The first time I hit Vegas was 1961, at the ripe old age of 10. I didn’t see the inside of a casino, but I remember the night like it was yesterday. Mom, Dad, plus two renters of 2/3 of our (my) backseat. Squished in our 1958 Chevy Biscayne 2 door. With me. We’d been vacationing in California and were driving home through the desert. With no air. At the time Las Vegas had a population of 64,000. It was getting dark as we drove closer, yet none of us could speak. There ahead, quite narrow but very long was a sprawling, sparkly city of dazzling lights. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

This sign still stands, welcoming all to Sin City…

The city was alive and bustling. And hot. We were all pooped. And hot. Folks finally decided to stop. Mom checked out several motel/hotels. If there was a vacancy sign, she’d get out of the car, stop in the office and ask the price first, then ask to see a room. If the room or surroundings weren’t up to her high standards, (many establishments were not) we’d press on. She had a cleanliness phobia. I know we didn’t stay on the Strip, but the room was clean and obviously within our budget (thus making the grade for our sojourners, the renters hogging my back seat). The small motel had an outdoor POOL. I was beyond excited. The night air had cooled and my swim in the pool felt like warm bath water. Goodness it just didn’t get any better than that. I’d gone swimming in the Pacific but it had been frigid the day we were at the beach. I was ready to stay here a week. I think Dad was hesitant about stopping in Las Vegas, like some bad viral gambling habit was going to hop on board and follow us to Iowa.

My twin Kruizenga cousins and me in the freezing California Pacific, 1961…

It would be 35 years before I gave Las Vegas another thought. One of Hubs buddy’s asked if we were interested in going to Vegas for a couple of days? Well sure. Not a memorable trip, but we stayed at the old Tropicana. About 5 years later, the same friend asked if we’d like to go again. By then we had moved to North Muskegon, making the drive much longer to Detroit Metro. So was the stay. Five days equaling 120 hours, or 7,200 long, excruciating minutes. We were leaving very early Monday morning on a plane specifically headed to Vegas. I think they called it a party plane. You know right off the bat, this just isn’t me.

The flight was delayed so most everyone sat around drinking (not me, it was 8 am for pete’s sake). Finally we took off with about 90% of the passengers 3 sheets gone. Just kill me now. Loud, obnoxious and not very funny. Pretty sure I’m the only person who’s gonna remember that flight. One dude sitting close to us asked a stewardess how much beer (quantity) was on the plane? She gave him a figure, he said, “I’ll take it.” She explained that wasn’t fair to the rest of the passengers because there wouldn’t be beer anyone else. (like anyone needed more? Maybe me by this time) He shot back, “I’m buying all of it to give it away!” Oh boy.

One of the casinos when we drove through in 1961…

We finally landed and were shuffled off to our hotels. Hubs and I were staying at the Excalibur. The lines to check in snaked halfway through the lobby. Instantly, the noise bothered me. I’m pretty sure I was either losing my hearing and didn’t realize it, or the Excalibur caused my deafness. Hundreds of one armed bandits being pulled simultaneously, accompanied by those noisy falling coins. Banging, clanging, clunking. I was instantly uncomfortable and twitchy. While John played slots languishing through the long line, I stood and waited, shivering. The casino owners don’t want you nodding off or you’ll wind up in your room sleeping instead of gambling. I’ve found casino floors (not the actual floors, then again I’ve never checked) to be on the chilly side. I had researched temps for Las Vegas in May. Mid-80’s or higher. I brought my swim suit, (laid out every morning by 8:30 before it got hot) shorts, sandals and sleeveless tops. Wrong. I needed fleece and Cuddl Duds. Try finding that in Sin City during May. I did manage to buy some slacks and a couple of long sleeve tops to wear. Looked like a homeless woman all week in my 7 layers, but I was more comfortable.

After Hubs got our room key, he sauntered over carrying a small bucket. Filled with quarters so I could have some fun. Whee. At the end of the week, he glanced at the bucket, 75% full. “You won all this? That’s great. Fun, wasn’t it?” “Umm, no, this is the same bucket of change.” “You mean you lost about a half an inch of quarters? During 5 whole days? And this is what’s still left?” “Yup.”

