Tag: post-war

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A Dust Bowl Tragedy in Three Acts

“And now the high mountains. Holbrook and Winslow and Flagstaff in the high mountains of Arizona. Then the great plateau rolling like a ground swell. Ash Fork and Kingman and stone mountains again, where water must be hauled and sold.”

– John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

A drought stricken farm in Dalhart, Texas in 1930 -
A drought stricken farm in Dalhart, Texas in 1930 – Image courtesy of the Library of Congress

A descending dark curtain of drought brought an abrupt end to the first act of good conditions on the Great Plains in the summer of 1930. Curtain rise ushered in a long tragic second act of environmental disaster and human suffering. After a decade of fortunate environmental circumstances with plentiful rainfall and mild winters, the Great Plains entered an extended drought in 1930 – commonly known as the Dust Bowl. The Great Depression appeared on stage the previous year. The region would not exit drought conditions until 1941. For one family, the drought began a Dust Bowl tragedy in three acts.

The Lanier Family

Born at the height of Grange-era populism in Magnolia, Arkansas in 1893, Hosea Lanier moved with his parents from their failed cotton farm to make a new start in Cottonwood, Texas at the age of seven. Despite plentiful rainfall and fertile soil, farming on the Great Plains was a fraught affair. Global agricultural competition drove crop prices down. Farm failures like the elder Lanier’s farm in Arkansas were common in the 1920s. Cotton prices peaked at 28 cents a pound in 1923. From there it was mostly downhill with prices typically fluctuating between 15 cents a pound to a low of 12 cents a pound. 

Children picking cotton - A Dust Bowl tragedy in three acts
Children picking cotton near Waxahachie, Texas in 1913 – Image courtesy of the Library of Congress

For Hosea, deteriorating crop prices were background to his childhood. On the Texas farm he grew to adulthood, worked the land with his father, and married his best girl, Loree. His son Jack was born shortly after the marriage in 1917. His father, John Lanier, died five years later. It was 1922. His daughter Fay was born the following year. By most accounts, the winter of 1929 was like all the others in recent memory – mild. Hosea’s mother died in the spring of 1929. Hosea inherited the farm – and the debt. In the spring of ’29, despite losing his mother, the future looked promising for Hosea’s family and his farm. Conditions were good. Cotton was almost 17 cents a pound. 

Fleeing the Dust Bowl

The exact motivations behind leaving the farm in 1930 are lost to the sands of time. The summer of 1930 was severely dry in Texas as the drought set in. It is likely Hosea suffered the fate of many farmers in the early drought years – a failed harvest, falling prices, mounting debts, and finally foreclosure. Cotton prices fell to 9 cents a pound in 1930 – by 1931 cotton farmers gave it away at 5 cents a pound.

A farm family flees the Dust Bowl - A Dust Bowl tragedy in three acts
A Texas farm family flees the Dust Bowl in 1936 – Image courtesy of the Library of Congress

Art often imitates life. Similar to Steinbeck’s Joad family, the Lanier family fled the emergent Dust Bowl in 1930. Like their fictional counterparts, the Laniers escaped down Route 66. The family settled first in Kingman, Arizona where Hosea found work as a clerk with the Central Commercial Company mercantile store. He was later transferred to the company’s new Seligman, Arizona location on Route 66 in 1942 serving as the store’s manager.[1] Rain had returned to the Texas plains the previous year. The price of cotton was now over 19 cents a pound.

Postwar Boom on Route 66

The Central Commercial Company’s store in Seligman sat right on Route 66. From his perch behind the large store window fronting Route 66, Hosea watched the growing traffic on Route 66 after WW2. He also had his eye on a large parcel of open land across the street from the Central Commercial Company. On February first, 1956, Hosea Lanier and his son Jack purchased 2.74 acres of land fronting U.S. Route 66 from the Arizona State Land Department. The purchase price was $7,272.72 to be paid in yearly installments of $191.38.[2] By 1956, several entrepreneurs had opened new businesses in Seligman capitalizing on the rising automobile traffic on Route 66. Juan Delgadillo, a local railroad laborer had opened the Snow Cap Drive In Restaurant in 1953 in a building he built from scrap lumber to huge success. Hosea figured he could go into business too.

