Ah yes, Prescott....Arizona’s Territorial Capital. An amalgam of rednecks, Harley riders, hayseeds, cowboys, New Age mystics, Valley weekenders and wealthy retirees.
Arizona’s designated Christmas City is uniquely fashioned after a Midwestern village, with an impressive courthouse towering over the town square and romantic gazebo. Infamous Whiskey Row lines one side of the square, luring visitors into dimly lit saloons where neon lights glow through tufts of smoky blue air. Fine galleries, gift shops, cozy cafes, and antique shops surround the landmark red-brick Michaels Hotel, where you can almost feel the ghostly brush of satin and boa feathers on the staircase leading to the upstairs rooms.
And radiating away from this whimsical blend of Midwestern charm and Western rowdiness are charming two-story homes graced by sweeping, columned front porches with inviting swings and hanging greenery. Some have been artfully transformed into businesses, cafes and shops but most survive in varying stages of renovation as character homes beneath a canopy of ancient trees. On this glorious autumn day, whirls of golden leaves fluttered to the ground on each tender breeze.
Hassayampa Inn was our chosen destination, reputed as being the Cat’s Meow in Prescott—brimming over with character embellishments and historic charm. Now really, how tall were these people in the early 1900s? Narrow staircases with a six-inch footprint on each step. Half-sized pillows resting on a Baby Bear bed. And a water closet with a throne that can only be saddled sideways unless you happen to be three years old and your knees barely clear the toilet seat.
What Hassayampa Inn does offer in spades is ambiance, especially in the quaintly formal dining area. White lace curtains, etched glass, floral carpeting, vintage lighting, fresh flowers and impeccable table settings. Had we not been so cheap and arranged our day around the early-bird dinner prices, we would have missed the unexpected highlight of the entire weekend trip.
Only one other diner—a lone gentleman—had already been seated in the unusually quiet secondary area of the restaurant. The hour was still early and the number of empty tables in the main area made me wonder why we were headed into another room. As the hostess led us to the coveted window-view table, I couldn't help but overhear the man seated alone say the word "Smothers." Apparently, the name meant nothing to the youthful waitress at his side because he followed with, "People that age usually know us."
Smothers? Could it be? And yes, one glance at those twinkling eyes, that diminutive mustache, and the slight build crowned by well-groomed silver hair explained the entire dialog. My widening eyes met his growing grin, my hands clasping my face in fever-pitched dramatic expression.
"Oh my God, Tommy! Is that you?"
"No, I’m Dick."
The slightest trace of disappointment flashed across his face, launching me into the stereotypical pigeonhole "Of course, you're the smart one!" that he probably finds more annoying than being mistaken for the beloved clown.
Never ceasing the grin, Dick Smothers extended his hand to shake mine as he tried to rise from his chair. The poor man was still half-seated as I flew toward him with complete abandon, throwing my arms around his neck for a bear hug. (Always an awkward move.) He managed to rise graciously in the midst of my stream of giddy accolades about the Smothers Brothers, pausing to introduce himself to my sweetheart Bill who had been utterly ignored in the frenzy and was standing patiently behind me. In spite of my brash interruption of his dinner, Dick not only agreed to a picture but suggested a photo of the three of us. Pulling out my camera, I thrust it in Bill's hand, gently pushing him back as I rushed to Dick's side announcing, "Oh no, he's going to take a picture and you and ME."
In defense of my self-absorbed behavior, I must say that I had no idea how much Bill loved the Smothers Brothers. Just could not imagine him appreciating their ultra-liberal humor or even knowing who they were, but to the contrary. He was a huge fan and never missed their show. Didn't discover that until later at our own table where I remembered that I was actually with someone. Even then, it took every ounce of willpower to keep myself from walking back and sitting down in that empty chair beside Dickie. So many questions. So much to talk about.
Always wondered how I would react to a celebrity sighting. It's clear now that I fall into the "worst nightmare" category. Bill just shook his head: "God help us if we ever run into Brad Pitt."
Oh please, Brad doesn't do anything for me.
Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
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