Part of the Strip in 1961…

I don’t have a problem spending money. I love to shop. (Ok maybe a small problem, just keeping it real) I can buy a top for $75 bucks, wear it twice, then realize it makes my butt look humongous. Toss it in a bag and bring it to Goodwill, and not feel too bad. I might feel stupid for buying the shirt in the first place. Why didn’t I turn around and check the 18 mirrors to see how the sweater looked on my big ass before ringing it up? Not prone to glance at my big butt too often I guess. For some bizarre reason, I can’t put pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters or heaven forbid dollar bills in a slot machine. I equate slot machines to throwing money down a toilet. Just can’t do it.

One of a dozen Kors bags. Yup, I like to shop, not gamble…

I spent most of the long week in a sports lounge. They had several big screen TV’s with every game on imaginable. A diehard Cubs fan, I’d just sit and watch their game. No one knew if I had placed a bet. Good grief, much as I love them, who in their right mind would bet on the Cubs anyway? Though definitely in 2016. Yay Cubbies. I’d head back in our room by 8 or 9 cause all my favorite programs were having their season finales. Ah, the good life. By Wednesday Hubs was up a grand and feeling guilty about not doing much together. We started walking the Strip, ending our walk at Caesars Palace. What a magnificent place (except for the gambling part). A plethora of small shops, we wandered into a Coach store, buying my very first, a navy bag the size of Delaware.

Thursday we rented a car and drove out to Hoover Dam. Not very many tourists, so we got the royal treatment. Our guide took us into the deepest bowels of the dam. He told us though construction started in 1931 (same year they legalized gambling in Las Vegas) the cement was still not dry (some 50 plus years later). I believe it’s about 8 feet thick. For me, Hoover Dam was the best part of our trip, bar none. We watched Mountain Goats climb precariously straight up solid rock, and wander amazingly close to us with absolutely no fear of humans.

Big Horn Sheep roam around Hoover freely…

That trip to Vegas was 20 years ago, and I really never thought about going back. But we just did, twice. We flew to Vegas with the idea of staying one night, renting a car and driving to Yuma. Didn’t realize that our flight was before and during the Super Bowl. John thinks he’s a football fan, but that’s really not accurate. He’s a Minnesota Vikings fan. Once they’re out of it (they were never really in it this year) he’s done. We arrived at Hooters just as the game is headed to overtime. We were tired and hungry. I’d never been to a Hooters before, our ‘goal’ was some of their famous wings and a good nights sleep. Not to be. Every restaurant in Hooters was closed for private super bowl parties. We waited with assurance once the game ended they’d reopen to the public. Forty-five minutes later we were told the cooks had to re-prep and it would be another hour. Now crabby, tired and hungry we walked to the Tropicana and had pasta.

One armed bandit…

After 12 great days in Yuma, (thanks Les, Mary Jane and Marco the dentist) we drove back to Las Vegas on Friday to drop off the rental and hop on a plane Monday morning. At 6 am. Yes, that meant waking up at 2:30. We stayed 2 nights so we could visit our niece Wendy and her family. Which was the best part of this Las Vegas trip. The weather was horrible. Cold, rainy, we never saw the sun or 60 degrees in Nevada. On Sunday we hit the Premium Outlet Mall early for a new Michael Kors bag. (Sorry Coach, you lost me 10 years ago with over-saturating the market with subpar merchandise). We both wanted to go back to the Hoover Dam which they’ve completely redone. Number one, our national treasure was packed. Fantastic to see such a long line of cars. Families with strollers, back packs filled with snacks, hikers hitting the nearby trails. Steady stream of walking traffic in and out of souvenir shops. Never knew the (2010) bypass bridge around Hoover which spans the Colorado River between Nevada and Arizona was dedicated to Pat Tillman. He was a Arizona Cardinals safety from 1998-2001. He quit pro football and joined the Army Rangers in 2002 and was killed in Afghanistan. That bridge bears 2 names, the other is Mike O’Callaghan who I know nothing about. Sorry Mike.