Snow Cap Drive In - A Dust Bowl tragedy in three acts
Juan Delgadillo’s Snow Cap Drive-in. This image was taken in approximately 1993. – Image from the author’s personal collection

In 1956, the Cold War was well under way. Americans were flocking to southern California brimming with defense jobs fueled by the Cold War military build-up. Route 66 provided the main route west and Americans jammed the road on their way to claim a portion of the southern California good life. Hosea Lanier, desiring to capitalize on the upswing in automobile traffic along Route 66, branched out on his own at the age of 63 and opened the Supai Motel.[3]

The Supai Motel - A Dust Bowl tragedy in three acts
The Supai Motel opened by Hosea Lanier in 1956 – Image from the author’s personal collection

When new, the motel boasted of individual air conditioners by Frigidaire, Franciscan-style furniture, tile baths, and carpeted floors. The Supai Motel claimed to be the newest and finest motel in town.[4] Of a motor court design, it was a contiguous U-shaped building with a small parking lot in the center. Entering from Route 66, travelers stopped at the office on the west side of the U to check-in. Then, large metal key in hand, they move their car to park in front of their assigned unit – one of twelve available. From the outset, the motel featured a large roadside neon sign sporting the name of the motel in green and pink script towering over the motel office. The sign was backlit by a parallelogram whose bottom bar housed the word “Vacancy” in bright red neon. Looping out of the top of the bright, boxy shape was an arrow that sprouted up and out toward the road before curving back in to point in the direction of the motel office. Blinking lights festooned the arrow moving in a pattern from the top of the sign toward the arrow’s pointer visually pushing the eye toward the motel. In 1956, the Supai Motel joined eight other motels competing for traffic in Seligman. Competition was fierce. Catching the motorists’ eye was essential.[5]

Tragedy is a Fickle Mistress

The motel was a success. It still operates today. Yet tragedy is a fickle mistress. It gives scarcely a thought to some. Others are the focus of obsession. Hosea enjoyed only a brief moment of his success. After being ruined by the onset of the Dust Bowl, fleeing with his family for the high-desert wilds of Arizona, toiling for years as a department store clerk, and finally reclaiming some financial independence as a business owner, Hosea died March 25, 1959 – two and a half years after he opened his motel. 

Tragedy once smitten with a family has a hard time letting go of its object of desire. Hosea’s son Jack stepped in after his father’s early death operating the business for his grieving mother. Just under a year later, 341 days after his father, Jack died on March 1, 1960. Loree sold the motel later that year. Loree and daughter Fay moved to Prescott. Loree did not remarry and lived to be 90 dying in 1987 – 28 years after Hosea. Fay never married or had any children. The curtain fell on the final act of this family of Dust Bowl refugees when Fay died eight years after her mother in Prescott in 1995.

[1] “1930 United States Federal Census,” (1930 United States Census, United States Government, Kingman, AZ, 1930). “1940 United States Federal Census,” (1940 United States Census, United States Government, Seligman, AZ, 1940). “Registration Card,” (Draft Registration Card, United States Government, Local Board Number 1, Yavapai County, Prescott, AZ, April 27, 1942).

[2] “Certificate of Purchase,” (Property Deed, Yavapai County Recorder’s Office, Prescott, AZ, 1974).

[3] “Funeral to be Conducted Today in Prescott for Hosea Lanier,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), March 28, 1959.

[4] “Funeral to be Conducted Today in Prescott for Hosea Lanier,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), March 28, 1959. Supai Motel. RT66-2116. 1956. James R. Powell Route 66 Collection, Newberry Library, Chicago. Accessed April 27, 2018.

[5] This description is based on my personal experience staying in the motel multiple times. Postcards from the late 1950s, however, show that the motel has changed little in appearance since 1956. See Supai Motel. RT66-2116, Postcard, 1956, James R. Powell Route 66 Collection, Newberry Library, Chicago. Accessed April 27, 2018.

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Stuck In The Mud – The Road to Better . . . Roads

Stick-in-the-mud. It’s a common turn of phrase. Its earliest known usage was in 1832. Its meaning refers to being old-fashioned and unwilling to change as in “don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud!” The stick in this case refers not to a literal stick but to the verb ‘to stick’ or, past tense, to be stuck. If you are stuck in the mud, you aren’t moving forward.

Although a figurative expression, in the early 1900s many country folk were literally stuck in the mud. Rural roads were often no more than dirt tracks scraped into the earth. Road construction and maintenance at the time was bush league. Farmers, trading labor for property tax, would hitch a team of horses to a large log and scrape it along the route. This “grading” would roughly level the path and clear it of debris. Later wet weather and traffic would then purée the road into a rutted impassable morass. 

