The sign says ‘No Photography without permission' along with about a dozen other dos and don'ts. I think I'll ignore that rule today and if I get caught, I'll plead ignorance of the law. I know it's no excuse, but I don't really care. I'll be respectful.
So Tom, where are you?, I think to myself.
I had no idea that you were buried here in Tucson, much less that you lived your final years just north of here at Owls' Head, until I found this out, on this funny website called "The Land of Cochise", a couple of days ago. Anyway, Tom, you would get a kick out of this site I think. George, the guy who built the site, has good intentions and he's hooked up with Ed Sweeney, the renowned Apache scholar in hopes of getting the information right, but George still seems to romanticize the Apaches a bit. Then again, at least he is a man, a white man I assume, who has deep empathy for the tragic of this chapter of the American Indian story and that's saying a lot these days, in this time of Post-Modern American Narcissism.
Tom, if you were alive today, I bet you could say a thing or two about how violent, tough, deadly, dirty and hopeless Arizona was at that time. It wasn't like Old Tucson, the tourist trap to the west of here, that's for sure. We Americans may be selfish and self-centered, but it's been a while since a number of drunk Tucsonans have ridden out to a nearby Apache rancheria and killed old men, women and children. And it isn't lost on me that you didn't retire in town but bought some land way north of Tucson, in the Tortillitas. So you never married, never had kids, did ya?. I wonder if you were gay or just an old crotchety guy who just wanted to be left alone. Probably the latter. Seems like you did have quite a few friends, judging from the obituary, and you would have liked the funeral notice I think. They mentioned your accomplishments, your friendship with Cochise that changed things for a while, and such, but they also mentioned that you did have a thing for gambling for a while. But the nicest thing, Tom, was something Governor Hughes said about you, the night after your death.
"Captain Jeffords was six feet two inches and straight as an arrow. His hair was brown and his eyes blue. He generally was smooth shaven. He was very quiet and dressed usually in civilian dress, except then he wore Indian costume. He was absolutely without fear, and his word was never broken. He was like an Indian in this respect and when he once gave his word it was law."
Nice, huh?
They also said that you were "of a very jovial disposition and kept up [your] good nature to [your] old age." Boy, I wish I could say the same for myself, and I'm only 50. I tell ya, Tom, I seem to be more irritable as the days go by. I wonder if my corpus callosum is getting smaller. They say it does with old men, making them ornery. I pray to God for help with irritation with things I can't control and that does help some. I sometimes go deep into the desert and yell away my anger at the specific real or imagined injustices I sense in this Age of American Entitlement. But then I drive back into town and a California driver cuts me off and my middle finger pops out from beneath the dashboard. Then again, you didn't live in town, did you, Tom. I bet Tucson at the turn of that century could be just as annoying.
So where are you? This can't be that hard, you would think? I figure I just need to find the part of Evergreen Cemetery that has the folk who died in the 1910's. Can't be that many people. Tucson wasn't that big.
I walk across the soft green grass tuft, down row after row of headstones, looking at names and dates. Many of the names are familiar, for they are now the names of streets and buildings and neighborhoods in Tucson. No Tom, yet. Still in the 1920's. Need to find the teens.
Miracle Mile/North Oracle Road, a major North/South thoroughfare in Tucson, hums with rush hour traffic to my East. It's past six. Plenty of daylight left and the light is really nice right now. Just entering the Magic Hour.
Now, I'm in some graves from the teens.
Aloud, I say quietly, "Tom, where are you?"
I feel a pull from the East, and a bit to the North. About four more rows of graves until I hit the wall that separates Evergreen from Oracle Road. I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, walking each row in succession and if Tom is here, I'll find him. Unless his stone is gone.
One row, then another. No Tom. Next to last row. No Tom. Hmmm. Last row before the street. Maybe my intuition was wrong but I swear I felt a pull toward the East, and I'm East now. I walk in the grass looking at each headstone, looking for the name of Jeffords.
Then second from the end, the next to last headstone in this section of the cemetery is the grave of Thomas J. Jeffords.
The stone is new, placed in 1964 by the Daughters of the American Pioneers. I look to the stone next to Tom's. The name and date can barely be read in its dark gray surface and a large chunk of granite has broken off from this almost anonymous stone. Tom's stone, however, is bright white and gray, with the petals of plastics flowers scattered around it, and a small American flag stuck in the ground at its base. People come here. The face notes Tom's friendship with Cochise and Tom's place in history.
"Hey, Tom, how ya doing?," I say.
I squat down in the soft wet grassy ground and take out my Brownie. Oracle Road traffic is to my back, the cars and trucks less than fifty feet away on the other side of a stone masonry wall. I see I only have 6 exposures left on this roll. Let's make um count, I think to myself.
I see the triptych. I shoot the triptych. I take one motion diptych as a back up and a single shot as well. I stand up, pack up the camera, shoulder my mini camera bag, and hunker down again, close to the ground. I stare at the white headstone and smile.
"Glad to meet ya, Tom," I say to his grave stone.
"Glad to meet ya."
"And thanks for what you did."
Copyright © 2005, Stu Jenks