Raising Phoenix: Whirlwind of Kitsch

How our columnist learned to stop worrying and love cowboy boots and ocotillo-emblazoned drinking glasses.

by Amy Silverman | illustration by Laura Spalding Best

Many years ago, I opened a holiday box from an old friend and curled my lip. Tucked among the much-appreciated bar of guest soap, fancy dish towel and pretty floral scarf was a Blakely glass tumbler. 

On the card, my friend explained that she’d found it in a vintage shop somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and thought of me. That glass was a long way from home. Don’t feel bad if you’re not familiar with Blakely glass. I wasn’t. I considered the tumbler, which is frosted and emblazoned with a color drawing of an ocotillo plant, and thought, “Ugh. Arizona.”

I had never heard of Blakely Oil, a chain of gas stations across the Southwest, founded in Arizona. In the 1950s, the company made a name for itself by offering customers coupons for free glassware – sort of how McDonald’s used to give away glasses featuring the Hamburglar or Ronald McDonald, but better. 

Later, there were plates and other commemorative items – all decorated with the iconic assortment of cactus that appeared on the original set.

Turns out, Albert Monroe Blakely wasn’t just advertising his gas stations. He was shilling for Arizona, too.

Since our college days in Southern California, my friend has bounced from Oregon to New York to Texas to Puerto Rico. Maybe a couple other places, too, I’m not sure, but I’m certain she’s never lived in Arizona. She loves it here and thought this cactus-y glass was the perfect gift for her Phoenix friend.

I told her it was. And now, more than a decade later, I actually believe it.

Today, I own a complete set of those Blakely glasses, as well as a set of the shorter version, displayed in a place of honor in my dining room. And I have a wish list. The Holy Grail is a specially designed wooden display that holds not only glasses but the very collectible, super expensive Blakely pitcher. I also have my eye on the matching plates.

The truth is that I have no room for more Blakely or – to be honest – anything else. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that one glass has led to an appreciation for Western kitsch.

As always, I blame my childhood (but not my parents… they’re awesome, aside from having and raising me here) for my bad attitude. Once I realized that Arizona was not the center of the universe – but, rather, the center of my universe – I was pissed. It was the mid ’70s, and if you think there’s not much here now, you should have been here then.

I went on strike. At Mexican restaurants, I’d order a hamburger off the kids’ menu. I refused all offers of Taco Bell. I had no desire to spend any time in the desert, including the desert trail at the Phoenix Zoo. I was and still am terrified of snakes, scorpions, tarantulas. Also horses. I did not even want to go on a Sunday drive to Carefree. Do not mention Rawhide.

Even though I tamped down my (undiagnosed) depression and anxiety with whatever was on TV at the moment, I would never, ever watch a Western. Even Hee Haw felt too close to home. (Later, I had a good laugh at my own expense when I learned it was filmed at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville… not, say, Buckeye.) 

And I’m still pretty sure that the only boots I owned were purchased at Saba’s in Old Town Scottsdale – down the street from that giant sign proclaiming the place “The West’s Most Western Town.”

I was too young to protest. The occasion was the Parada del Sol rodeo and parade. I have still never attended a rodeo, but I’m pretty sure I watched that parade. As far as I was concerned, the only reason to like Parada del Sol was the day off we got from school.

Years ago, my mom unearthed a yellowing snapshot of me in my boots, teal to match the cowboy hat, shirt and skirt. There was a lot of fringe. I looked dorky in tortoiseshell glasses, my dirty blonde shag pulled into low ponytails most likely tied with gold cord that once graced a Goldwaters gift box.

The next time I wore boots was in the early 1990s, when I bought a pair at Kenneth Cole in New York City. They were black and pretty much devoid of any kind of Western flair.

When I moved back to Phoenix, I found a Craftsman house with wood floors and screened porches that looked like nothing from my childhood. I furnished it with vintage items purchased at a Midtown junk shop owned by a couple who scoured the Midwest each summer, back when you could still get a good deal on an old armoire. I shoved the Kenneth Cole boots in the back of a closet.

And then that holiday box arrived in the mail. Though I initially cringed at the hokey drinking glass, I kept thinking about it. My friend has the best taste of anyone I know. Maybe, I thought, I should give it a chance.

It turned out to be a gateway drug. Not only did I begin collecting Blakely, I started noticing really beautiful souvenir plates from the Grand Canyon and the Petrified Forest at the thrift shop. I found old charms and ashtrays shaped like the state and began picking up past issues of Arizona Highways at the VNSA book sale.

What can I say? I’m suggestible. And I’ve always struggled, as readers of this column know, to figure out who has the bigger inferiority complex – Phoenix or me. When I realized how much appreciation classy people like my friend had for the desert landscape, the history and – yes – the collectibles, I had to take a closer look.

To my surprise, I liked what I saw.

Today, I’ve lost track of the pairs of old cowboy boots in my closet, and I treasure the strands of vintage turquoise I’ve gathered at flea markets. The dishes keep coming. I even hike – a little. Who knew Papago Park was so pretty?

To be clear, there are limits. I am not a fan of Kokopellis. I look terrible in a cowboy hat. I’m still not going near a snake.

And I will never, ever, under any circumstances, wear a bolo tie. Probably.