Let me tell you a story of a little fireworks fun that went out of control in the “flash of an eye” or shall we say “of a rocket?” I’ll never forget the sight of that raging fire that surrounded our home. Many other homes were in danger on that hot night on the fourth of July.

A few young married men in our extended family had pooled their hard-earned money and sent away to other states for fireworks before they became legal in Arizona. After all, what could it hurt? They were going to be real careful.

When the sky grew dark that evening, their first rocket filled the sky with bursts of red, white and then blue stars. From what they thought was a safe sand-filled wash down below our house, the second rocket rose majestically. The third lifted off with the usual speed then, suddenly plummeted straight down the other side of the mountain!

One of the guys raced up the road to the house at the top of the mountain and down the other side. He found the tiny, smoldering fire that had started when the defective rocket hit the dry grass on the mountainside. He tried to snuff it out with his shoes. All at once, an updraft pushed the flames towards him. He stumbled backwards as the fire raced upward, singing the hair on his legs.

“Call the fire department,” he screamed down the mountain. “It’s spreading fast.” He turned on the neighbor’s garden hose and a pitiful stream of water trickled out. There’s not a lot of water pressure when you live on top.

Some of the fellows doing the rocket launching, fearing for the consequences of their activity, jumped into a car and drove off the dispose of the evidence. They threw their expensive fireworks in a dumpster and stayed away several hours. There was a lot of guilt and not too much Fourth of July fun.

Panic was beginning to set in, but cooler heads prevailed and soon everyone was grabbing beach towels, soaking them in the pool and racing back up the mountain to try to beat out the flames.

The fire truck arrived, but the driver couldn’t get the truck up the steep drive. The firemen finally hiked on up with portable equipment on their back. The slippery shale formation on the steep North Mountain slope made it difficult to keep they’re footing as they worked to put out the flames skittering through the brush tops.

The waves of heat were overwhelming. Wind gusts stoked the tinder provided by bone-dry leaves, twigs and dead branches. The fire sped towards the houses that ringed the bottom of the mountain and the homeowners worked desperately with their more abundant water supply.

“We sure want to thank you folks for helping us put out this fire tonight.” One fireman said when it was over. He pushed his helmet back from a face etched with grimy patterns of exhaustion. “Especially all you young people. I’ve never seen a group pitch in and work so furiously,” he continued.

Eyes were kept downcast as the young males in our extended family tried their best not to look guilty. “By the way,” the sweat-drenched fireman continued, “Does anyone know how it started?”

“Sure don’t”, our generous neighbor quickly answered. His home, on top of this mountain, had survived flames lapping at its foundation, minutes before.

The next morning, the black remains of mature Paloverde trees stood in mute testimony of the near disaster on the scorched desert mountain. It was three or four years before enough green foliage allowed the small desert animals to return and the sound of morning doves were heard again.

All my friends heard me complaining about having to renew my driver’s license last week. Because I have Glaucoma, I was worried about passing the eye test. I passed just fine, but the whole event reminded of another time years ago when I had worried about passing a test for my driver’s license. It might bring back some memories for you too.

My first Drivers License

“I’m not having another baby until I learn how to drive” I declared as I heaved my whale sized body out of the car, slammed the door and lumbered up the walk to the door of my Ob’s office. I hated having to wait for someone to take me places. I wanted my own wheels!

The following summer, while my young husband, Ken, was at Arizona National Guard camp I stayed with my folks. Every evening mom took care of my baby, while my dad took up the role of my driving instructor. We went to a huge insurance company’s parking lot and I drove, round and round and round. I shifted from first, to second, and over to third, over and over and over.
“Press the gas gently, and slowly let off the clutch”, my dad patiently repeated the words, again and again. His old green Chevy truck bucked and choked, lurching forward by frantic leaps and bounds, like a rodeo bronco   I eventually got the hang of it and just as I was congratulating my self, thinking, “There’s nothing to this driving business” my dad commented, “Now tomorrow, we start practicing parallel parking.”

“You mean, between two cars?” I gasped. “Yes.” He laughed. “That’s what you usually park between. You won’t get your drivers license unless you can parallel park to the officer’s satisfaction.” “Well, there goes my dream of my own wheels.” I sighed.

After a couple more weeks of practicing parallel parking, Ken drove me over to the MVD, and waited in our brand new black Ford two door sports sedan. I was petrified.  I knew I couldn’t do it. I took the written test with no mistakes. But I couldn’t feel happy because I was instructed to report to the driving test officer.

