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On our way back from visiting the Grand Canyon, my brother and I stopped in Prescott, Arizona. Despite it’s spelling, “Prescott” is pronounced almost like “press kit.” For my Central Savannah River Area readers, it’s akin to Martinez, Georgia, which is not pronounced like a Mexican’s surname, but as “Martin-ez.”
Anyway, Prescott is an Old West town—it used to be the territorial capital of Arizona, from 1864-1867—that has now turned into something like a yuppie outdoor shopping mall. That sounds facetious, yes, but it’s actually a pretty cool little town. The entire town square was bedecked in Christmas lights, and as it was unseasonably cold for Arizona in late December, it actually felt like Christmas in a cowboy town.
Prescott really plays up its heritage as a bustling town of the Old West: Western wear stores line the main shopping area, and bars and restaurants play up the legendary Western folk heroes and villains who frequented the establishments (or the spots where those establishments now stand).
It was in one of those Western wear stores that I came face to face with sartorial destiny.