughter of the superintendent of the United Verde Copper Company mine in Jerome.”

A postcard I had the privilege to research, and then thankfully score, has great historical significance. The picture postcard mailed on June 10, 1907, from Jerome, Arizona, shows a locomotive of the United Verde Railroad chugging around a sharp corner over a trestle on its way to Jerome.

This photograph has a caption on the front saying, “Where the engine requires a pilot to find its way.” Smoke from the locomotive stack partially obliterates the train. Miss Veda Thomas sent this card to Mr. Clarence Anderson in Monrovia, California.

The United Verde Railroad was a crucial transportation link in Arizona’s mining history, serving as the lifeline of the renowned United Verde Copper Company in Jerome. Built to transport copper ore and supplies, the railroad played a pivotal role in the economic and industrial development of the region in the early 20th century.

The origins of the United Verde Railroad trace back to the booming mining operations of the late 1800s in Jerome, Arizona. The United Verde Copper Company, owned by William A. Clark, became one of the richest copper mines in the world.

However, the rugged terrain and remote location of Jerome posed significant transportation challenges. To efficiently move copper ore from the mines to smelters and connect with mainline railroads, construction on the United Verde Railroad began in 1894.

The railroad was built as a narrow-gauge line, stretching approximately 26 miles from Jerome down the steep mountainsides, through the Verde Valley, and linking up with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway at Jerome Junction (present-day Chino Valley). The construction itself was an engineering marvel, utilizing switchbacks and tunnels to navigate the difficult landscape.

The United Verde Railroad officially began operation in 1895. Its primary function was to haul copper ore, but it also transported coal, supplies, and workers between Jerome and the smelters. As mining operations grew, so did the railroad’s importance. In 1911, the line was converted from narrow gauge to standard gauge, increasing its capacity and efficiency.

A subsidiary, the United Verde & Pacific Railway, was also established to further improve transportation efficiency. The network made Jerome a bustling hub and contributed significantly to Arizona’s copper output during the early 20th century.

The prosperity of the United Verde Railroad was closely tied to the fortunes of the Jerome mines. When copper prices fell and ore production dwindled, the railroad’s operations began to decline. The Jerome smelter closed in the 1950s, and with the end of large-scale mining, the United Verde Railroad ceased its operations.

Today, remnants of the railroad can still be seen around Jerome and the Verde Valley. The railroad’s legacy is preserved in local museums, and parts of its route have been revived for scenic rail excursions, like the Verde Canyon Railroad, allowing visitors to appreciate both the region’s beauty and its industrial heritage.

The United Verde Railroad exemplifies the ingenuity and determination of those who shaped Arizona’s mining era. Its history reflects the challenges of mountain railroading, the boom-and-bust cycles of mining towns, and the enduring impact of transportation infrastructure on regional development.

Miss Veda May Thomas, the postcard sender, was the daughter of the superintendent of the United Verde Copper Company mine in Jerome. Born on March 28, 1898, in Jerome, Veda was attending St. Joseph’s Academy in Prescott the year she mailed the card.

Tragically, less than a year after sending it, her father, Thomas William Thomas, passed away unexpectedly, leaving Veda’s mother to raise three children. Veda was able to continue her schooling at St. Joseph’s and graduated from the Class of 1911.

Veda Thomas wed John Shipley on April 20, 1918, and they set up house in Butte, Montana. The couple had no children. John Shipley was involved in construction, dying on May 15, 1967, at the age of 75. Veda May Thomas-Shipley passed away on February 28, 1977. She was 78. A photograph of Veda taken around 1911 shows her to be a very beautiful young lady.

Mr. Clarence Anderson, the recipient of the postcard, was undoubtedly a friend of Miss Thomas. Clarence Alfred Anderson was born June 22, 1894. Records show he worked as a policeman in the Los Angeles area and died of pneumonia on March 2, 1937. He was only 43 years of age.

KOFA, ARIZONA

“I won’t venture that direction alone and especially without Smith & Wesson.”

I try to stay away from researching newer postcards because the sender and card recipients may still be alive. Intrusion into people’s personal lives isn’t cool, especially when those folks could possibly stumble across what I write. That’s highly impossible when they’re six feet under.