The Pat Tillman By-Pass, opened in 2010…

Back to the Tropicana for our last short night. As I’m walking through the casino I can’t help but feel sorry for the people gambling. Isthat weird? I don’t know any of them and don’t really care if they’re losing money they can ill afford. It seems worse now than 20 years ago. Not bigger numbers, the casinos didn’t seem that busy. But the glazed, lost, hopeless looks on their faces. Now you don’t even have to pull the one arm bandit. There’s a button that you just smack. It reminds me of my former favorite TV program, The Walking Dead. (Dudes, you lost me in the first episode this year, the second Glenn was killed. How could you? Seriously?) There’s a zombie impaled on a wrought iron piece of fence, but until he gets shot, arrowed, macheteed, knifed, hammered, baseball batted or stabbed in the head, he will not die the second time. But he no longer has the strength or smarts to undo his miserable situation. So he keeps making those annoying noises and herky-jerky-itty-bitty movements. Exactly like those slack-faced gamblers. Smacking that bet button. Over and over and over…

It seemed like a most unusual love affair. John’s brother Les is a real Iowan. Loved his state, his job, his town, his home, his life. The least likely candidate to catch a bad case of wanderlust. But that’s exactly what happened. I believe the blame might lie with his better half, my sister-in-law Mary Jane. From here on out be advised, her real name is Mary Jane, but she also answers to Jane, Mary or MJ, so as I’m telling the story, it’s all the same gal, just by whatever I feel like calling her in that sentence.

Les and his famous mustache…

About 10 years ago, Les was having some pretty serious back issues. This just wasn’t his style. He didn’t call in sick, he rarely took vacations. Goodness, he was needed at work, he couldn’t be gone, and he was used to heavy, physical labor. But his back and leg didn’t get better, it got worse. He needed surgery. I believe 2 surgeries were required. Major bummer for a workaholic with a less than average amount of patience. Sorry Les, but after 75 years, somebody had to say it. And as kindly as I could.

So surgery fixed the problem but recovery took it’s time and a toll. He was sick to death of working jigsaw puzzles, and everything and everyone was getting on his last nerve. Mary Jane decided Les needed a change of scenery. They were in the middle of a nasty Iowa winter and getting out, doing things were impossible. MJ suggested they go away for a few days and visit some friends who no longer spent their winters in Iowa. Blasphemy. Well at times Mary (she knows when these times are just right for a subtle push) can be a bit assertive herself. “Les, you’re bored, you’re crabby and we can’t get out to do anything. We’re going away. Period.” Alrighty then.

Called a Prickly Pear, when it blooms the flowers are fluorescent…

They had some friends who spent some of Iowa’s endless winter in Arizona. That sounded like a plan. Les conceded, well maybe a day or 2 would be ok. (Kind of a long ways to go for 48 or 72 hours but you have to take your victories where you can get them when you’re married to a Van Berkum. I should know). They spent a couple days with friends enjoying weather and landscapes as opposite as Iowa’s deep black soil and white winters. Guess what? “Hey Mikey, he liked it!” Not long after Les and Jane got back, their friends called with this enticing tidbit. “There’s a place for sale near our house. “Are ‘ya interested?” Maybe. They flew back to Arizona, looked at several places and bought one a couple days later. But it was already mid-March, that’s when the snowbirds start leaving Arizona, not moving in. So it would be about 9 months before Les and Mary would retreat to their winter retreat.

Aptly named the Hedgehog Cactus…

Les and Jane stayed 7 or 8 weeks that first winter. And the little Iowa boy who seemed the least likely to love winter anywhere but Iowa grew to love the weather in Arizona during the winter. Each year they’d go a little bit earlier and stay a couple weeks longer. Les didn’t miss the blizzards, below zero temps and snow-blowing twice a day at all. He looked forward to the large group of new and old friends they had in Arizona. And one of the things they all had in common-enjoying better weather during the winter.

