Page 35 - the NOISE October 2014

chapter 5 ...
a town in crisis ManageMent
A 1968 report prepared for the Historical Society to make recommendations about how to attract tourism read:
“Jerome was still very close to decay, particularly in the busi- ness district. Every day finds another wall in the business district a little nearer collapse and another building a little nearer the point of no return ... Piles of rat-infested rubble or empty foun- dations are not the kind of thing that can be advertised as tourist attractions. Continuation... can only lead to the final disappear- ance of ‘historic’ Jerome.”
It was not just the business district that was in trouble. Many homes in Jerome had significant damage and were no longer considered livable. Many areas were firetraps. And be- cause the big buildings that visually dominated Jerome were boarded up, the town looked like a ramshackle ghost town.
It was extremely difficult to bring Jerome out of its reces- sionary, survival mode. A sustainable source of income and something of a miracle were needed. Fortunately, both oc- curred, but from wholly unexpected directions that had little to do with tourism or mining history.
... chapter 6
the invasion of the hippies
Change blew in from an unexpected direction. About 175 cultural and social renegades took up residence in Jerome during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Some were artists, writers, and musicians; some were homosexuals; some could not stand authority of any kind; some were Korean War or Vietnam vets; a few were computer programmers and scien- tists. Esther Burton, one of Jerome’s new residents, put all of themintoonecategory,“Thebackwashoftheavant-garde.” I call them hippies in this book because that is how the major- ity of the people that lived here considered them.
It was also how many of the newcomers referred to each other. They were counterculture people at odds with the es- tablished mores. They felt disenfranchised of the principles of nonviolence that they held so dear. Through a large, informal underground linked by rock ’n’ roll, LSD and pot, communal living and free love, Jerome became known as a desirable hip- pie redoubt, along with San Francisco’s Haight Ashbury and Taos, New Mexico. The hippies arrived in their wildly painted VW buses, Plymouth Valiants, and Chevy pickups.
Many were young, and like the town itself, derelicts with many needs. They had yet to figure out their future. They rented dilapidated shacks and rooms in equally dilapidated apartments for as little as fifteen dollars a month and bought homes for under a thousand dollars.
Because Jerome was a hundred miles from any large urban area, a frontier-like, free-for-all atmosphere prevailed. The hippies’ appetite for drugs and sex went virtually unchecked. They sprinkled hashish on their scrambled eggs, smoked pot, munched peyote buttons and brownies made with pot, and took copious amounts of LSD. They planted pot in their back- yards and makeshift greenhouses. They went to Sycamore Canyon and the Verde River where they dropped their clothes and hung out and philosophized about a future free from as- sassinations and war and full of peace, love, and brotherhood.
With so much room for improvisation, the hippies began
to reinvent their lives. Jerome became their portal of rein- carnation; a town of like-minded spirits cherished, protected, and accepted by their peers. They knit themselves into one big, extended, dysfunctional family. From this rowdy bunch would come many of Jerome’s future political leaders, innova- tors, builders, artists, business owners, and scoundrels.
arrival tales
When did you arrive? and Where did you live? were part of most any conversation I had with people who lived in Jerome. These were some of the answers they gave me. Although not everybody called themself a hippie, most of the people they partied with were, so it was sometimes difficult to make distinc- tions. You will meet the people mentioned below in many of the chapters that follow, as they helped in Jerome’s restoration.
Dave Hall: (arr. 1970)
My first home in Jerome was the bottom floor of Anne, George, and Nick Laddich’s house on East Avenue. I had saved $300 to move here and the rent was $35 a month. Other people who lived on that street were the Dimitrovs, Pecharichs, Selnas, and Vincents. All of them had dogs and all of them barked. I made friends with Mama Laddich, who called me ‘boy,’ spoke in broken English and brought me borscht and strudels. The Dimitrovs were spooky folks that had a mentally retarded daughter they kept locked up, but sometimes she’d escape and they’d run up and down the street chasing her.
Living on that street felt old world, very Eastern Europe. I guess I fit in pretty good. I didn’t have long hair. I was not totally scary to them like some of the hippies. I was pretty much a hermit who painted and drew. But I did go to the big pool in Sycamore Canyon and swam naked and smoked dope and took LSD with the dozens of other hippies around. To make money, I drove a little route between Prescott and Flagstaff where people paid $10 for my drawings.
Dave cofounded the shop, Made In Jerome Pottery; he became fire chief in 1981.
Katie Lee: (arr. 1971)
Betty Bell had a gallery uptown and it was her fault I was here. She knew of a house for rent. ‘No way I’m going to live on damaged earth. It’s a dead town.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Betty, ‘but you’ll love the price.’ I went to see it. Ninety dollars a month was way less than the $250 a month I paid in Sedona.
There was black and white linoleum in the front entrance, and one wall was painted the most god-awful purple with green trim. It was the most horrible color combo I’d ever seen. The windows faced down the gulch, which looked like an ugly junk pile. I paid the rent, moved my furniture and plants, put my bags down, and handed the keys to the only two guys I knew and asked them to please water my plants.
Then I headed to Princeton, New Jersey, to begin anoth- er tour of the United States as a folk singer.
Katie has served as a board member of the Jerome His- torical Society. She is a published author, singer & song- writer, and an activist for Southwest environmental causes,
which are primarily directed at draining Powell Reservoir and letting the Colorado River once again run wild!
Doyle Vines: (arr. 1971)
I was twenty-one years old, disillusioned, grasping for sanity following a nervous breakdown that was triggered by a tragic love affair. Although it was sunny in the valley, as I drove up the road to Jerome, I became encased in a dense fog. The time of year was around Thanksgiving. I made the turn at the Spirit Room and parked.
I saw a glow through the fog, crossed the street and walked toward it. I walked into the Spirit Room, which was full of long hairs just like me. Some of the guys were playing pool. Some of the ladies, most in long skirts, were sitting around sewing, knitting, and laughing. There were babies asleep in their snugglies, baskets, and on top of blankets and coats on the benches. Cats and dogs peace- fully curled together under the pool table.
I walked in from the silence of the fog into abundant life. I fell instantly in love with Jerome. I felt I had found home.
Doyle served as town manager, town clerk, assistant town clerk, city planner, zoning administrator, building inspector and crewman, some concurrently.
Paul nonnast: (arr. 1972)
When I came to this place for the first time, I got hit in my solar plexus. There was a sense of nostalgia and some latent memory of having seen it before. A poignant déjà vu. I remember standing at the post office and looking up to the warehouse and my solar plexus was yawning open, with no rational reason why, but it seemed a pretty pro- found response to being here.
The only car on the street was an old Ford Falcon. The windows were very grey and foggy, like the windows of the church across the street. Newspapers were piled so high that I could see three little yipping dogs running up and down and around like one of those horse carousels you see in carnivals.
My eyes drifted out to the dirt road leading out of town from the old post office. Two funky miners were coming into town on their burros loaded with panning equipment and rock hammers.
As I looked down Main Street, a woman with tobacco- colored glasses, wearing a long dress from the thirties, sat statue-like outside a rock shop.
The only sound was Caruso’s operatic tenor blaring from a scratched record. I walked to the corner of the Spirit Room to find it was coming from the English Kitchen. Standing outside was a Chinaman wearing skirt-like white pants, black slippers, stained white restaurant apron, and a white coolie hat.
The whole scene was as surreal as any hallucination.
Paul became an architect, sculptor, and fine arts painter. .
| Diane Rapaport’s book, home sweet Jerome is widely available in norAz. homesweetJerome.com
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thenoise.us • the NOISE arts & news • OCTOBER 2014 • 35