Tom and Mike

When Michael Ratner passed away this week, Phoenix lost one of its true heroes. He bought the revived Tom's Tavern downtown in 1992 and never stopped fighting to keep this landmark going. Tom's played a big part in my personal history: It's a setting in many of the David Mapstone books, and Mike played host to the launch party of my first mystery, Concrete Desert. For years, he had my books for sale at the tavern. On our columnist lunches, E. J. Montini, Richard Ruelas and I sometimes went to Tom's. Tippling happened.

Tom's was one of my hangouts, and Mike always wanted to know how I was doing, even when I paid visits after being thrown out of Phoenix. He was that kind of man, caring about others, not one to dwell on his battle with cancer. He'd sit me at the "governor's table" or the "mayor's table," then join me to talk. Mike was a worrier. Tom's always seemed on the edge, even with its history and location at the foot of the Renaissance Towers close to city and county government. He hung on through light rail construction, creating events for symphony and other event-goers. The Great Recession was another storm to weather.  He lovingly preserved history, from the portraits of past and current leaders to mementos of the tavern's rich past, in a town that has no use for it.

He transcended the era of John Teets, Jerry Colangelo and other bigs who had the vision and means to work for a great city. In his modest way, he was one of the last stewards standing. A great restaurant operator, he could have made big money in Scottsdale or the other 'burbs. He chose to make his stand in the heart of the city.

Phoenix in December

I made a quick trip back home to speak at the Arizona Library Association annual conference. Sorry to all the friends I couldn't see, but beyond the speech I wanted to drive around and see the city, especially to gather material for the next Mapstone mystery, South Phoenix Rules. Some non-literary observations:

— The gigantic rental car facility is one of those head-shakers. It's so big that I suppose it could become the terminal for the much smaller city that Phoenix may become because of the Great Disruption. In any event, how much did this monster cost and why wasn't that money put into a speed-up of the people-mover to connect with light rail? It's the usual backward thinking and spending, assuming the future will be based on single-occupancy car trips. The "landscaping" and "public art" out front are hideous. Saguaros baking in tightly packed gravel is totally ahistorical for the oasis city that was Phoenix, not a natural look for the Sonoran Desert and plain cayo-ugly. Nice job, Frank.

— Christmas is always magical in Phoenix. As a child, I watched snowy Midwestern holiday scenes on television, but I knew the first Christmas came in the desert. This was especially enchanting with a rainstorm swirling, making the transplanted Midwesterners complain. I let it fall on me as I walked to the hotel next to the Willo district, feeling centered to be in the old 'hood. The rain is so precious, especially in this drought. Has it occurred to anyone that what makes the Sonoran Desert special, so rich in its plant and animal life, is its relatively high rainfall. A few decades like this and it will become more like the Mojave and Chihuahua deserts — bleak and bereft. But you "won't have to shovel sunshine."

The old city

The old city

Downtown_Phoenix_looking_northeast_1950s

Phoenix in the 1950s.

I carry a memory of old Phoenix — and feel its loss profoundly — in a way that's probably unusual even for natives of my generation. It's not nostalgia; I know too much about the place for that. It's a more complex reaction, to history thrown aside, opportunities lost and the destruction of a very flawed paradise, but a paradise nonetheless.

It was not really captured in the Channel 8 documentaries on Phoenix in the 1950s and 1960s. As popular as those shows were, they were a classic example of telling history through the lens of the present. Hence, we saw much about sprawl (the start of Maryvale and Sun City) and Sky Harbor. They missed so, so much. What they missed are the things I describe in talks when I say, "If you arrived in Phoenix after 1970, I feel sorry for you."

I was fortunate to grow up in central Phoenix in the late 1950s and 1960s, fortunate, too, to be the offspring of a mother and grandmother who were Arizonans with history in their bones. We lived in a house built in 1928, in an old neighborhood close to downtown. I attended the same grade school as Barry Goldwater, Paul Fannin and Phoenix Mayor Margaret Hance. It was different from growing up in suburbia.