Eye in the sky, one of many around Yuma. This blimp was grounded when we drove past…

About 8 years ago was when I started hearing stories from MJ about Les and his fascination with ‘the desert.’ He and some of his cronies (ok, let’s just call them his crew) would go exploring. Maybe the desert looked boring to some, but to Les it held all kinds of neat secrets. Places that needed further inspection and examination. Roads not much more than 2-tracks, but took him to caves, old mines, landscapes with different and bizarre cacti, animals, snakes including rattlers. Yikes. He bought books and studied cacti and areas of the desert, always learning and respecting it’s sheer magnitude. Exploring pretty much everything which wasn’t found in Iowa. He loved it! Les learned early you never, and I do mean ever, go to the desert by yourself. Always more than one person in a car, and more importantly, always more than one car. (This after his first ‘desert car’ a Tracker had to be towed 80 miles).

The entrance to my day in the desert, 2017…

Often Les went with his crew, other times the gals would go along. Exploring the surrounding desert got to be a pretty regular occurrence. Les learned when the desert would change and virtually come alive. Usually the month of March, the cacti get kind of show-offy and start blooming like crazy. I’m very disappointed to miss blooming time in the desert. Mary Jane says it’s simply stunning and pictures don’t do it justice. My problem? I really don’t need to be gone from Michigan in March. We have some decent days, snow starts melting, the days get longer and life outside is sometimes bearable. Barely. I need to get away sometime between January 15 and March 1st, which feels like about 6 months. Minimum. Honest. February is the longest, shortest month we have.

Thumb Butte, always around…

After we arrived, Mary Jane (our social director) put things in perspective. Dentist first, everything else to follow. My initial visit with Marco, the Mexican dentist, included 3 hours of prep work, we then had a week to fritter away before the crowns and bridge were ready. What else could we do besides sight see and eat, right? Let’s not forget the Margarita’s. Jane’s an expert concocting those little gems.

I don’t know why I just assumed it would be Les, his crew and John heading out to the desert. Call me dumbfounded when Les looked right at me and asked, “do you want to go out to the desert with us?” My quick wit was warping through my head with the speed of sloth and I nearly blurted, “aren’t we already in the desert?” Luckily I caught my slow self and said “sure” instead. Les talked to some of his neighbors (mostly Canadian couples) and by the time the desert day dawned on me, we had 4 Jeeps heading out to-not even sure where we were going. But I was included.

Little sentries lined up…

Since I hadn’t planned on a day in the desert with Les, I wasn’t prepared. Keen sandals on my feet when everyone else wore socks and shoes. Les’ jeep is a two door and pretty high off the ground. Mary Jane’s had both knees replaced yet she somehow managed to nimbly hop up behind the front seat, snake her way to the other seat, while John noisily hoisted this little heifer with some of his blood, sweat & tears. And some bad words. I might have mooed. And snorted. And swore. It wasn’t pretty.

They seem to multiply like bunnies…

After driving out of Yuma (my built in GPS has not started working yet in Arizona so I have no idea which direction we were going. Plus I give not a shit). Les, leader of the pack, pulled off the hiway and stopped. Everyone got out of their 4-wheel drives. I felt like I was on a cliff, the ground was so far, far away. Hubs finally just grabbed me and set me down. Hard. While Mary Jane patiently waited to spring forth after the clod-me. I looked at the flat, bland surroundings and thought we’d hike a half mile, turn around and drive back to civilization. Everyone smiled at each other, drank a couple sips of water-AND CLIMBED BACK INTO THEIR VEHICLES. We weren’t even close to anywhere yet. Just kill me now. I tripped up the nine endless feet into the back seat and boinked my head on the soft top.

Unknown species to this gal. Pretty…

Our destination was Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Established in 1939 to protect Desert Bighorn Sheep, it’s part of the Yuma and Sonoran Deserts and includes 1.5 million acres. And yes we covered them all. Kidding, but we did go about 15 miles in on what might be loosely called a road. It did have a gravel base, but pretty big rocks were everywhere. And our jeep rode over everyone of those puppies. I kept track. But Les, our fearless leader did take the road seriously. And pretty slow.

Typical road. Shaking my temporary crowns right out of my mouth!

