Hillbilly from Buckeye

    I come from a little historic town called Buckeye in sunny Arizona. Some might call me a hillbilly because lets face it; Buckeye is full of cotton fields, cows, chickens, farmers and overalls! If you are headed west, roll down your window and you will be sure to get a nice whiff of cow dung. You won’t find many stop lights here, and don’t be surprised if you occasionally get stuck behind a charming old farmer moseying down highway 85 in a beat up old tractor.

 

    My small town was founded in 1877 by a man from Ohio named Thomas Clanton. Thomas originally called the town Sydney after his hometown in Ohio. A man named Bucky O’Neil who established the Buckeye irrigation company officially named the town Buckeye in 1910. Some of the old buildings still stand today and have been turned into little shops or stores. No one famous came out of Buckeye but there are interesting tidbits of history that are unique to the town. To name a few, in southern Buckeye by the Gila River, at the edge of the Buckeye Hills, is an archeological site where there are many petroglyphs believed to be from the Hohokom Indians. In the 1960’s, there was a cowboy named Art Arnold who won the United States Grand Champion Title for calf roping as well.

 

    My town has always been a farm town and an enchanting place to live. In Buckeye, you will find many smiles and a southern twang on everyone’s lips. I am often asked about my so-called accent and I proudly say, “It’s my Buckeye twang.” People often smirk when I tell them where I am from, but I have no shame. I am proud of the little town I grew up in because there is history, close-knit families, everyone is down to earth, hospitable, and somehow everyone knows everyone’s business, although sometimes that quality is not so endearing.

 

    Growing up in Buckeye was quite the experience. You know you’re a hillbilly when agriculture and raising pigs are courses offered at your high school. My brother proudly raised and sold three large stinky pigs that he brought to the fair and won…nothing for. In Buckeye being in agriculture class meant, you were the son or daughter of a rich farmer, which meant “popularity.” We were never rich, nor was my dad a farmer but bless my brothers heart for trying. I believe our football stadium was one of the only stadiums with a dirt track and cement bleachers. You have to love that! Let’s not forget the desert parties! Cops could never find us out there in the Buckeye hills and if they did, there were plenty of creosote bushes to hide behind.

 

    Buckeye Union High School, where my parents also attended mind you, is the only high school where you will have a drunken math teacher, a toothless gym coach, and a computer professor who wet her pants frequently during class. Classic! In track, most kids in high school run on the track, or nearby mountain trails, not in Buckeye. We ran around cotton fields and a large statue named Hobo Joe. The statue was built in 1928 and used to sit in front of a cute little coffee shop called “Hobo Joe’s”. The statue sits off on its own now by a cotton field, but everyone knows of him and you can see him clearly when you’re driving through my little town. Buckeye is close to California, on the way to Mexico, and someone even wrote a song about it a decade back. It was a group called the Funk Junkies who apparently broke down in Buckeye and had to stay over night. They were taken aback by the town and decided to write a song about it called “Goin down to Buckeye”.

 

    In Buckeye you will find a couple of old bars, one Mexican food restaurant that used to be a Dairy Queen, an old rundown drive-in movie theater, a Dollar General, a feed store that has been there for ages, and more cows than you can shake a stick at. Kids play T-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball and football and the town people are always there to cheer on the teams at game time. There are craft sells at the town library, Wranglers are still in style, and people still chew on grass. Buckeye is where you will find some real cowboys, or maybe they’re just hicks. A word of advice to outsiders, NEVER ATTEND A BUCKEYE CARNIVAL unless: you want to meet a couple of cave dwellers with no teeth or hop on a ride that’s full of hay and huge Palo Verde beetles that bite!

 

    Not only is Buckeye special to me because I grew up there, but my parents families and their families, and their families have all lived here, so there is a sense of belonging that goes deeper than my own upbringing. My grandparents Travis and Mary Jones farmed cotton just south of the Gila River, where my grandfather was raised. My grandfather invented a process for planting cotton called variable row spacing so that he could get more cotton plants per acre. My grandfather was an engineer before he was a cotton farmer so that contributed to his ideas and success. I feel my family has lived and contributed to the town of Buckeye and for that, this town means a lot to me.

 

    I enjoy looking at old family photos of the town, and how similar it still is to those old pictures. I attend the same church that my grandparents went to and my parents were married in as well. Of course, nowadays, as many places, Buckeye is expanding and the pink house communities are moving in. There are golf courses nearby, and of course the inevitable Wal-Mart. However, if you drive down the main street in Buckeye, it is still preserved and I still remember all my memories and what it looked like before. You can still see Hobo Joe, the farm fields and stars as clear as ever late at night. When I leave for a while and come back to my town, I love to smell the dairies and I just shake my head and think, “I’m in Buckeye now.” It is a unique little town with lots of history and character. The name Buckeye suits my little town well and growing up in a small town has given me something that a city dweller could never have. It has given me a true sense of really “knowing people” inside and out and a sense of community. I feel that I appreciate the beauty of an open field and a clear sky full of stars. I enjoy the smell of the desert when it rains even if it is fogged by a tinge of cow manure. When I’m in Buckeye, I feel safe and comfortable, I’m not embarrassed to listen to old country tunes. I love my little town and all I can say is, “Thank God I’m a country boy!”