In the case of a picture postcard sent from Phoenix, Arizona, in 1986, I decided to make an exception to my policy because of two things. 1. The superb photograph on the front of this card shows Kofa Mountain and the location of a historic Arizona mine and ghost town. 2. The guy mailing the card had a creative way of breaking up with his gal, almost on the same level as a text. It seems he gave her the Kofa Kiss-Off.

This postcard was sent to Jennifer Ebanks in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Gary’s curt and blunt message to her reads as follows:

“Found new love. Not coming home or getting married. Bye. Gary”

I did enough research on Jennifer to find that she’s still alive and eventually did marry, and it was to someone named Gary. The marriage didn’t last. I won’t say any more on this subject as Kofa is the main reason for me writing this.

Kofa, Arizona, is a lesser-known historic site nestled in the heart of the desert landscape of southwestern Arizona. Though not a bustling city today, Kofa’s story is intertwined with the state’s mining heritage and the rugged environment that shaped its development.

Kofa’s name is derived from the acronym “King of Arizona,” referencing the King of Arizona Mine, which was the central feature of the settlement. The mine was established in the late 19th century, around the 1890s, during a period when gold and other minerals drew prospectors to the region.

The King of Arizona Mine was a significant gold producer and played a pivotal role in the development of the area. As word spread of the mine’s riches, a small community of miners, their families, and support businesses sprang up, forming the town of Kofa. The mine’s success led to the construction of infrastructure, including a post office and supply routes, connecting Kofa with other Arizona mining communities.

Like many mining towns of the era, Kofa’s prosperity was closely tied to the fortunes of its mine. When the gold deposits diminished and mining became less profitable, the population dwindled. By the early 20th century, Kofa was largely abandoned, leaving behind remnants of buildings, mining equipment, and a rich but fading history.

Today, Kofa is best known for its proximity to the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, established in 1939 to protect desert bighorn sheep and other native species. The refuge preserves the rugged beauty of the land that once drew miners and adventurers in search of fortune.

The history of Kofa, Arizona, is a reflection of the boom-and-bust cycle typical of mining towns in the American West. Although little remains of the original settlement, its legacy endures in the stories of early prospectors and the landscape of the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Visitors to the area can still sense the echoes of its past and appreciate the role Kofa played in Arizona’s mining history.

The Kofa Mountains and the King of Arizona Mine are on my list of places to hopefully visit this summer. I won’t venture that direction alone and especially without Smith & Wesson. Known cartel members are floating around the border, and to meet up with them unprepared could be dangerous to one’s health.

DIRTY FAMILY SECRETS

“Some things are best left unwritten!”

I rarely find absolutely nothing to write about—and when I do, it doesn’t take long to come up with something new. The other night, I was dozing while a vintage western flickered on.

Half watching with one eye, a cowboy was telling a group of saddle tramps a humorous story about one of the ranch hands. I didn’t totally catch what the secret was, but it had to do with how often he changed his drawers. That gave me fodder for a new blog piece.

I suppose most families have certain secrets they try to keep hidden. Imagine that material slipping out and being used for writing purposes, much like the “National Enquirer’ and other supermarket tabloids do with gossip and hearsay. My writing professor once said, “Some things are best left unwritten!”

While reflecting on secrets and inspiration for writing, it’s interesting to note how everyday household products have untold stories behind them. Take Cold Water All detergent, for example. Introduced in the late 20th century, around 1971, Cold Water All was developed in response to growing consumer awareness about energy conservation and fabric care.

The detergent was specially formulated to dissolve and clean effectively in cold water, allowing users to save on energy costs by avoiding hot water cycles. Over the years, Cold Water All was advertised for its gentle cleaning power and environmental benefits, as washing in cold water supposedly helps preserve clothes and reduces energy consumption.

The brand adapted its formulation as laundry technology advanced, maintaining its reputation as a reliable choice for efficient and eco-friendly cleaning, especially amongst “greenie” clientele. Not all housewives agreed with that philosophy; they stuck to warm-water Tide, like my mom did.