The first stop ended up being the only one I regretted for the day (besides getting in and out of the dang jeep a half dozen times). It’s called Copper Cup Mine, and you could see all the way through it. I should have just enjoyed the view and not attempted going through. In my defense, I was either the youngest person there or close to it. Couldn’t be embarrassed and choose not to participate. Pride, it’s ugly at times. First off, there were steep little peaks and valleys loaded with slippery rocks just getting to the mine. Sandals were not the right footwear. I slipped and slid to the entrance. Les handed me a flashlight and said he was going first to make sure we didn’t find a napping rattle snake. It was dark, and the floor was full of uneven stones. My balance is wobbly at best, and I found myself grasping for the walls to keep my balance. I didn’t fall, but didn’t come out unscathed either. Lots of little cuts on my hands and wrists.

Les and Brian halfway through Copper Cup Mine. Sharp, jutting sides…

I never knew there are so many mountains around Yuma, when the whole area is virtually surrounded by mountains. It’s quite breathtaking. Throughout our day at Kofa, a constant was this one mountain called Thumb Butte. It remained in our view most of the day on one side of us or another. Les mentioned it several times and I’d have to search until I spotted it again.

Large brown rock like mountains against the cloudy sky…

The variety of cactus was simply amazing. While some species seemed to share real estate, several seemed to claim some acres to themselves. And in that little snippet of desert it would be about the only kind we would see for a spell. Giant Saguaros with limbs and appendages reaching skyward. I believe they don’t start those little growth spurts until they hit puberty which is like 70 in human years.

Limbs a-plenty on this giant Saguaro…

Teddy Bear Chollas cactus, now they’re a trip. They look all fuzzy and warm standing about 3 feet tall. On the ground near every one of them resembles the old woman who lived in a shoe. Dozens of cuddly babies that roll off mama and just sit there on the ground. Waiting. For some wind or maybe few drops of rain to get them rooted where they start their own family.

Sure looks warm and fuzzy. Not…

Then there’s the spindly, lovely green Ocotillo. Kind of bush-like, they grow quite tall. There were a couple Ocotillos we saw that were clearly ahead of schedule, because they were starting to bloom. Just the tips of a few of the tops were turning bright orange with little flowers.

The babies just waiting to put down roots…

The Red Barrel cactus stood out because of his color, but they’re weren’t as many of them in Kofa. Les has one of in his yard. OK, funny side story. This year has been really odd because Yuma’s had so much rain. Usually while Les and Jane winter here, they might encounter one or two rains adding up to about a quarter of an inch. This year Yuma’s had 6 rains. Thus the desert, even the shoulders along the hi ways are a lush green when they’re usually drab brown. But green isn’t always good either. When this low green ground cover dies, it’s a fire hazard which can be very dangerous and deadly. After a couple of rains this winter, Les (or more likely MJ) decided the windows were dusty and dirty and needed washing. Les and his trusty ladder got nominated. Well, Les took a tumble and landed smack dab in his Red Barrel Cactus. Poor little cactus lost 13 of his sweet little quills to Les’ back. So Mary Jane had to remove them because it’s illegal to wear those quills in Arizona. Ok, I’m done with cacti.

Quite a burst of color on the Red Barrel…

I was kind of bummed about the wildlife part of Kofa. The first 2 hours I saw one tiny gecko dart across the road in front of our jeep. But the animals finally showed up after we stopped at the fancy restaurant where the road ended. Really there was no restaurant, but we brought Subway sandwiches, water and pop. Loosely sat in a circle of nice shade and enjoyed a nice hour of visiting.