Early simple dirt roads were susceptible to extensive erosion. Roads on slopes like this example were easily washed out by rain.

Early Modern Road Building

Beginning in the 1750s, engineers attempted bringing modern science into road building efforts. Early efforts echoed techniques used by the Romans on the famed Appian Way. Deep trenching, steep elevations, and layer upon layer of hard rock paving resulted. Yet, despite their impressive designs, all these early efforts met with limited success. The combined forces of water and road traffic led to rutting, potholes, and mud. Rural residents, often farmers, were stuck in the mud for weeks or months at a time.

Farmers’ plight was not all due to engineering failings. Farmers could be stubborn stick-in-the-muds. Resistant to change, they liked trading a little labor for the option to not pay property tax in cash. It took the wide scale adoption of trucks by farmers in the 1920s to change their minds about roads.

Enter Macadam

Nineteenth century Scottish engineer John McAdam made the first breakthrough developing a practical paved road. McAdam determined layers upon layers of rock and steep road crowns were unnecessary. All a road needed was a hard top crust protecting the soil underneath from weather and wear. McAdam built his roads as level as possible with the surrounding land. On McAdam’s thoroughfares, the road’s crown was only three inches higher than its edges. This slight crown allowed rain to run off the road into ditches on either side. McAdam defeated rain, the formidable enemy of roads, using a hard crust of small stones. The foundation of the crust consisted of stones smashed into five centimeter pieces. The top layer used stones no larger than two centimeters. Typical carriage wheels were ten centimeters wide. Paving the road with smaller stones prevented displacement of the surface stones. This ensured the surface remained intact protecting the road from weather and traffic.  

Gravel Roads to Paved Highways

These roads became known as macadamized roads and their surface as macadam. Building the protective crust from small stones eliminated expensive surface preparation. It also democratized road building. It allowed local communities throughout rural areas to build inexpensive macadam surfaced roads.

Later engineers built upon this road paving technique. Fast automobiles kicked up large amounts of dust on traditional macadamized roads. Engineers began spraying tar on macadamized roads to reduce dust. This technique became tar-bound macadam or tarmac. Growing use of automobiles fueled demand for smoother road surfaces. Before applying the final layer of stones, engineers mixed them with asphalt. Asphalt-bound macadam became known as blacktop. Construction of the first network of federal highways deployed much blacktop.

U.S. Highway 80
U.S. Highway 80 ran from Savannah, Georgia to San Diego California traversing 2,726 miles coast to coast. This section north of Florence, Arizona is a prime example of the blacktop paving technique.

Interstate Highways – A Blast from the Past

Macadamized road construction techniques prevailed through the end of World War Two. The passage of the Interstate Highway Act in 1956 forced changes. Road construction tilted away from the low-cost, democratic techniques McAdam pioneered. Interstates utilized complex engineering methods. Interstate highway specifications required excavating deep trenches, lining the roadbed with cast reinforced concrete, and building up the road surface with many layers of concrete. This construction technique allowed interstates to support heavier over the road trucks and military traffic including armored tank convoys. They also echoed McAdams predecessors’ mimicking of even earlier Roman techniques. As America took on a new post-war role as a neo-Rome attempting to enforce a Cold War Pax-Americana globally, it needed – or wanted – an imperial road system to match. 

A Neo-Appian Way

Abandoned Route 66 west of the Colorado River has withered into the desert. Without maintenance for over 50 years, it crumbled. Yearly rainfall run-off from the nearby mountains have washed it away. McAdam’s methods provided for a durable roadway that was easy to construct and maintain but made little permanent impact on the land. When no longer needed, the roadway could return to the earth. In Italy, portions of the Appian Way are still used. Often a layer of simple pavement covers the original Roman roadbed.

Standing on the remains of withered Route 66 looking east toward the Colorado, you can see I-40 and its massive bridge over the river. The deep road-bed channel cut into the earth lined with layers of concrete rival the river’s channel in depth and grandeur. As you stand in the desert taking in its sheer immensity, its contrast with the surrounding barren land is striking. One can imagine far-in-the-future travelers, echoing their medieval European predecessors, continuing to use I-40 ignorant of its origins.

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Route 66 and Muscle Cars

A 1964 Pontiac GTO.
The 1964 Pontiac GTO. Image courtesy GM Heritage Center

When senior Pontiac engineer John DeLorean slipped a 389 cubic-inch V8 engine into the mid-sized Pontiac Lemans Sport Coupe in the fall of 1963, he almost singlehandedly ushered in the muscle-car era. Muscle cars captivated the American imagination and became symbolic of 1960s prosperity and American dominance internationally. These cars are often associated with Route 66 as a symbol of a simpler time of fast cars, fun road trips, and the American good life. However, Route 66 and muscle cars are not as closely related as current American Route 66 nostalgia would make it seem.

