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Responses to have ready when queried about quaint Williams

Tell me about your town, asks the stranger passing through from somewhere far from Williams. How’d it get here, what’s the story?

It’s the story of northern Arizona on the old frontier and Route 66, you answer. Winters are snowy, wildflowers bloom in summer meadows under a turquoise sky and the ancient volcanic mountains rise like islands from a green sea of pine trees high above the deserts and 60 miles south of the Grand Canyon.

The town began because of beef, wool and lumber. Tracks were laid through here for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad 118 years ago to move the goods to market before there was indoor plumbing or electricity, automobiles, telephones, sidewalks or pavement of any kind. People came from all over the United States by wagon and on horseback to put down roots and grow with the country.

Many of those old timers are buried at the Williams cemetery, you tell him. They helped build the town, the railroad and Route 66 through Arizona. Their tombstones are pages from the history of the American West.

Cattle and sheep ranchers rest there, lumberjacks, sawmill workers, merchants who lighted their stores with kerosene lamps and their wives and descendants into the third and fourth generations. And peace officers who enforced the law during six-shooter and outlaw times, a Williams doctor who rode the first motorcycle to the Grand Canyon, a wild West show performer from the days of Buffalo Bill, veterans of every major U.S. military conflict beginning with the Civil War.

How about cowboys? The stranger wants to know, and his curiosity is common to many visitors.

Oh, yes. Spurs buckled on, Stetsons cocked at a jaunty angle, the young buckaroos of the 1880s and ‘90s and into the 20th century rode their ponies to Williams from nearby ranches for a shave and a haircut and to have a high heeled time with dance hall girls in sporting houses that never closed. The cowboys, lumberjacks and steam locomotive crews sat at the gaming tables and tried to beat professional gamblers at poker, faro and keno.

Women wore long skirts, bonnets and corsets. Men carried pocket watches. Kids attended a one-room school. Sightseers went north from Williams to the Grand Canyon on stagecoaches instead of the train they take today.

Pigtailed Chinese men who’d worked to construct the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad ran laundries. The blacksmith nailed horseshoes on and repaired wagon and buggy wheels. And the first Fred Harvey restaurant here was in two railroad freight cars connected together near the depot. They were painted and paneled inside. Harvey Girls set the tables with Irish linen and English silver.

On the Fourth of July, you continue, residents listened to patriotic speeches and to someone reciting the Declaration of Independence. There was a parade and picnic, greased pig chase, log sawing and slippery pole climbing contests, demonstrations of cowboy roping and horsemanship. Havasupai Indians from the Grand Canyon wore moccasins running foot races down the town’s main street.

The street that became part of Route 66, the stranger says. I saw the signs.

It was made it a federal highway in 1926, Chicago to Los Angeles, the Yellow Brick Road of hope the homeless Dust Bowl families took to California in the 1930s. There still are Williams residents who remember them day after week after month by the tens of thousands headed west for the promised land, jalopies loaded down with hungry children, tired grandparents and everything they owned. Some, so poor they couldn’t afford a car, walked and used wheelbarrows to carry their possessions.

That was one of history’s great migrations and was followed by another after World War II, a second flood of Route 66 travelers lured to California by promises of endless balmy sunshine, cool ocean breezes and jobs that paid more than they did back home.

A lot of history for such a little place. Who’s it named for?

Bill Williams, a trapper and pathfinder famous for his ability to survive alone exploring the vast wilderness of western America before Arizona became part of the United States. He was a legend in his own lifetime. That big mountain you see off there bears his name.

This is a good place to live?

And to visit. The air’s so clear the views seem to go on forever. Sunsets are full-color extravaganzas. There’s no traffic congestion, no pollution. The night sky is a universe of brilliant stars. There’s a whole natural world of wildlife right next door — deer and elk, pronghorn antelope, tassel-eared tree squirrels, hawks and eagles. You never get all shucked out here and ready to bite yourself because of overcrowding, the virtual reality rat race and the spiritual heartburn of big city life. If you like small towns, believe me this is the tops.

I agree, says the stranger.

And so do you.

(Jim Harvey is a Williams historian who contributes a monthly series on our town’s early days.)


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