I’m sure I’ll catch flak for letting the cat out of the bag, but my wife and some of her family adhere to the Cold Water All detergent propaganda and continue to use this product. How can I tell, you ask? For one, cold water doesn’t make for bright whites. It’s something that only hot and warm water can do, along with a cup of bleach. Lemon-scented Clorox bleach works best in my humble opinion.

AI (artificial intelligence) even agrees with me here. I’ll quote Miss Purdy, my AI helpmate, on this subject. This is what she had to say about cold water washing of clothing, and especially Cold Water All laundry detergent.

“Cold Water All detergent may not work as advertised due to factors like the formulation, especially for ‘free and clear’ versions, which may lack enzymes for breaking down stains in cold water. Other reasons for poor performance can include using powder detergents in cold water, which might not dissolve properly, or having hard water, which can make detergents less effective, notes Amazon and Reddit users.”

Although Miss Purdy hasn’t spent actual time feeding shirts, socks, and pants into a washing machine, she seems quite intelligent on the subject of washing clothes, along with other household subjects.

I’ve yet to ask, but will very soon, “Does Rainbow still make the best vacuum cleaner for sucking up dirt, or is it Kirby?” Miss Purdy would be one to know!

METCALF, ARIZONA

“The town was named after Robert Metcalf, an early miner and prospector…”

I’d never heard of the ghost town of Metcalf, Arizona, until coming across a postcard mailed from there over 115 years ago. Miss Josephine Ross in El Paso, Texas, was the recipient. The mysterious sender simply referred to themself as “L” with a short message as follows:

“5/6th 1910

My dear Joe:-

This is a picture of Metcalf, you can see what a town it is. Love and best wishes. L”

Josephine Henrietta Ross was born in New Jersey on May 18, 1890. Her father, Seaver Ross, M.D., was a well-known doctor in Paterson, N.J.

Somewhere around 1920, Josephine married Corporal Earl Eugene Kilmer. Josephine’s husband served in the US Army during WWII. After being honorably discharged, Earl and Josephine lived in Clifton, Arizona, a mining town, and it might’ve been there that she met the mystery card sender.

In 1928, they had a son, George Earl Kilmer. After leaving Arizona, Earl worked for El Paso County in Texas, while Josephine was a stay-at-home mom.

Josephine Henrietta Ross-Kilmer died in El Paso at the age of 83 on July 4, 1973. There’s a good chance Josephine was previously married, because the last name Bonfoey popped up on her obituary as previously being hers.

Metcalf, Arizona, was a small mining town located in Greenlee County, in the southeastern part of the state. Established in the late 19th century, the town played a significant role in the copper mining boom that shaped the region’s development. Metcalf is approximately 435 miles from Lake Havasu City.

Metcalf was founded in the 1890s as prospectors and mining companies flocked to the area in search of copper deposits. The town was named after Robert Metcalf, an early miner and prospector who helped discover the rich copper veins nearby. As mining activity increased, Metcalf grew rapidly, attracting workers and their families, and soon became a bustling community with stores, schools, and churches.

The town’s fortunes were closely tied to the copper mining industry. The neighboring Morenci Mine, operated by Phelps Dodge, became one of the largest copper mines in North America and provided jobs for many Metcalf residents. Community life revolved around mining, and the town developed a vibrant culture, despite its remote location and rugged surroundings.

By the mid-20th century, changes in mining technology and company operations led to the decline of small mining towns like Metcalf. The expansion of the Morenci Mine required more land, and Metcalf was eventually dismantled to make way for open-pit mining operations. Today, little remains of the original townsite, but Metcalf is remembered as an important chapter in Arizona’s mining history.

Although Metcalf no longer exists as a populated town, its legacy lives on in the stories of mining families and the historical records of Greenlee County. The rise and fall of Metcalf reflects the broader trends in American mining history and the transformation of rural communities in the southwest.

Although some folks say that a picture is worth 1000 words, it’s a crying shame that “L” didn’t take more time and tell Josephine in her postcard a bit more about the town she lived.

AJO, ARIZONA

“Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem!”

Ajo, Arizona, is a small town located in Pima County, nestled in the southwestern corner of the state near the border with Mexico and the Tohono O’odham Nation. It is 237 miles south of Lake Havasu City. The area’s history is deeply intertwined with mining and the unique desert landscape of the Sonoran Desert.

