Tucson: Lessons in Independence

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — May 21, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

Too Young for Baseball

There was a city-run youth program of some kind — crafts, games, structured activity without the formal label of school. I was four, perhaps four and a half. Not enrolled in school. No preschool. My mother was not present that day.

I remember the announcement clearly:

“Time for baseball.”

The older children gathered. Two teenage camp leaders conferred briefly, then delivered their decision.

“You’re too young to learn baseball. You should go home.”

There was no modified role, no escort, no accommodation. Simply a dismissal.

I was apparently too young to learn baseball — but not too young to walk home alone across blocks and intersections.

So I walked.

I arrived safely. I never learned childhood baseball in Tucson. Years later, in Chicago, I would play 16-inch clincher softball through Awana — gloves unnecessary, the ball large and soft. It was enjoyable, but it was not the same beginning.

My father favored individual sports such as golf and auto racing. He disliked the way team sports credited one player for collective effort. Baseball never became central in our household.

It remained peripheral — and later, personal.

The BB Rifle

The early 1960s are often described as safer years. My experience complicates that narrative.

One afternoon, Geri and I walked to a small soft-serve stand on a main street. On the way back, we passed a pair of older boys. They watched us. We continued walking.

A sharp impact struck the back of my head.

One of them had fired a pump-action BB rifle.

I do not recall whether I dropped the ice cream cone. I remember crying as we walked home. My mother cleaned the welt and then went, with Geri, to the boy’s house.

His father was a county sheriff.

The conversation was direct. The rifle was taken away. Discipline followed. In that moment, authority functioned as intended.

The early 1960s were not without danger. They were simply managed differently.

The Apricot Tree

Across the street lived an older woman who guarded her apricot trees with vigilance. Pie tins hung in the branches as improvised alarms. She sat nearby with an air-pump BB rifle. When birds descended, she struck a tin with precise aim, and the metallic snap scattered them.

She allowed me to shoot as well.

I was too young for baseball, but apparently old enough to handle a BB rifle under supervision. That contradiction did not occur to me at the time.

Old Tucson

Old Tucson was a movie set converted into a tourist attraction. One ride simulated a haunted gold mine: rail cars, flashing lights, staged explosions. I was unprepared for it.

During the ride I panicked completely. When we emerged into daylight, I declared through tears that I had known God would save me. My sisters laughed.

Later that day I reached for my mother’s hand while crossing a street and grasped the hand of a stranger instead. Realizing the mistake, I ran forward until I found her.

We ended the outing in a saloon-style establishment where I first heard the word “sarsaparilla.” It meant root beer.

The Collapsed Lawn

One afternoon my mother set up a metal sprinkler near the carport and we went inside for a nap. When we returned outside, a large section of lawn had collapsed into a cavity beneath it.

Before city sewage, the house had used a septic tank. When the system was removed, the pit had not been properly filled. Boards had been laid across the opening and sod placed over them. The sprinkler softened the ground, the boards failed, and the lawn gave way.

The situation was repaired, but our time in Tucson was already nearing its end.

My father secured work with General Electric on Kwajalein Atoll, installing generating equipment for the missile test range. He departed first. Not long after, we packed and left Tucson by car, returning to Bakersfield.

The desert chapter concluded as the others had — with departure.