The muscle car as a thing almost did not happen. In 1963, GM banned corporate participation in racing events, and large displacement engines as standard engines in smaller cars. While evaluating prototypes for the new 1964 model line, DeLorean and a group of senior engineers noted that a large displacement V8 would fit into the new mid-sized Pontiac Lemans. There was only one problem: the corporate large displacement engine ban. Undeterred, DeLorean found a work-around by making the engine optional. The GTO performance package option, first available on 1964 Pontiac Lemans Sport Coupes, placed the large displacement 389 cubic-inch V8 and a four speed into the relatively light Lemans and the muscle car was born. The formula would be copied by Ford in the summer of 1964 when they unveiled the Mustang and ushered in the first pony car. GM would follow suit in 1967 with pony cars of their own, the Pontiac Firebird and Chevrolet Camaro. By the late 1960s, all American automobile manufacturers were offering muscle cars with the 1969 to 1971 models representing the peak of muscle car performance and style.

A 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge.
By 1969, the GTO was its own model with a new high-performance option package called “The Judge.” This option made the already muscular GTO even more powerful. Image courtesy GM Heritage Center.

A number of factors brought the muscle car era to a rapid close in the early 1970s. Rising concerns about pollution led to a ban on leaded gasoline. Beginning in 1972, all new cars were required to be able to run on unleaded fuel with the complete phase out of leaded gasoline for new cars planned for 1975. The elimination of lead, an engine knock suppressor for high-compression engines, led to a drastic reduction in engine fuel compression ratios and horsepower. It also became increasingly difficult to insure muscle cars as most major automobile insurance companies began requiring expensive muscle car riders on automobile policies. However, the oil embargo of 1973 and subsequent gas shortage probably did the most to hasten the end of the muscle car, as a now low-performance, big engine car that got bad fuel economy became particularly unattractive.

Image of gas shortages in 1973.
Gas shortages, long lines for gasoline, and complete unavailability in some areas became common during the oil crisis of 1973. Image courtesy of the Smithsonian.

Despite the relatively short run of classic muscle cars from 1964 to 1971, the muscle car has become closely associated with Route 66 nostalgia. The highway itself came into existence in 1926 and had been a federal highway for almost 40 years before the first muscle car arrived, and yet Route 66 nostalgia does not often traffic in automobiles from the 1920s or the 1930s. Another simple fact makes the muscle car association with Route 66 even more questionable. By the time the first muscle car arrived in 1964, interstate highway construction had been in full-swing for eight years and large portions of Route 66 were already gone. By 1969, arguably the height of the muscle car era, Route 66 was almost completely eliminated in many of the states it used to run through. The eastern half from Illinois to Missouri had been the first part to be replaced. Even in the southwest, by 1969, Route 66 was largely gone in Oklahoma and New Mexico. The portion through northwestern Arizona and the Mohave desert in California was the largest section remaining.

The association between muscle cars and Route 66 nostalgia may have more to do with nostalgia itself than with any actual association between muscle cars and Route 66. Nostalgia for Route 66 began developing in the late 1980s after the road was completely replaced and decommissioned. This was around the same time the oldest Baby Boomers were entering middle-age. The association may be more a conflation of different elements of postwar Anglo-White memory melding into nostalgia for a “never was” version of Route 66 where unencumbered powerful muscle cars freely roamed down the open road.

The reality of postwar Route 66 was a narrow highway jammed with too many cars resulting in slow and dangerous travel. Route 66 garnered the stark nickname “Bloody 66” due to the high volume of serious traffic accidents on the road, particularly in the American West. After all, there was a reason the United States spent billions of dollars building the interstate highways. Ironically, on the few remaining abandoned but drivable portions of the old road, motorists in classic muscle cars can live out the “never was” nostalgia version of Route 66 since all the other motorists are duking it out on the interstates.

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What if You Became a Product?

A postcard called colorful Indians.
“Colorful Indians,” from the postcard pack titled All Along Route 66 sold throughout Route 66 postwar. Postcard from the author’s personal collection.