The name “Ajo” is believed to come from the Spanish word for “garlic,” though local lore suggests it may be derived from the Tohono O’odham word “Oʼoho,” which refers to a red pigment found in the area. Native peoples used this red pigment for decoration and trade long before European settlers arrived.

Mining shaped Ajo’s development. In the 19th century, Spanish and Mexican miners extracted copper from the region. The modern era of mining began in 1916, when the New Cornelia Copper Company, later purchased by Phelps Dodge, established large-scale copper mining operations.

The open-pit mine became the economic heart of the community, attracting workers and their families, and the town was carefully planned with a central plaza and mission-style architecture.

Ajo thrived as a mining town for decades. However, in 1985, copper prices fell and the mine closed, leading to population decline and economic challenges. Despite this, Ajo has reinvented itself as a gateway community to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument and a center for art and tourism. Its historic town center, rich cultural heritage, and beautiful desert surroundings continue to attract new residents and visitors.

Today, Ajo is known for its welcoming community, vibrant arts scene, and as a hub for travelers exploring the Sonoran Desert. Its history as a mining town remains visible in the landscape and architecture, offering a glimpse into the story of the American Southwest.

Bruce Jennings lived in Ajo, having moved there after serving with the US Army Air Corps during WWII. A postcard he sent to Lottie E. Fogg on August 7, 1944, postmarked in Ajo, attests to his being in the town.

The front of the picture postcard shows a Navajo Indian camp in full color, with adults, children, and horses seemingly posed for this shot. They’ve assembled for the annual Fair and Rodeo at Window Rock, where as many as 50,000 attend.

Lottie E. Fogg, the card recipient, was born in Hartford, Connecticut, on January 31, 1892. During her early years, she worked as a factory inspector. In 1928, she married Raymond L Kelly. They had one child, a son. Her husband died soon after the child was born.

By 1930, Lottie claimed on census forms that she was a widow. The woman never remarried. Lottie passed at the age of 74 on January 15, 1966.

Clifford Bruce Jennings, the postcard sender, was born on April 3, 1919, in Tucson. After working in the mining industry at Ajo for just a short time, he reenlisted in the United States Air Force and saw duty in the Korean War. After being discharged, as a retired Master Sergeant, Bruce moved to California, where he worked for the Douglas Aircraft Company in Sacramento.

Sadly, Jennings died at the age of 47 on February 22, 1967, after taking an overdose of pills. A newspaper story reported him as despondent over the separation from his wife, Katherine. Bruce Jennings left behind three children.

I always remember the words of former United States Marine and Alaska State Trooper Dale Gibson on suicide. Sergeant Gibson had investigated many such incidents during his career as a policeman. “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem!” The late television talk show host Phil Donahue used those same words.

COLORADO BELLE

“Frank and Helen were merely rubbing things in with their postcard, as Fred was already freezing his buns off in Minnesota.”

A colorful picture postcard I came across reveals that Frank and Helen (last name unknown) were visiting Laughlin, Nevada, on September 12, 1987, undoubtedly, to do a little gambling. They’d probably never tell friends or family that, especially Reverend Archie Bunker back home in Prescott, although I doubt that is their pastor’s name. We’ll just assume it is for this story.

This postcard, sent by Frank and Helen to Mr. Fred Modlin in Hopkins, Minnesota, offers a brief glimpse into their trip to Nevada. The card was mailed from Prescott, where the couple were most likely getting ready to leave for warmer digs, perhaps even Lake Havasu City.

“Boy a week sure goes by in a hurry. We spent Tues & Wed in Laughlin at the Colorado Bell. I won’t stay there again as their new hotel is just too hard to get around. Back to the Riverside next time. It is now right about 100 degrees in Phex but it is cool here in fact we will likely need heat tonite. I don’t have any acorns to put up with, just carob beans. We are still going to try to get a little painting done but not much more than that. Frank & Helen“

Just why the Colorado Belle was so hard for Frank and Helen to get around will remain a mystery. Were they stumbling about from perhaps too much German stout? Serious beer drinkers will know what I’m talking about here. These days, with the casino doors shut tight, getting around inside is an impossibility unless you’re a rat or mouse. More on that later.