John, Les, me and Brian during our restful lunch…

Since there’s only one road, we had to return the same way we went in, but you see totally different plants and landscapes because I was looking on the other side of the road. On top of a gnarly tree, I finally spotted a bird. He looked like a Cardinal with that cute tuft on top of his head, but he was completely jet black. After I got home, I looked him up and sure enough, it was a Northern Phainopepla. But the animal angels saved the best for last. We were a couple of miles away from the entrance of Kofa when I yelled, “Les, stop!” Just ahead and to our right was a Big Horn Sheep. Les slammed on the brakes not knowing what was wrong. Then Les, John and Jane noticed him. He took off across the road in front of us. Followed quickly by 2 more Big Horns. They started up a small hill, stopped midway and watched us. Through 9 years of desert days with Les, Mary Jane has never seen a Big Horn. The Sheep stood there for a few minutes, facing uphill, with their butts in our full view. Sorry about that. I asked them to please turn around and pose nicely for the camera. Their response, “kiss my ass.” No matter. A fabulous day. Again. Me, the forever doubting Thomas had the best time ever. It’s been a week since my day in the desert, and I think my left kidney has finally slipped back to where God originally intended it reside, more or Les…

Hard to see, so I zoned in on their butts (the little white specks)…

We’re in Arizona for 2 weeks, visiting Hubs brother Les and sister-in-law Mary Jane. They bought a place in Yuma 9 years ago and have been spending several months a year in this nice warm climate. For those of you who don’t know what an Iowa winter is like, don’t ask. Or worse yet, try one to see how much you enjoy it. Trust me when I say about 99% of Iowans are fiercely loyal to their beloved Hawkeye state, but in order to maintain sanity, keep your fingers and toes intact, most would leave that state in a heartbeat for anywhere warm during their endless winter. We’ve been invited to visit, and decided the time was right. But I’m missing 2 of Landon’s basketball games, and yes I’m feeling the guilt. Counting on Shannon and Tracey to message me through the game.

The Yuma Territorial Prison, 1876. The stone work is beautiful…

Let me get our first day here out of the way. It was long for all of us. It all started with this dang tooth of mine nearly 2 years ago. I don’t have good teeth. If I were a horse, I’d have been put down decades ago. Nobody’s fault. Mom always sent me to my favorite dentist, Doc Schroeder. And I’m a faithful with my brushing, and flossing to the point I drive my family nuts. Every time I eat anything, I have to bush my teeth. Mouth is full of bridges where little particles get stuck and drive my tongue and head to distraction. I faithfully carry toothpaste, brush, dental pick and floss in my purse and lunch bag at work.

The guards tower. There were several escapes, botched and successful…

I had this root canal tooth that broke off at my gum line. Went to the dentist with the idea I’d probably have to sink a couple grand in a new bridge. Not so fast Neese. Bridges are a thing of the past. Not hip or cool. They hurt the integrity of the teeth on either side. (I guess I’m rather short on integrity with my mouth and teeth). Now we do implants. No, not the boob kind, the toothy kind. They did their hard sell this way. You get the tooth pulled and have a bone graft which takes a few months to heal (so you can keep paying). Then they start the implant which takes several months (so you can keep paying). By the time 18 months have passed, you have a beautiful permanent tooth for $4,600.00. (But that’s ok because you’ve had so many months to pay).

The Dark Hole. Solitary was horrible in this cage…

There’s just no way I can spend $4,600.00. ON ONE TOOTH. Enter Mary Jane. Since residing in Yuma part time for the last few years, she got acquainted with a fabulous dentist in Mexico, about 20 miles away. A mere pittance compared to American dentistry. And he went to school in Michigan. Well hook me up, Sista. Which is exactly what she did after she heard what I needed done. We crossed the border by 8:30 and I was getting the prep work for a couple of crowns and new bridge by 10. Temporaries are in place until next week. Thanks MJ. Now back to my jail house story.

Room without a view. Each cell housed 6 men in this tiny room…

We started off our second day by meeting a large group for breakfast at a local senior resort park Clubhouse. Those in attendance? All Iowans. What a hoot! About 40 folks showed up. Right here in Yuma. One lady I’ve thought about several times over the years, but hadn’t seen for a half century. She was an elementary grade school teacher of mine when I was very young. Her name is Myrna Ver Hoef.

