Marshall Trimble Remembers: Ash Fork School Days, Chain-Link Fences, and the Great Jane Russell Incident
If you ever want to know what a town was really like, don’t start with a timeline—start with a kid’s memory.
Arizona State Historian and Ash Fork local Marshall Trimble recently shared a handful of stories with us, and they’re exactly what you’d expect from Marshall: vivid, hilarious, and somehow packed with more history in a single paragraph than most textbooks manage in a chapter.
So, pull up a chair. We’re taking a little stroll back to Ash Fork, October 1947, when the cows were still trying to attend school and a movie ticket could be funded by pop bottles and determination.
“They were building a fence… to keep the cows out.”
Marshall and his family moved to Ash Fork in October of 1947, and right away the school was… well… adapting to Ash Fork life.
They were building a chain-link fence around the school for one very practical reason:
“…to keep the cows out of the school yard.”
And the entrance situation?
Let’s just say OSHA would not have approved.
“Our entrance on the east side was climbing up a wooden stairs and over a barbed wire fence.”
If you’ve ever wondered what “school spirit” looked like back then, apparently it involved a little bit of cardio and a lot of trust.
The school yard: swings, a court, and the “mysterious west end”
The school yard had the essentials: swings, and a bit of concrete for an outdoor basketball court. There was also a new classroom on the southeast corner for the 7th and 8th graders.
Marshall was in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade during those years, and he admits he didn’t spend much time at the west end where the older grades were—except on one special night:
“…except on Halloween when they had a horror house in the shop room beneath the stage of the gym…”
That’s right. A haunted house… under the stage… in a shop room… with the kind of ominous energy you can’t manufacture on purpose.
The gym: movies, community, and a weekly tradition
Before Ash Fork had a theater, the gym did double duty.
“BTW, they also showed movies such as Alexander’s Ragtime Band in the gym once a week.”
You can picture it: kids piling in, the smell of the place, the echo of voices, and that flicker of a screen that feels ten times bigger when you’re young.
The Yavapai Theater: 14-cent tickets and a ticket-taker who knew your age
Marshall notes the Yavapai Theater didn’t open until 1949, and the first movie shown was:
“The Big Steal.”
And ticket prices?
“Tickets for 12 and under were 14 cents.”
Marshall adds:
“They didn’t catch me until I was fifteen.”
The ticket taker at the door was a classmate, Rosie Fernow, which probably made sneaking in feel like high-stakes espionage.
But the best part is how kids earned those 14 cents:
“A kid could pick up seven pop bottles along Rt. 66, sell them at the Big Store for 2 cents and get 14 cents, enough for a ticket…”
Seven bottles. One ticket. That’s economic policy the hard way.
The Outlaw, the preachers, and the moment the screen went dark
And then there’s the story that only Marshall Trimble could tell with this combination of innocence and absolute comedic timing.
When Jane Russell appeared in Howard Hughes’ notorious film The Outlaw, Marshall and his little brother Danny took a risk—despite a very clear warning from their mother, who worked as a waitress at the Do Drop Inn Café.
“She said she’d kill me if I did…”
But Marshall, in the spirit of the times (and apparently the spirit of teenage curiosity), went anyway.
“…I was willing to risk it…”
And then:
“Unfortunately the screen went dark at that critical moment and I thought, ‘I risked my life for this moment.’”
Somewhere, every parent is nodding. Somewhere, every teenager is laughing. And somewhere, a preacher is still sighing.
Marshall adds that both the Baptist and Methodist preachers warned folks to avoid the scandalous film—which, historically speaking, is the most reliable marketing plan a movie could ask for.
“Oops!, I got off the subject.”
Classic Marshall.
Bathrooms, lunch, and the teachers who stuck with him
Marshall doesn’t recall “bathroom basements,” but he does remember where the bathrooms were: ground level, just west of the large study hall. There was no cafeteria back then.
“There was an hour break for lunch and we all went home and made sandwiches.”
Then the new school came along, and he remembers noticing something that felt downright modern:
“…they had a kitchen.”
And Marshall’s memories of teachers are the kind that make you smile.
Miss Ruth Pringle, his favorite teacher, taught Boys Home Economics (which feels both progressive and perfectly Ash Fork).
Miss Betty Anderson taught typing, and Marshall admits—honestly and hilariously—that he had fantasies about visiting her house… but also admits he’d have sprinted away like a rabbit if she’d invited him in.
And then this line—quietly profound under the humor:
“Typing turned out to be the most important class I took… but I didn’t realize that until ten years later when I began writing my first book…”
That’s the sneaky way life works. You think you’re learning to type. Turns out you’re learning how to become yourself.
A layout he could still walk you through today
Marshall explains that when he arrived in 1947, the school was being remodeled. He describes the school layout so clearly it feels like you’re standing there:
Grade school on the east end
High school on the west end
Principal/superintendent office in the middle
Gym on the south side
Study hall near the office
Math/science, home ec, history, and English on the northwest side
And then, the line that makes you believe him completely:
“If it was still there I could give you a guided tour to this day.”
That’s how you know it mattered.
Why we love stories like this
Because places aren’t just buildings. They’re memories—of barbed wire fences, Halloween horror houses, gym movies, and 14-cent tickets.
They’re teachers who shaped you, and towns that raised you, and moments that still make you laugh decades later.
And if you’re lucky, they’re stories told by someone like Marshall Trimble—who can make history feel like you’re living it.