The Colorado Belle Casino was one of the most iconic landmarks in Laughlin, Nevada. Shaped like a grand paddlewheel riverboat, it stood as a symbol of the city’s vibrant gaming and tourism industry for decades.

The idea for the Colorado Belle was born in the early 1980s, as Laughlin was transforming from a modest riverside town into a bustling gaming destination. The concept was to create a casino that would evoke the romantic imagery of 19th-century riverboats navigating the mighty Colorado River. Construction began in 1980, and the project was a massive undertaking, requiring innovation to replicate the appearance and grandeur of a paddlewheel steamboat.

The casino officially opened its doors to the public in July 1981. Its unique design, complete with twin paddlewheels and towering smokestacks, made it instantly recognizable and a popular subject for postcards and photographs.

In its early years, the Colorado Belle established itself as a premier gaming destination in Laughlin. The casino offered a wide variety of slot machines and table games, while the hotel provided comfortable accommodations for visitors. Over time, the property underwent multiple renovations and expansions, adding more guest rooms, dining options, and amenities to attract a growing number of tourists.

The Colorado Belle became known not just for its gaming floor, but also for its entertainment venues, restaurants, and riverside location. The property’s riverwalk offered scenic views and easy access to the Colorado River, making it a favorite spot for both gamblers and leisure travelers.

Throughout its history, the Colorado Belle changed ownership several times as the gaming industry in Laughlin evolved. It was operated by several different companies, including Circus Circus Enterprises (which later became Mandalay Resort Group), and eventually by Golden Entertainment. Each change in ownership brought varying degrees of renovation and modernization, but the casino maintained its classic riverboat theme.

The Colorado Belle was more than just a casino; it was a community icon. The property hosted numerous events, including concerts, festivals, and poker tournaments, which drew visitors from across the region. Its distinctive design and welcoming atmosphere helped define the look and feel of Laughlin’s waterfront.

As one of the city’s original themed casinos, the Colorado Belle played a significant role in shaping the identity and tourism appeal of Laughlin. It was also a major employer, providing jobs for hundreds of local residents over the years.

The Colorado Belle Casino faced challenges in the 21st century, including increased competition and economic downturns. In March 2020, the casino closed temporarily due to the COVID-19 pandemic and, unlike many other properties, did not reopen. In June 2020, operators announced that the closure would be indefinite, citing the ongoing economic impact and uncertainty.

Today, while the riverboat structure still stands as a familiar sight on the Laughlin Strip, the Colorado Belle’s gaming floor remains dark. Despite its closure, the casino’s legacy endures in the memories of visitors and residents who experienced its unique charm. The Colorado Belle remains a symbol of Laughlin’s history, a testament to the city’s evolution from a remote outpost to a vibrant gaming and entertainment destination.

I had the opportunity to recently view the Colorado Belle up close. It is rapidly deteriorating from the excess Laughlin heat and, in a matter of time, will most likely have to be torn down.

Rodent feces could be spotted on the outside, along with the smell of mildew. Much more is needed to get the stationary paddlewheels turning than just a fresh coat of paint. The wheels actually never moved, as it was special lighting that made it seem that way.

The Colorado Belle Casino’s story mirrors the rise and transformation of Laughlin itself. From its grand opening in the early 1980s through decades of entertainment and community involvement, to its closure in 2020, the Colorado Belle remains an enduring part of Nevada’s colorful gaming history.

Unfortunately, I was unable to find Frank and Helen’s full identity, yet Frederick Edwin Modlin in Hopkins, Minnesota, was no problem. He was born in Hopkins on December 23, 1922, and died there 77 years later on November 20, 2000. It appears he was a fruit farmer like his father.

Frank and Helen were merely rubbing things in with their postcard, as Fred was already freezing his buns off in Minnesota. Some folks have a way of doing that to their family and friends living in cold states.

If Fred had been a prankster, he would’ve made a copy of the card and sent it to Reverend Archie Bunker. Their message was perfect fodder for the fictitious preacher’s next sermon on gambling addictions.

WINKLEMAN

“The person sending Emma the postcard, I believe, was a secretary based on her use of shorthand.”