My feet were dragging with dread when I started out the door. Then I saw a crowd around our car. A distraught young woman was crying as the officer was writing out her first driving ticket! It seems she had started to pull out with the officer for her driving test and had managed to take off our brand new left rear fender. Seeing the distress all around, the officer said that after we exchanged insurance information I was free to go. He initialed my test form and said “It’s okay, young lady. You don’t have to take the driving test. You passed!”

One time I asked Ken what he had taught his kids. “Nothing, that I can think of,” he replied. His offspring begged to differ!

Monday’s child grew up taking anything apart that had nuts and bolts and threads. Then his dad had to teach him how to put everything back together. “Right-tight” and “Lefty-Lucy” was the motto. They shared a love of building and mechanics. Dad taught him to start a nail straight. Monday’s child added, “He also taught me that at Bob’s Big Boy thousand Island dressing goes great on hamburgers.”

Tuesday’s child told me, “Dad taught us how to play poked. He also gave me a respect for the beauty of nature even though I used to hate it when dad tied up the TV with nature shows. He also taught me how to walk through life without prejudice and a natural sense of equality between the sexes.”

Thursday’s child remembers dad teaching her how to ride her first bike. She got a blue Schwin for Christmas when she was six. He ran along beside it, ready to grab because her feet couldn’t touch the ground.

“Dad showed me how to play jacks. He was really good at it. And best of all, he took us shopping at Christmas time for mom’s gift. One present in particular that I remember was a matching silk turquoise gown and robe with gold embroidered trim. Great shopping impressed me?”

They all remembered the whole family playing hide-and-seek and dad putting them up in the linen closet where mom wouldn’t look. They got piggyback rides to bed and if they begged him to play his accordion, bedtime was later.

I’m guessing that the things most people remember their dad teaching them are similar. Not how to make a million dollars or discover a cure for a disease, just the everyday things that kids need to know.

“Choices for June Brides”

By

Gerry Niskern

          The delivery trucks are rolling.  The charge cards are burning up the wires; all in a mad frenzy to get the latest Cuisinarts, Keurig Brewing Systems and Ninja Blenders delivered before the big wedding.  This year’s new brides will have the latest tools at their fingertips to help prepare gourmet meals.

Today’s June brides also have the luxury of finding various fruits and veggies in the supermarket year round that normally were available only once a year.

No matter how many times I walk into a market here in our valley, I’ll never get used to the sight of summer fruit in winter. I’m hopelessly in the mind set that fruits should come in sequence of seasons.

The newlywed’s remaining challenge will be to combine two lifetime eating styles into one happy combination. Take strawberries for example.     New brides have the question of how to prepare the ruby morsels for finale consumption. The way her family enjoyed strawberries may not be at all similar to the dessert her new hubby is expecting when he picks up that strawberry scent in the kitchen. I remember my dismay when first married and we had dinner at my in-laws home. We had strawberries loaded with sugar over a white cake. “My goodness,” I thought, “Doesn’t that woman know the only way to serve strawberries is in a deep bowl, only slightly sweetened and heaped on top a biscuit type shortcake. Then pour cold milk over gently and dig in. Good to the last spoonful of milk turned pink and juicy crumbs.”

 When strawberry season is over we start getting the melons. When I served cantaloupe the first time as a new bride, I cut it in wedges and saved it for dessert, of course. Finally my new spouse said, “Aren’t you going to put the cantaloupe on the table?” It seems that in Texas, where he was from, a heaping platter of melon was sliced and served as part of the meal.

Later on we have golden peaches and plump apricots with a soft pink blush. This new bride made peach cobbler with a crust on the bottom and the top. This was served warm and topped with vanilla ice cream. New hubby expected fruit only on the bottom, covered with biscuit type mounds on the top and served cold, in a bowl and covered with whipped cream.

On day I decided to cook pork chops. I baked them on a bed of fluffy rice. Wrong! He informed me that you are supposed to fry pork chops and ‘rice is a breakfast food, served with butter and sugar.’ And by the way, white bread goes with a meal, not whole wheat.

I baked a Devils food cake, elegantly iced; I couldn’t go wrong there. But guess what? Did you know plain Devils food cake is eaten crumbled up in a tall glass of buttermilk; ditto for cornbread? “No,” I retorted, “Everyone knows cornbread is served warm, cut in squares, with butter”.

At this point I was thinking, “At least the drink is not a problem. How could you possibly serve ice tea differently did my mother did, an ice cold pitcher full with lots of lemon and a little sugar?” It seems Texas style tea was thick and sweet as syrup, poured warm over a glass full of ice.

About this time I was thinking, “maybe we really aren’t compatible for marriage?” Then summer was over and Thanksgiving loomed ahead. “What kind of dressing should I make to stuff the turkey?” I mused.

Let’s don’t even go there!