The crimes they committed. Some were such minor infractions…

Now most of my teachers were never of great importance to me. I was a lazy, do-as-little-as-possible student during my reign of terror school days. The social aspect was vitally important to me, the study part, not so much. One of my many regrets. But Mrs. Ver Hoef played a very important role in my life. She happened to be my second grade teacher, which is the year I lost my 12 year old brother, Larry. Myrna showed me so much love and compassion that year. Way beyond necessary and far above her piddly pay grade I’m sure. It was lovely to see her and we hope to get together again before I leave.

The Yuma Territorial Prison Band. Unbelievable…

After meeting scads of people, enjoying food and fellowship, Les suggested we tour a rather famous prison. The Yuma Territorial Prison is right off the interstate. It looks as though it was carved right out of the rocky hillside. It was. The prison opened in 1876, before Arizona was even a state, thus the Territorial part. The charter members of this exclusive club were especially lucky. They were selected to build the prison that would house themselves. Fun. During the 33 years this facility remained open, about 3,000 men and 29 women would spend some serious time in Yuma Territorial Prison. Although primitive, the prison had many modern conveniences not yet available to the general public, including electricity and forced ventilation system with running fans! The library boasted 2,000 books. There were 2 bathtubs and 3 showers. Everyone got a shower once a week whether they needed it or not. All the modern conveniences. Until you noticed the actual prison part, which was known as the Hell Hole.

Interesting stats they kept…

There was one cell in the side of the rocky hill for serious offenders. Maybe the first solitary confinement. Called the ‘dark cell,’ it was more like a cave. The only light it offered was through a small vent hole in the roof. Unless you well were under 5 feet tall, standing upright was impossible. The occupants (sometimes more than one offender) were fed only bread and water once a day. No bathroom facilities of any kind, the place smelled absolutely horrible. The guards would regularly toss snakes and scorpions down the vent hole for laughs. The prison on a whole was insufferable. The desert heat made it feel like an inferno. The prison was surrounded by rivers, quick sand and the endless desert. Ball and chains were attached to many legs.

Ball and chain, no joke…

The cells were minuscule, and housed 6 guys per unit. The metal bunks looked about 30 inches wide, 3 to a stack. No mattress, just a hard board with about 2 feet in between the other stack of 3. Gravel floor, one little piss pot to do your business. We had to duck to get into the women’s section, which I think housed only 2 gals to a room. The warden and guards seemed quite ill-at-ease with the women prisoners. Like they didn’t quite know what to do with them. One of the ladies, Pearl Hart wound up pregnant during her stint in Yuma and gave birth to a darling baby boy who remained with his mommy for 2 years. I believe the governor pardoned her just to be rid of her. The guards wrote how relieved they were when mom and toddler was released because she was such a trouble maker. Nobody missed Pearl, but everyone missed her little boy!

Pearl Hart looks innocent enough, but she was a piece of work…

Some of the crimes and misdemeanors were almost laughable, unless you’d already been convicted and sentenced for it. One guy was sentenced because he refused to marry the judge’s homely daughter. Adultery, seduction, selling booze to Indians, prize fighting, polygamy. Crazy stuff. The youngest inmate was 14, the oldest 88.

One male lifer, when not visiting The Dark Cell, knit these beauties…

The Yuma Territorial Prison closed in 1909 when a new state prison was erected in Florence, Arizona. Yuma then used the prison from 1910-1914, wait for it-as their local High School. Story goes that Phoenix High School meandered down for a football game during Yuma’s stint of prison turned high school. Yuma was teased unmercifully, especially when Yuma score and went ahead. Phoenix started taunting Yuma, yelling, “Criminals, Criminals! ” Over and over. Well, the joke was on Phoenix. Yuma loved the name and adopted it as their team motto. Kept it over a hundred years now, though usually shortened to just “The Crims!” The high school’s merchandise shop is aptly named, “The Cell Block.” Clever. Go Crims!!

The name stuck since 1910. Love it. Yuma High Criminals…

Who knew all this history lurking near the hi way in Yuma? Certainly not this Iowa/Michigan grandma. I was truly fascinated by our little one hour stop at Yuma’s Territorial Prison. Consider this your history lesson for the day. Next up, a lesson concerning deserts. You’re welcome…

Ha-ha! The Yuma High School 2016 Wrestling Team. Go Crims…