“Nostalgia is not for Sissies”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you heard about the trend in home building in the valley?  Perhaps you have read about the new “old” planned neighborhoods? Lately the developers have been touting the idea of communities with houses varying in size from 5,000 to 1,500 sq. feet. This will encourage people of all ages to live side by side. They describe wide sidewalks and narrow, traffic free streets. The homes will have porches close to the sidewalk and garages in the back of the property. No block walls, just fences low enough visit over. It’s even been suggested that gates could left be open so that school children could cut across yards on the way to and from school.

Clothes will be permitted to hang out on clotheslines. Small dwellings are optional on the rear of your property for mothers-in-law, or home businesses. People from all walks of life could live together in a wonderful network of human relationships.

I have just one question for you potential homebuyers who are standing in line and drawing for lots, “Are you out of your mind?” Better yet, have you read the fine print in your contract? What if you get all moved in and find out that you actually are expected to live the life style of the good old days?

Come to think of it, fair is fair. If you want to return to the charm of the 40’s and 50’s those clothes lines could be filled with cloth diapers, washed daily. You would use a  hose for hot water to fill the washing machine; then the diapers are rung through the wringer and rinsed in two tubs of clean water then through the wringer again, before hanging.

The problem is, while the laundry is being done, the little ones are not eating their Cheerios in front of the television watching a video.  Sorry, no TVs. When you do check to see what they’ve been up to, there are no spray cleaners or even paper towels to wipe up their spills.

Those breakfast dishes are washed in the sink, not popped onto the dishwasher. In your quest for authenticity in this return to yesteryear, none of those plastic baby bottles and disposable liners allowed. And when you take him out on that nice wide sidewalk for his daily dose of vitamin D, you will use a heavy metal stroller with tiny wheels that pushes like an army tank. Sorry, no lightweight jogging strollers with big wheels.

Of course, when the retiree calls about the tomatoes Junior has been sampling from his garden while cutting across yards to school, don’t despair. I’m sure all those friendly relationships you have been cultivating will pay off. Also, with the gates left open, what happens to all the doggies?   Before moving in, I’d suggest neutering.

As for those small dwellings on the back of your property, you might be able to get your mother-in-law to move in. That is, if you can catch her. Most of the mother-in-laws I know are too smart to fall for that arrangement.

Neighbors using the small houses for a home business or studio can be tricky. Sculpture welding involves bright flashes of light and woodworking tools can be very noisy in the late evening hours.

When you are sitting out on the old style porch waiting for hubby to come home, no fair having a ceiling fan or mister system on the porch they weren’t invented yet! And of course, you won’t be calling him on a cell phone to pick up some fast food for dinner. He’ll have enough trouble trying to navigate the narrow, old-fashioned streets in his big SUV.

“How Do We Know It’s Almost August?”

By

Gerry Niskern

August is a special time of year in Phoenix and the Valley of the Sun. How do we know it,s almost  August? Forget the calendar. There are all kinds of tell tale signs that this unique month has almost arrived.

You know that brown spot in the yard? The one that you’ve been trying to green up all summer with extra hand watering; you realize you just don’t look that direction anymore. And those geraniums in the pots under the shade tree, dead.

The dog hides when he sees you with the leash in your hand. He’s not about to go for a walk on that hot pavement. And the weeds along side the streets are high enough to hide in. You’re not startled anymore when you see wading pools and patio umbrellas become airborne and blow past the window.

You know it’s August when the water in the swimming pool is unbearably warm. I’ve actually heard one fellow complaining that he was sweating while doing laps! And you can’t invite company over for dinner, because it’s too hot to barbecue outside and you’re sure not about to cook a real meal inside!

When I was growing up here in Phoenix, we knew it was August when we had grown tired of playing in the revolving lawn sprinklers and I’d read every new book in the children’s section of the Carnegie Library on W. Washington. August was when the sudden rainstorms in the middle of the night sent our neighbors scurrying from their sleeping cots in the back yard. The lightening flashes illuminated nightshirts flapping in the wind as they hurried in the back door before the rain hit.

You knew it was August when you woke up on a Saturday morning to the delicious smell of fresh Aspen cooler pads as the refreshing breeze wafted through the house. No one left their evaporative coolers on at night; we didn’t need to. Dad always changed pads in August after we had gone through a few dust storms. That was back when dust storms were called plain old “dust storms” before they were known as “Haboobs.”

When my kids were growing up I knew it was August when the cool beach vacation had faded from memory and unrest was breaking out because brothers and sisters were getting tired of each other. When their blond friend’s hair was turning green from all the chlorine in the pool. I knew it was August when their bathing suits were getting too small and were so faded you couldn’t see the color anymore. Their flip-flops were so stretched out all they did was flop.

I knew it was time to return the overdue library books; but I really knew it was August when my number two son who refused to give up short sleeves in the fall and long sleeves in the spring, finally started wearing short sleeves!

Now, the majestic storm clouds gather every afternoon. Then one evening in August, there is a spectacular sunset, and another and another every day.

Soon you won’t be able to  find that annoying brown patch in the lawn anymore, and the water in the pool will be refreshing again. The noise you hear are the school buses rumbling down the street, on practice runs, another sign that fall is indeed around the corner.

“Winning Ways”

By

Gerry Niskern

Did you enjoy the baseball games this spring and summer? . I like to watch the five and six year old girls starting softball.  I remember one opening practice game a few years ago.

