Anthony Pritchard
Well-Known Member
The Swamp Cooler
It was 1963, and we lived at a little spot on the map called Sylvan Corners, about seven miles outside Evart, Michigan.
Evart was a small town of around a thousand people. To me, it seemed like a big city. It had paved streets, well, most of them anyway. There was even a traffic light downtown on Main Street. The houses had indoor plumbing, hot and cold running water, and actual indoor bathrooms. To an eight-year-old country boy, that was impressive.
I would turn eight later that year.
One summer day Mom and Dad announced that we were moving to Arizona. Mesa, Arizona, to be exact. The move was for my mother's health.
I remember Dad had the engine rebuilt in our blue 1950s Ford station wagon to prepare for the trip. We sold almost everything we owned to make the move. Even our toys were sold.
We sold almost everything we owned.
Almost.
My youngest sister was two years old and had one of those plastic riding horses. You probably remember them. A hollow plastic horse mounted on an aluminum frame with springs underneath.
She loved that horse. Mom and Dad simply did not have the heart to sell it.
So we packed what little we had left into the station wagon, loaded up three children, ages two, four, and seven, strapped down the horse, and headed for Arizona with the galloping plastic horse on the top leading the way.
I don't remember much of the trip itself. What I remember are snapshots.
I remember riding in the cargo area of the station wagon among the luggage, bored beyond endurance. I remember stopping at a gas station with a gravel parking lot. My two-year-old sister opening the car door, falling out winning the grand prize of a nasty cut on the scalp.
I remember seeing huge rock formations and towering cliffs as we got farther west.
And I remember the heat.
It kept getting hotter.
We had no air conditioning.
It kept getting hotter.
Then we arrived in Mesa and rented a small house.
And it was hot.
Really hot.
Being a Michigan farm boy, I rarely wore shoes if I could avoid them. One of the first things I did after arriving was pull off my shoes and socks and run outside. I then jumped up onto a large rock that had been sitting in the Arizona sun all day.
The experience was educational.
I scorched my feet, which was remarkable, being a Michigan farm boy who avoided wearing shoes, the soles of my feet were as tough as a tractor tire. Yet Arizona managed to get the job done.
Did I mention it was really hot?
The footwear of choice in Arizona seemed to be flip-flops, something I had never seen before, much less worn. So we got ourselves some flip-flops.
That decision led directly to my first and last encounter with a cactus.
There was a cactus growing in the far corner of our sandy backyard. What nobody explained to me was that cacti have a nasty habit of shedding their needles, everywhere.
My little sister wandered toward the back yard in her shiny new flip-flops, and being the older brother, I went after her.
At some point I stepped out of my flip-flops.
Directly into cactus territory.
Within moments, I had managed to acquire a couple of dozen cactus needles in my feet.
My two year old sister received exactly one.
One.
In her big toe.
Naturally, she began screaming.
I decided the best course of action was to sit down and remove the needles from my feet.
That was a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
I will spare you the details.
Let's just say the number of cactus needles I possessed increased significantly.
Dad eventually came to the rescue and carried both of us back to the house.
My sister cried, wailed, and howled over the single needle in her toe.
I, meanwhile, was covered with cactus needles from the waist down. Being a tough Michigan farm boy, I did not cry.
I did, however, howl, just a little.
We had no air conditioning. It was hot.
What we had was a strange machine called a swamp cooler. It used water and a fan to blow cool, moist air into the house, it was heavenly.
That swamp cooler became the most important member of the household. We practically lived around it.
Ask where anybody was. The answer was always:
"By the swamp cooler."
Where's Dad?
By the swamp cooler.
Where's Mom?
By the swamp cooler.
Where are the kids?
By the swamp cooler.
Had we stayed much longer, we probably would have given it a name and made it a member of the family.
It was really very hot in Mesa Arizona as I recall, very vividly. There is an old saying:
"It ain't Hell, but you can see it from there."
I have always suspected that saying was inspired by someone who had spent a summer in Mesa Arizona.
We lasted six whole weeks.
Six.
Then we packed everything back into the blue Ford station wagon, tied down my sister's plastic horse, and headed back to Michigan. The horse seemed positively happy about the decision, I know I was.
Looking back, I learned many things during our stay in Arizona.
I learned that rocks can burn your feet.
I learned that cacti fight dirty.
I learned that flip-flops are not adequate protection against the desert.
And I learned the value of a good swamp cooler.
Most of all, I learned this:
It is really, really hot in Mesa, Arizona.
