Historic headline
On Wednesday, Feb. 14, 1912, Phoenix residents awoke to a banner headline in
“The 48th State Steps Into the Union Today.”
The 12-page newspaper — filled with ads touting everything from cars to undergarments to cure-all ointments — was dedicated to an event years in the making.
Taking the newspaper from their doorsteps, delivered via bike in the pre-dawn hours, residents flipped on electric lights to read about the day’s events.
President William Taft was to sign the proclamation at 8 (Arizona time) that morning, followed by the inauguration of Gov. George W.P. Hunt, who insisted he would walk from Seventh Avenue along Washington to the Capitol, rather than be driven in his “luxurious benzine buggy,” a rather expensive horseless carriage that often drew criticism from the populace.
After the inauguration, townspeople would return to downtown for an afternoon parade along Washington Street, draped in American flags as well as red, white and blue bunting. The parade was to include three bands, horsemen, Spanish War veterans, children and automobiles.
The day would conclude with the Inaugural Ball at the Hotel Adams, one of downtown’s most ornate wooden structures, soaring four stories with balconies running along each floor.
The weather was statehoodwelcoming perfect, with clear skies and a high in the mid-70s. The railroads commissioned extra passenger cars to bring in the thousands of visitors from Tucson, Prescott and Flagstaff. Electric streetcars also were busy, filled with those who lived nearly 4 miles away in such growing subdivisions as Kenilworth and Orangewood.
Those living downtown had access to all the modern conveniences, from indoor plumbing to electricity. Wells provided more than enough drinking water. About one in five residents had a telephone, but most ignored the device simply because there just wasn’t anyone to call.
But venture past downtown’s borders — Seventh Street and Seventh Avenue to the east and west, and north from the railroad tracks to Van Buren Street — and such amenities were rare.
The desert had been partially tamed though an intricate network of canals and irrigation ditches. Citrus orchards were as common to the landscape as saguaros. On smaller plots of land, farmers grew a variety of fruits and vegetables to sell locally, loading their wagons each morning for a trip to one of Phoenix’s many small down- town grocery stores.
If they needed supplies while in town, residents would visit one of Phoenix’s three department stores: Diamond’s Boston Store, Korrick’s or Goldwater’s. Larger than mercantile stores, the three carried just about everything, from hardware to apparel to canned goods, arranging items by departments so customers could easily find what they needed.
Between agriculture, small businesses and the rapidly expanding railroad, Phoenix was thriving as it entered the national spotlight on Feb. 14, 1912. Few cared that it was not Arizona’s largest city. Tucson had 13,193 residents, according to the 1910 U.S. census, to Phoenix’s 11,134.
Waking up as residents of Arizona’s territorial capital, and knowing they would be going to sleep that night as residents of Arizona’s state capital, had the city electric with anticipation.
But the day meant even more to a young couple who waited patiently in a downtown church, ready to match the milestone event with one of their own. end of Washington.
The 5-foot-9, nearly 300pound Hunt took his first steps along the unpaved road, spectators in tow. He likely paused briefly as he encountered the irrigation ditches that ran along many streets, balancing along the wooden planks that allowed passage.
While unsightly, the ditches were key to Phoenix’s growth, as were the canals to which they were connected. They carried water essential to the area’s farms and ranches, as agriculture drove the area’s economy. The canals served a dual purpose in summers when residents struggled with the heat. Families would gather along the banks, particularly where shade trees had been planted years earlier, allowing visitors to gather under the protective canopy of leaves.
The canals were not nearly as popular as Phoenix Park (now Eastlake Park) on the eastern edge of town. The park and its tree-lined lake were built at 16th and Washington streets to lure people on board a tram line, and it would draw hundreds daily during the summer.
Swimming was merely a temporary respite from the searing heat. Each summer day presented another challenge to stay cool. The arsenal included wet sheets hung over windows, fans, blocks of ice and nightfall.
At night, residents spread blankets under the stars, hoping for the relief that would ride in on every breeze. Tourists would do the same, taking advantage of the sleeping porches offered by a handful of hotels downtown. But in the end, summer always won, until it was tamed years later by evaporative coolers and beaten into submission by air-conditioning.