Motoring along on my picture postcard expressway, I came across a vintage card mailed around 1916 from an unidentified person in Winkleman, Arizona, to Miss Emma Walk in Tucson. Emma’s address was 820 South 3rd Avenue. The handwriting was so atrocious, I have to assume the card sender wasn’t a teacher but perhaps a doctor. A color photograph of Winkleman is on front of the card.

The postmark was faint, and I was unable to positively identify the date. Just enough letters were visible to make out Winkleman as the town it was mailed from. I came up with 1916 only by researching the recipient and Emma’s age at that time, as well as information regarding the house she lived in with her folks. The message reads:

“This is the great town will gh n car by 2 PM. Had to cross 4 rivers to get here. 1. The Publicco. 2. The San Pedro. 3. The Yarovgiha & right above here the Gila River. Love to Mama Daddy & you. Mollie II”

I believe the sender misspelled a couple of river names because there are none faintly close to Publicco or Yarovgiha. The shorthand letters gh n car evidently mean get here in car. “Mollie II” was added at the top of the card, and I assume it means the family dog.

Emma Mary Walk spent almost her whole life in Tucson. Born on August 30, 1904, the only child of Karl and Mary Walk, she graduated from Tucson High School in 1924 and married Frederic Nastor Finney on August 6, 1932. The couple had three children. Fred Finney was managing editor of the “Arizona Daily Star.”

Emma worked as a secretary for the Pima County Attorney’s office, and after retiring in 1976, was highly active with the Arizona Historical Society. She was an expert on Tucson history and often volunteered to help tutor students at Safford Elementary on the subject. Mrs. Emma Walk-Finney belonged to the Tucson Kennel Club for many years and was a dog lover. Emma Mary Walk-Finney died on January 8, 2002, at the age of 97. Tragically, her husband, Fred, died in 1965 of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

The person sending Emma the postcard, I believe, was a secretary based on her use of shorthand. He or she evidently knew the family well in referring to Emma’s parents as mama and daddy. Emma would’ve been around 12 or younger at the time she received this card. Why the anonymous sender was driving to Winkleman will undoubtedly never be known. It’s reasonable to say that the “car” crossing four rivers was a skinny-tired Ford Model T.

Winkelman, Arizona, located 343 miles east of Lake Havasu City and 63 miles south of Tucson, has a rich and unique history that reflects the broader story of mining towns in the American Southwest. Located in Gila and Pinal counties, Winkelman sits on the banks of the Gila River and has long served as a gateway to the copper mining regions of Arizona.

The area around Winkelman was originally inhabited by Native American tribes, including the Apache. In the late 19th century, with the expansion of railroads and increased interest in mining, settlers began to move into the region. The town is named after Peter Winkelman, an early settler and prospector who helped develop the local mining industry.

Winkelman’s growth was closely tied to copper mining, with nearby communities such as Hayden and Kearny also playing significant roles in the area’s mining boom. The construction of the Southern Pacific Railroad in the early 1900s made transportation of ore and goods easier, leading to increased economic activity. Winkelman became a supply and residential center for miners and their families.

During its peak mining years, Winkelman developed essential infrastructure, including schools, churches, and businesses catering to local residents. The Gila River provided water for agriculture and supported the town’s daily life. Community events, such as town fairs and parades, reflected the close-knit nature of Winkelman’s population.

Like many mining towns, Winkelman experienced fluctuations in population and prosperity as the fortunes of the mining industry changed. Environmental challenges, such as flooding from the Gila River, also impacted the town’s development. As mining activities declined in the late 20th century, Winkelman faced economic hardship, with many residents moving to larger cities for work.

Today, Winkelman is a quiet town with a population of fewer than 500 people. It serves as a reminder of Arizona’s mining heritage and the resilience of small communities. Visitors can explore nearby natural attractions and learn about the region’s history through local landmarks and stories passed down through generations.

The history of Winkelman, Arizona, is a testament to the pioneering spirit of its residents and the enduring legacy of the mining industry in shaping the American Southwest. Though its days as a bustling mining center have passed, Winkelman continues to embody the character and perseverance of rural Arizona.

I’ve marked Winkleman down as a place I now want to visit. Maybe then, I’ll find out what the true names of those two rivers are.