~Tony
© A.K. Pritchard, 1963, 2026
It was 1963, and we lived at a little spot on the map called Sylvan Corners, about seven miles outside Evart, Michigan.
Evart was a small town of around a thousand people. To me, it seemed like a big city. It had paved streets, well, most of them anyway. There was even a traffic light downtown on Main Street. The houses had indoor plumbing, hot and cold running water, and actual indoor bathrooms. To an eight-year-old country boy, that was impressive.
I would turn eight later that year.
One summer day Mom and Dad announced that we were moving to Arizona. Mesa, Arizona, to be exact. The move was for my mother's health.
I remember Dad had the engine rebuilt in our blue 1950s Ford station wagon to prepare for the trip. We sold almost everything we owned to make the move. Even our toys were sold.
We sold almost everything we owned.
Almost.
My youngest sister was two years old and had one of those plastic riding horses. You probably remember them. A hollow plastic horse mounted on an aluminum frame with springs underneath.
She loved that horse. Mom and Dad simply did not have the heart to sell it.
So we packed what little we had left into the station wagon, loaded up three children, ages two, four, and seven, strapped down the horse, and headed for Arizona with the galloping plastic horse on the top leading the way.
I don't remember much of the trip itself. What I remember are snapshots.
I remember riding in the cargo area of the station wagon among the luggage, bored beyond endurance. I remember stopping at a gas station with a gravel parking lot. My two-year-old sister opening the car door, falling out winning the grand prize of a nasty cut on the scalp.
I remember seeing huge rock formations and towering cliffs as we got farther west.
And I remember the heat.
It kept getting hotter.
We had no air conditioning.
It kept getting hotter.
Then we arrived in Mesa and rented a small house.
And it was hot.
Really hot.
Being a Michigan farm boy, I rarely wore shoes if I could avoid them. One of the first things I did after arriving was pull off my shoes and socks and run outside. I then jumped up onto a large rock that had been sitting in the Arizona sun all day.
The experience was educational.
I scorched my feet, which was remarkable, being a Michigan farm boy who avoided wearing shoes, the soles of my feet were as tough as a tractor tire. Yet Arizona managed to get the job done.
Did I mention it was really hot?
The footwear of choice in Arizona seemed to be flip-flops, something I had never seen before, much less worn. So we got ourselves some flip-flops.
That decision led directly to my first and last encounter with a cactus.
There was a cactus growing in the far corner of our sandy backyard. What nobody explained to me was that cacti have a nasty habit of shedding their needles, everywhere.
My little sister wandered toward the back yard in her shiny new flip-flops, and being the older brother, I went after her.
At some point I stepped out of my flip-flops.
Directly into cactus territory.
Within moments, I had managed to acquire a couple of dozen cactus needles in my feet.
My two year old sister received exactly one.
One.
In her big toe.
Naturally, she began screaming.
I decided the best course of action was to sit down and remove the needles from my feet.
That was a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
I will spare you the details.
Let's just say the number of cactus needles I possessed increased significantly.
Dad eventually came to the rescue and carried both of us back to the house.
My sister cried, wailed, and howled over the single needle in her toe.
I, meanwhile, was covered with cactus needles from the waist down. Being a tough Michigan farm boy, I did not cry.
I did, however, howl, just a little.
We had no air conditioning. It was hot.
What we had was a strange machine called a swamp cooler. It used water and a fan to blow cool, moist air into the house, it was heavenly.
That swamp cooler became the most important member of the household. We practically lived around it.
Ask where anybody was. The answer was always:
"By the swamp cooler."
Where's Dad?
By the swamp cooler.
Where's Mom?
By the swamp cooler.
Where are the kids?
By the swamp cooler.
Had we stayed much longer, we probably would have given it a name and made it a member of the family.
It was really very hot in Mesa Arizona as I recall, very vividly. There is an old saying:
"It ain't Hell, but you can see it from there."
I have always suspected that saying was inspired by someone who had spent a summer in Mesa Arizona.
We lasted six whole weeks.
Six.
Then we packed everything back into the blue Ford station wagon, tied down my sister's plastic horse, and headed back to Michigan. The horse seemed positively happy about the decision, I know I was.
Looking back, I learned many things during our stay in Arizona.
I learned that rocks can burn your feet.
I learned that cacti fight dirty.
I learned that flip-flops are not adequate protection against the desert.
And I learned the value of a good swamp cooler.
Most of all, I learned this:
It is really, really hot in Mesa, Arizona.
~Tony
© A.K. Pritchard, 1963, 2026
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