First up was a chubby blonde.  After every pitch the umpire had to signal time out to explain she didn’t need to brush off her socks when the catcher’s scuffling threw up some dust.

Next was a redhead. She was about 34 inches high. She connected for a grounder that rolled through three girl’s gloves.  She decided there was enough time to stroll  to first while her dad pleaded, “no, honey, run…run!”

The gaggle of boys watching the girl’s game were falling off the bleachers laughing.

The players waiting their turn at bat weren’t wasting their time watching the game. They braided each other’s hair, traded jewelry or played with someone’s baby sister.

When they took the field, our pitcher was sturdy and low to the ground. What she lacked in accuracy, she made up in power. The other teams’ hitters had to jump straight up, three feet back or just plain run for cover as she blasted balls towards home late.

Twins, playing center and left field respectively, had softball confused with keep-a-way. When one got the ball, she  ran until she was tackled by her sister while the coach implored, “Please…throw the ball.”

The other evening I decided to watch one of the older girl’s games.   A sharp crack of the bat brought me to attention. They were practicing their hitting. The pitchers were sending sizzlers down the sidelines. The confidence and determination of the thirteen to fifteen year- olds was exhilarating. Uniforms were regulation, including cleats.

It was obvious when they took the field; they had found their positions.

When our pitcher stepped into the pitcher’s circle, her windup gave us an Instamatic flash of form as her right arm started up, the left glove raised too. She was the picture of grace up on her right toe as her left foot left the ground and she turned on the power in true Joan Joyce style! The first baseman stretched out and snagged a wide throw from left field to rack up their first out. Nothing was out of her reach.

One of their opponents hit a sharp grounder between short and third. The red haired third baseman dove for the ball and on one knee managed a straight throw to first base.

The few hits the pitcher gave up were quickly taken care of by the catches of the fielders.  They took turns circling the ball yelling, “I got it. I got it…and they did!

It was apparent the girls had developed a keen batters’ eye. In the last inning, the redhead was up first. She strolled to the plate and whacked the mud from her cleats while the fielders moved back. She swung at the first pitch…a crack…the ball jumped off her bat for a hot grounder past third. She dashed to first and then later, a bruising slide to second to avoid a tag. Later skinned elbows were ignored as she stole third.

The pretty blonde up next hit a hi- bouncer over the pitchers’ head and got on first.

The opposing pitcher was throwing mitt dusters when the sturdy pitcher came to bat. She swung…the high ball went off as if from a rocket launcher and sailed over the left field fence.  This time there was no ridiculing from the crowd of young male fans. They were on their feet as the winning runs came in…whistles through the teeth and clenched fists thrust skyward.

The hugs and hi fives  in the dugout  couldn’t begin to match the smiles of triumph on the faces of older women in the stands who remembered when the ball diamonds were for Boys Only!

“The Flowers of summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone knows that simple flowers bloom as gorgeous around a small home as they do around a mansion. Home gardeners are reaching back to flowers prized by their grandmothers.  I’m beginning to see flowers from yesteryear growing in many front yards around the valley.

There is an enchantment to old-fashioned flowers. They were the blossoms that the pioneers brought with them across the country. Flowers were the inspiration for poetry, symbols for political parties, and bouquets for lovers. More importantly, they were the symbols of home.

Lately I’ve sighted stands of colossal sunflowers; each huge flower with a crown of gold nodding slightly as it follows the sun to the west. After dark, the giants turn their allegiance to the east again, waiting for another sunrise. A friend of mine raises unique sunflowers and they were the theme of her daughter’s wedding.

Passing by Hollyhocks recently was a pleasant surprise. They always remind me of playing with the bell shaped blossoms as a little girl. We spent endless summer hours making dresses for our dolls from their petals.

When I was a child back in West Virginia the women carried canning jars full of flowers to the alter of our little country church all summer. There were daises, queen’s lace, violets and lilacs with heart shaped leaves of dark green and the rich perfume of pink, white and purple blossoms. Years later, I picked sprays of purple from a lilac bush in the front yard of an elderly friend’s little house on East Cherry Lynn. She brought a tiny bush from Michigan as a bride.  Lucky for me, no one told her lilacs wouldn’t grow here in Phoenix, Arizona.

One Phoenix resident who grew up in Tennessee remembers the iris of her mother’s garden and raises them in her garden here too. Best of all, she tells me, after moving to Phoenix was finding fig trees growing in the Valley of the Sun just as they did in Tennessee.

Another friend from a dusty West Texas town recalls helping his mother lace string up and down the back of their drab farm house to hold the climbing Morning Glories she planted every year. He can’t grow the prohibited vines here now, but Morning Glories will always mean home to him.

Beds of marigolds remind another Phoenix woman of her wedding on a farm in Maryland. Queen Annes Lace from the meadow in large vases, surrounded the wedding couple.  That old favorite blooms here in the spring.

Beautiful roses are blooming everywhere.  I’ll confess I have a special place in my heart for roses. Not the hot house variety, but roses offered fresh and fragrant in the arms of a neighbor from her garden.

When I was a child I knew a lady whose farmhouse was at the end of a long country road. She had no electricity or running water, but the old house was surrounded by many large, beautiful rosebushes. Starting on my first birthday in June, until we moved to Arizona, she brought me a huge bouquet of roses of every color. I was positive that she lived in a mansion.