Two different worlds down in Gisela, Tonto Basin

Photo by Jim Keyworth
I thought this was an original, but just when you think you know everything someone comes along and proves you wrong. See the letter and photo at the end of the column.)

The 2010 U.S. Census is finally winding down, so I can now tell all.

Actually, I can’t tell all, because I took a sacred oath to keep your private information private or I could go to jail. I do not want to go to jail, so your confidential information is absolutely safe with me – forever.

Not that it’s very exciting stuff anyway. I mean, a lot of you are getting really old. No secret there.

And whether you own your house free and clear, have a mortgage, or are renting isn’t exactly the kind of stuff that would put you on the cover of a supermarket tabloid.

What I do intend to reveal is some stuff I learned about human nature while working a couple months this summer for the U.S. Census Bureau.

First of all, I learned that roughly 40 percent of you residents out there are pretty nice people. You were pleasant when I knocked on your door, even if I wasn’t your first encounter with the 2010 Census.

Some of you were even nice if it was your fourth or fifth encounter with one of us. Some of you went above and beyond to help me out when I was dazed and confused like the guy who followed me around on his ATV in a deserted subdivision full of summer homes in Christopher Creek.

About 40 percent of you are not quite so nice and maybe a little ornery and cranky. Not that I don’t understand how in some cases it must appear like the Census Bureau is coming back to your house over and over with the sole intent of driving you mad.

But the question that elicited the most negative reaction wasn’t your race as I suspected. It was your telephone number. I guess it’s one thing to count you, and to record where you live, and even ask you what color you are. But somehow giving out your telephone number is perceived by many of you as crossing the line.

You all became so predictable that I would wince defensively as I asked the question. Many of you said, “Why do you need that?” And many of you who gave it to me did so with a tone in your voice that I can best describe as a combination of apprehension and suspicion – with just a dash of resignation.

And that brings me to the last 20 percent of you. For lack of a more printable word, I’ll call you dissidents.

One guy said, “Oh no, I’m not helping THE MAN. Obama’s done nothing for me and I’m doing nothing for him.”

Thankfully, despite the tendency of right wingers to blame Obama for everything they don’t like, most of you got the concept that the Census is conducted every 10 years as mandated by the Constitution – no matter who is president.

Anyway, I was actually kicked off the premises only twice and told where I could shove the Census questionnaire just once. And many of you dissidents made it clear that it was nothing personal against me.

But I have to say, the dogs I encountered were nicer than you dissidents. In fact, I’d guess about 75 percent of the dogs were pretty harmless once they got done with all the blustering and posturing that dogs tend to do when protecting their turf.

I went to one house where the front door was wide open. I knocked and a snarly dog came charging through the house at me full tilt. He stopped at the last second and we became fast friends. The woman who came to the door about 30 seconds later was amazed.

“I don’t know how you got away with your life,” she said. I offered that maybe it was my Payson Humane Society hat that made him realize I was on his side. She allowed as how she doubted he could read.

Besides Christopher Creek, my territory turned out to include Gisela and Tonto Basin, two areas I knew little of. I must say that both communities are peopled by some very free spirits – and some quite unforgettable characters.

The one guy I will never forget came walking towards me across his considerable acreage wearing, it appeared, nothing but a trench coat. He had a big, bad, mean looking beard and a swarthy face and demeanor. Charles Manson came to mind.

As I wondered what he was all about, he continued walking towards me. It seemed forever until he got to me. Imagine my relief when he said, “Jim, don’t you recognize me?”

Turned out he was wearing shorts under the trench coat, and that he and I met briefly on one occasion and talked on the phone a couple others. He turned out to be one of the nice 40 percent, which proves once again that you can’t judge a book by its cover – or a man by his trench coat.

I also learned a lot about the flooding experienced last winter by the good people of Gisela and Tonto Basin. I met a lot of the people who live on the wrong side of the river.

I had always thought it was a small community of people, but it turns out to be hundreds and hundreds – and they’re spread all over the place.

I also got to hang out a bit at the fabled Butcher Hook Restaurant, home, I am told, of the best burger in these parts. I wouldn’t know because we usually met there in the morning. But The Consort and I are going back some evening and we’ll let you know.

It all added up to an interesting slice of life in Tonto Basin and Gisela. To say it’s a different world down there would be a bit of an exaggeration. After all, I live in Mesa del Caballo.

So I will close with a simple truth. Nowhere else on this planet will you find a street named “A Dirt Road.”

I rest my case.

Photo by Bryan's neice
OK, make a liar out of me.  But technically a street named "The Dirt Road" is not the same as a street named "A Dirt Road."

(Editor's note: After the above column appeared in the Mogollon Connection, editor Matt Brabb received the following letter:)

Matt,
I'm sending this to you in hopes you will forward it to Jim Keyworth as I don't have his e-mail. I enjoyed his article in the Aug. 4 paper, however at the end of the story he states, "Nowhere else on this planet will you find a street named "A Dirt Road."

Well (and this is all in fun mind you), when we lived outside of Thatcher, Ariz. and they numbered all the outlying homes, we had to name the road to our house.  Whenever I told someone how to get to the house I always told them to turn down the dirt road, so that's what we named our road.

I had my niece go out yesterday and take the attached picture for Jim.

Thanking you,
Bryan Kayner
Payson