Pioneer Day has always meant a lot to me. For most of my childhood, we went to a family reunion with my paternal grandparents and our aunts, uncles, and cousins every summer at the old family home in St. Johns, Arizona. It was a four-hour drive up over the Mogollon Rim, through the desert, and over Grover's Hill into St. Johns. Many years we'd go up into the White Mountains and have a picnic at the ranch in the mountains above Nutrioso.
But mostly we stayed in St. Johns and went to the Pioneer Day parade and the rodeo and other celebrations and visited with cousins and swung in the hammock and climbed trees and played games and enjoyed being around our grandparents. I've been listening to a recording of Granny telling stories at a family reunion. My, those were happy days.
|In the dining room of the old St. Johns house. The braided rug and television (?) cabinet and screened door were an important part of those early memories. Over the cupboard was a picture of Grandpa when he was a small boy.|
And no Pioneer Day celebration would be complete without a performance of "Come, Come, Ye Saints." Here's one from the Piano Guys cello guy.