The rise of social media led to a concurrent rise in concerns about personal privacy. As social media companies sought to monetize their platforms, they took the personal information and activity of their users and “productized” it into advertising algorithms worth billions. As alarming as this modern phenomena was, the commercial process of turning the personal into the commercial is quite old.

As Erika Marie Bsumek documented in Indian-Made: Navajo Culture in the Marketplace, 1868–1940, while the reality of American policy towards Native Americans in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was one of destruction, the American public, particularly in the east, were often disconnected from this harsh reality. In northwestern Arizona, the Hualapai had been forcibly relocated after the Hualapai Wars in the late 1870s to make way for railroad construction and white settlers. This cleared the way for development of Kingman, Arizona’s mining resources and capturing the water supplies at Peach Springs, Arizona. Rather than developing an understanding of the reality of American policy towards Native-Americans like the Hualapai, eastern middle and upper class Americans became fascinated with artifacts of supposedly “authentic” Native American culture. This “authentic” indigenous culture, however, often took the form of synthesized cultural productions and objects that were often highly inaccurate but catered to the majority culture’s nostalgic conception of what Native American culture was like. [1] 

As the “Colorful Indians”postcard indicates, this process did not stop after 1940. Many Navajo, including the well-known Code Talkers, served with distinction in WW2. After the war, economic necessity prompted many to take part in the same commercialized displays of Native American culture that late-nineteenth century middle and upper class Americans had demanded. No longer facilitated by eastern promoters or railroads, in the postwar period this commercialization of person and culture took on a decidedly local flavor with some help from national postcard companies.

A post card called colorful Indians.
This postcard depicts members of the Navajo Nation from Gallup, New Mexico. The brightly colored dress is not accurate to traditional Navajo cultural dress. Postcard from the author’s personal collection.

The ” Colorful Indians” postcard was printed by a national publisher and sold to motels and gift shops throughout Route 66. The postcard depicts the Navajo participants in dress that is not part of their culture. Largely an amalgam of Plains Indians and Hollywood “never was” depictions of Native American dress, the image was sold to middle class automobile tourists from the east reinforcing their preconceptions of what Native Americans were like. This was also reflected in the intense, stylized roadside attractions built by local boosters to lure in travelers off of Route 66 and get them to spend their money in town. The Wigwam Motel in Holbrook serves as a stark example with each motel room built in the form of a teepee – a style of housing not utilized by the Navajo.

Wigwam motel in Holbrook, Arizona.
The Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. The native Navajo did not use teepees as a form of housing. Postcard courtesy of the Library of Congress.

As alarming as digital invasions of privacy can be, they are at least somewhat avoidable. Participation on Facebook, Twitter, or InstaGram is not required. One can carefully curate what information about themselves they release online. For the marginalized, however, majoritarian cultural appropriation can be difficult if not impossible to resist. For many Native Americans, the majority culture both actively engaged in indigenous cultural destruction and demanded sanitized versions of that same cultural for commercial consumption. While postcards like “Colorful Indians” may no longer be printed, the Wigwam Motel and other examples of problematic cultural appropriation remain actively in use. Often represented as fun harmless nostalgia, these objects and places raise a troubling question. What exactly are we being nostalgic for?

[1] Erika Marie Bsumek, Indian-Made: Navajo Culture in the Marketplace, 1868–1940 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008). Shepard, We Are an Indian Nation, 1-55.

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Housing Styles In The San Juan – Marshall Neighborhood

This is an example of a house built in a style popular before WWII. This square-shaped style would be completely replaced by ramblers post-war.

This is a gallery of photographs showing the diversity in housing styles in the San Juan – Marshall neighborhood. Unlike most post-war neighborhoods, the San Juan – Marshall neighborhood was developed with a mix of housing styles including earlier pre-war styles, pre-war ramblers and post-war ramblers. The houses also reflect diversity in construction methods from traditional block to wood and stucco. This diversity in housing stock is evidence of how the neighborhood was a transitional place where the old methods of development were giving way to new post-war methods.

Gallery Wordpress

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Overlooked But Not Forgotten: Rediscovering the San Juan – Marshall Neighborhood

The Corner of Missouri and Seventh Avenues in Phoenix Arizona

Wedged between affluent Rancho Solano and historic Medlock Place, sits a neighborhood at the vertex of post-war urban change in Phoenix. Given the nature and timing of its development, it is a strong candidate for historic preservation. However, it has not received historic status due to class issues and a city ethic that values progress and redevelopment over preservation[1]. Specifically, it has likely been overlooked for historic designation because it was a neighborhood of affordable homes sandwiched between two larger affluent neighborhoods,[2] and since preservation efforts in Phoenix largely are citizen led[3].

