The day the demand ended
Scottsdale in November 1918 was running at full wartime throttle. The fields around town stood in Pima cotton to the fencerows, the gins worked through the night, and the wagon row on First Avenue where Akimel O’odham farmers tied up to trade had acquired its name, Pima Plaza, that same year. Newly arrived Mexican and Mexican-American families were settling south and east of the townsite. The quiet Baptist farm village of statehood was, for the moment, a commodity town, and the commodity had one customer that mattered: the war.
At eleven in the morning, Paris time, the customer went away. The armistice was a celebration in the Valley as it was everywhere — bells, horns, a day off — and for a farmer looking at the next season’s planting it was also a warning. The Army did not need balloon cloth and aircraft cord in peacetime. Egyptian cotton would come back across an Atlantic with no U-boats in it. Every grower in the Salt River Valley could do the arithmetic, and the sensible move was to diversify back into alfalfa and grain before the wartime market’s ghost gave out.
Why nobody did
Prices refused to cooperate with the warning. Running on speculation and the lag before foreign supply returned, long-staple cotton kept climbing through 1919 and into 1920, past a dollar a pound. A monoculture paying those prices is very hard to argue with, and almost nobody in the Valley argued. Scottsdale closed the decade richer than it had ever been and staked, to the last acre, on a crop whose real market had ended on this day.
The bill came in the fall of 1920, when the price broke and kept falling toward a dime. The Valley’s cotton economy collapsed within two seasons, bankruptcies and foreclosures followed, and the town that came out the other side had to become something else — a market town with a department store, a bank, a newspaper, a high school, and, from 1926, its first winter resort. That reinvention is the 1920s chapter. The rest of this year, including the naming of Pima Plaza, is at 1918.