WPS NewsTucson: The House and the Desert
By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — May 14, 2026
This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.
The House Near Davis–Monthan
By the time we settled in Tucson, my father’s work was tied to Davis–Monthan Air Force Base. The house was a typical post-war Southwest stucco structure — single story, compact, functional. In memory it was off-white with a green roof.
Inside details are incomplete. Kitchen to the left, living room to the right, hallway toward bedrooms that no longer hold clear images. I do not remember where I slept or whether I shared a room.
What remains is the exterior.
Lawn and Boundary
There was a small patch of grass in front and a white picket fence with a spring-loaded gate that snapped shut behind you. Beyond that fence, the desert began immediately. Not down the block — at the edge of the yard.
My father’s truck sat in a simple carport. One afternoon I dropped pieces of my plastic train set into the round stake holes in the truck bed and became convinced they were lost forever. When I told my mother I had dropped them “down the hole,” she imagined a hole in the yard and nearly panicked. Once she realized I meant the truck bed, she opened the tailgate and retrieved them.
Four-year-old logic operates differently.
The Boat in the Sand
Behind the house ran a long block wall. I walked along it often, scanning the sand beyond for anything of interest. One day I found the bottom half of a plastic bathtub boat lying on the desert surface. It was intact and unburied.
I brought it home.
Days or weeks later — time had little structure then — I found the top half in the same area. I checked to see if anyone was watching and carried it back as well. When the pieces snapped together, the boat was complete.
I never learned how it arrived there. For a child, explanation was less important than possession.
Food and Small Economies
If any food defines Tucson in my memory, it is Cheerios. Plain cereal, heavily sugared by my own hand. The milk turned gray from what settled at the bottom of the bowl. I scraped and ate that too.
Lunch was often tomato soup with bread or peanut butter and jelly. Dinner varied. I disliked lima beans and liver then and still do.
I collected cereal box tops to mail away for a model car kit. When it arrived, I realized I lacked the skill to assemble it. The older boy next door — perhaps eleven or twelve — built it for me after my mother spoke with his mother. Glue marks, mismatched seams, fingerprints in the plastic. It did not matter. It was finished.
He helped without obligation. That remained with me.
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