This map shows the location and boundaries of the San Juan - Marshall neighborhood. The highlighted area is between Seventh and Central Avenues, and Missouri Avenue and the now abandoned San Miguel Avenue.
This map shows the location and boundaries of the San Juan – Marshall neighborhood. The highlighted area is between Seventh and Central Avenues, and Missouri Avenue and the now abandoned San Miguel Avenue.

In the period from 1945 to 2000, it underwent two distinct periods of change. The first was a rapid period of transformation where the area transitioned from farming to residential housing from 1946 to 1959. This shift was fueled by the larger trend of rapid post-war urban expansion across the country[4]. Likewise, during this time home building rapidly changed. Individual builders contracting with lot owners directly gave way to larger builders utilizing mass production techniques.[5] This neighborhood straddles these transformations.

Map showing changes in the San-Juan - Marshall neighborhood from 1949-2000
This map illustrates the change over time in the San Juan Marshall neighborhood from 1946 to 2000. Areas where structures overlap are where older buildings were demolished for new construction.

The second was a period of redevelopment beginning in the late 60s fueled by the exodus of the original homeowners. This period saw some of the original homes redeveloped into denser multi-unit developments, the expansion of commercial property, and then a retrenchment from commercial development[6]. However, the bulk of the original neighborhood remains, and is historically significant as an example of a place caught between the slower, smaller pre-war growth conducted on a more individualized scale, and the post-war mass production housing boom starting in the mid-50s.

This chart shows ownership changes for three properties in San Juan - Marshall from 1946 to 2000. 1946 to 1964 represents a period of high stability with no ownership change. The period from 1964 to 2000 has ownership changes of four or more owners.
This chart shows ownership changes for three properties in San Juan – Marshall from 1946 to 2000. 1946 to 1964 represents a period of high stability with no ownership change. The period from 1964 to 2000 has ownership changes of four or more owners.

Digital history methods were used to document the neighborhood’s history and change over time. Primary documents were analyzed from online databases such as county recorder and assessor records, aerial photographs, digital newspaper collections, and discussions with local residents. Analysis methods included photo analysis, HGIS map creation, charting real estate data, oral history, and textual analysis of newspaper articles.

 

[1] Gober, Patricia. Metropolitan Portraits: Metropolitan Phoenix: Place Making and Community Building in the Desert. Philadelphia, US: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013. Accessed October 26, 2016. ProQuest ebrary.

[2] “High Class,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), July 3, 1946. “$1150 Beat These,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), November 23, 1946. “Open 1-5 Today 518 West San Juan,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), January 22, 1950; the home advertised here was listed for $13,500. A year earlier, a Rancho Solano home was listed for $40,000, see “Luxurious Rancho Solano Estate,” Arizona Republic (Phoenix, AZ), May 29, 1949.

[3] “Historic Preservation FAQs” City of Phoenix, Accessed December 2, 2016, https://www.phoenix.gov/pdd/about/faq/historic-preservation-faqs

[4] “Historical Aerial Photography,” Maricopa County GIS Portal, Accessed December 2, 2016, http://gis.maricopa.gov/MapApp/GIO/AerialHistorical/index.html. See aerial photos for this area for 1949, 1953, and 1959. For a description of the rapid urban growth in Phoenix specifically and the United States generally during this period see Philip VanderMeer’s book Desert Visions and the Making of Phoenix, 1860-2009, pages 187 – 205.

VanderMeer, Philip. Desert Visions and the Making of Phoenix, 1860-2009. Albuquerque, US: University of New Mexico Press, 2012. Accessed October 26, 2016. ProQuest ebrary.

[5] VanderMeer, Philip. Desert Visions and the Making of Phoenix, 1860-2009. Albuquerque, US: University of New Mexico Press, 2012. Accessed October 26, 2016. ProQuest ebrary.

[6] “Historical Aerial Photography,” Maricopa County GIS Portal, Accessed December 2, 2016, http://gis.maricopa.gov/MapApp/GIO/AerialHistorical/index.html. See aerial photos for this area for 1949, 1953, 1959, 1969, 1979, 1997, and 2000. 1949 to 1959 show the area building out as residential homes. 1969 to 1979 show the encroachment of commercial property and the building of multifamily housing, and the 1997 and 2000 photos show the reclaiming of land for residential use particularly along San Juan Avenue near Central Avenue.