It’s a young 98 for ArziI la BentonBy Ellen KretschSin* grew up on a 30-acre farm in Mississippi, used to horses and wapins for transpor-tat ion and used to making do with what the family had.Arzilla Benton has seen times change like few other people. At age 98. her life has spanned a wealth of changes from horse and wagon to space Bight, cook strives to microwaves, segregation to civil rights.Arzilla is a lively lady, although she admits her arthritis has slowed her down some. Her family is one that spans history. I ler father came over on a slave ship from Africa. The family name of Spencer came from the man who Imught a young black Isiy Tw o men wanted to buy him and they made a lx-t to settle the question. Winner of the bet would get the young boy.Liter, that same Ixy would be offered a chance to Own acreage, rare in the days of shars^ujder farms. He split enough rails to fenle 100 acres, and in return, was given 30 acres that became the focal point of the Spencer family's fortunes.Arzilla and her sisters and a hdlf-brother lived in a small home about three miles from the one-room school house. She attended school to the seventh grade, hut said she has never stopped learning new things.Parents would bring wood to the school for the potbellied stove that kept them warm in the winter months. If the wood ran out, students were sent home.If we didn't walk, we went • ••The real actor—like any real artist—has a direct line to the collective heart.—Bette DavisThe family of Margarita Esquivel Tar an go would like to thank the NavarrosArzilla Bentonby horse and wagon. I learned how to plow, I was the tomboy of tile girls.” she remembers.When her father bought another 30 acres to work about three miles from the first farm, it kept the entire family busy. Mother would work in the garden and cook. She’d bring the lunch to us at the second farm where we worked in the corn and cotton fields, Arzilla said.The menu usually consisted of beans and cornbread, still a favorite meal for Arzilla. Father raised our meat and smoked it in our own smokehouse,” she remembers.She doesn't remember the year, but she does remember seeing her first automobile. “We were playing in the yard,” she said. “We were used to horses and wagons and when we saw something coming down the road, we all ran. We thought something was loose from aWOW.1 IPs Monsoon Season Gardening Time!(We hove arm loodi of plonti mlormo-tion to help you' garden growl)wagon.”She met her husband in Mississippi whore he worked for the railroad. After they were married, he went to Arizona to check out jobs. He came back with an offer of a job at a sawmill in McNary. They sold their furniture and headed to Arizona, riding with a family headed for California.“We got to Globe about daylight, I didn't know anybody here,” she said. I cried when 1 saw the mountains. 1 thought it was ugly. But after a while, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”They got a room in Miami because road work in Salt River Canyon had closed the highway. They never made it to NcN’ary. Her husband got a job with the railroad and Arzilla went to work as a cook, working for several local families for many years. They lived in railroad housing, a two-room apartment across from the old ice plant in Globe.Because her husband worked for the railroad, she was able to get free rides back to Mississippi to visit her family. In time, her mother came to stay with her daughter, quite a move for a lady who had never left her home but one time to visit a son, Arzilla said.Arzilla was forced to divorce her husband after many years and she continued to support herself working in Globe. She was a companion and cook for different families and helped several churches with their dinners and events as well.On the night John F. Kennedy was shot, she was moving into a home uhu.had bought on Euclid Street in Globe. Still her home, it is decorated with dozens of photos of her familyArzilla experienced prejudice first hand in her years in Mississippi but was refused service only once in Globe in all the years she has been here. ”1 forgive them, it’s different peoplenow,” she says about the restaurant that she now visits regularly.Arzilla has always been a church-goer. Now the ladies from St. Paul’s Episcopal Church make sure Arzilla gets but frequently for lunches and her favorite—-a visij^o the casino. “I do'n’t have much to spend, but I like to go there and have breakfast then stay a while,” she said. On a really good day, she might come home and receive a phone call from someone going to the casino later that same day. Then 1 get to go twice in one day,” she laughs.Growing up we had two pairs of shoes, one for school and one for Sunday. Now I got shoes all over the place,” she laughs. A lover of hats, she has several of those to dress up occasions as well.Looking at her, one would find it hard to believe she's 98. Listening to her, you'd be hard-pressed to put her at over a teenager. She has an infectious laugh and bright smile to accompany it.Arzilla attributes her long life to hard work and enjoyment of what was at hand. She's 98—but boy is it a young 98.Collins graduatesChristine (Elmer) Collins graduated June 21 from the University of Phoenix in Denver, Col. with a master’s degree in Organizational Management. She-currently holds an associate's degree in Criminal Justice front the Community College of the Air Force and a Bachelor of Science degree in Forensic Nursing from the University of Colorado.Collins is the daughter of Patsy Elmer of Phoenix, and Clyde Elmer of Miami; and the grand-