THAT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN

When you read about all those tornados that hit the south and Midwest every year aren’t you glad we don’t have tornados in the Phoenix area? Tell the truth. Do you think, a little smugly, “Well, we might have horrific heat in the summer, but at least we don’t have tornados?

Actually, one day in the late l970’s, my # 2 son, a teenager, and I were standing at the kitchen window looking out in amazement. We thought we were just having a super size dust storm, but something different was happening. The house was shaking. At around five-thirty the sky had turned an eerie green. Large sections of shingles were swooping by, followed by huge wood structures hurtling past.   I remember trying to yell above the roar that sounded like a freight train was bearing down us, “I think we should get in an inside doorway. Something weird is happening!” We headed for the inside pantry.

My husband was on his way home when from the West valley when he heard on the car radio that a funnel cloud was moving toward the central Phoenix area. Breaking all speed limits, he reached our neighborhood in time to see the entire roof of my parent’s house under construction, down below our little mountain lying on the other side of the street.

He raced up our steps and burst in the door. “Hurry, hurry” he yelled. “Upstairs!”

We ran up behind him and suddenly, we were looking at bare sky. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I was numb with shock and told myself, “This is not happening. This must be a dream.” We were standing in our bedroom and rain was stinging our faces!

My husband raced back downstairs to go buy plastic tarps to stretch across the rooftop. When he carried up his extension ladder he climbed up on what was left of the roof and started nailing the cover down. My son was still numb with disbelief when his dad yelled down to “get on up on the ladder and grab the ends and nail them down.” He looked at me and yelled, “But, mom, what if the son-of-a bitch comes back?”

The next morning, when assessing the damage, we saw that the funnel cloud had totally lifted the roof structure from my folks house and all the framing inside was swirled like a giant spoon had stirred it. We learned later that the tornado had destroyed a large building on Seven Ave, South of Camelback, swept north and ripped apart  the condos on a little mountain right off Twelfth Street and then slammed into our house on top 14^th street.  It swooped down and destroyed my parent’s construction site and moved on out to Paradise Valley where it uprooted some trees.

Later on, the insurance companies and the weather bureau debated long and hard if it was actually a tornado. Most insurance companies finally reluctantly paid homeowners for damages, still arguing that “the Phoenix area doesn’t have tornados.”

“Save the Green”

By

Gerry Niskern

Take a good look around the next time you are driving anywhere in the valley. Do you notice anything missing? Wasn’t there a stand of Tamarisk trees on that corner just yesterday? What happened to that stately old Cottonwood out on Northern?

Development has rapidly cut a wide swath in all directions in our valley and too many of our living treasures have fallen in the name of growth. Groups of Tamarisk windbreaks grew everywhere at one time. The gray-green trees made great climbing trees for kids. High in the secluded branches, children shared their space with starlings, doves and an occasional baby lizard. The majority of kids today have to exercise their climbing skills on man made play equipment.

Sunlight ricocheting off branches of green leaves marked the old Cottonwood trees. The giant landmarks grew along the canals and irrigation ditches from the beginning of settlement here. Kids climbed the crevices etched into the ancient trunks and dropped into the cool water of irrigation ditches in the summertime.  Most of those old friends have been cut down. Streets were widened to accommodate more cars. At one time residents here were told the cottonwoods had to go because they used too much water from the canals. Yeah, sure they did!

Today we build entire communities and golf courses around a series of man-made lakes. We also zone land for high-tech manufacturing facilities that take millions of gallons of water a day.

Do you remember the sweet smell of citrus blossoms in the springtime on your way home from work? Have you ever picked a peachy red pomegranate. The sweet tart fruit-covered seeds are great for snacking. At one time Pomegranate hedges lined streets and railroad tracks around Phoenix. Streets turned into expressways to help move the expanding population and the hedge rows disappeared from our valley.

Condos stand on the land in the west valley that our kids thought would be “strawberry fields forever”. At the end of berry season, the Japanese farmers opened their fields to the public for picking. Parents and kids usually ate more of the luscious fruit than they brought home as they worked their way up and down the rows. How long since you have had a strawberry that was actually allowed to ripen on the plant before picking?

Many stately old elms originally surrounded the Arizona State capitol building. S Most of the trees and lawn too was sacrificed to make room for more state buildings. Again, making room for Arizona’s growth.

Date groves were prolific here. Christmas wasn’t complete without dates stuffed with creamy homemade fondant. One large date farm was out on Lafayette Boulevard. It is just one of many gone to make room for more homes and condos.

Here in the valley we have always welcomed newcomers. It wouldn’t be realistic to think we could stop the growth, but we must see that our community leaders and city planners make provisions for more parks as we grow. We also need to be diligent about the perimeters of our existing oasis, large and small. Green areas valley wide for the young and old to replenish themselves spiritually should be mandatory for developers.

Some of our earliest residents planted trees and watered them with water they carted in barrels from the Salt River. You and I both know, with our modern facilities, we can do much better in this fast changing world. We need to replant and nurture our green oasis. That would be genuine growth.

“What does America mean to you?”

By

Gerry Niskern

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:

I will lift my lamp beside the golden door.

We all, as children, learned the words on the plaque at the feet of the famous lady standing in New York Harbor welcoming immigrants to America.

When I actually saw the Statue of Liberty, I confess I looked up with a huge lump in my throat and tears in my eyes as our ferry drew close. It was overwhelming. I wondered what my grandparents thought when they arrived from Austria many years ago and were welcomed by her.

I also remember thinking,  “What if my grandparents hadn’t come to America? Would I even exist? Where would I be?”

It’s always interesting to hear someone declare, “My ancestors came through Ellis Island. They worked hard and became citizens! They had no help!” Actually, there were no limits on immigrant laborers back then. THAT was the help.

And about their citizenship status, unless you’ve seen their records, don’t be too sure. Thousands of immigrants, who fled Europe during the 1800s, didn’t pursue citizenship.

Grandpa was recruited to work in the West Virginia coal mines, just as thousands of Hispanics have been recruited to work in U. S. industries today.

My grandparents sacrificed by leaving a year old daughter behind in the care of a grandmother because as with many immigrants, they planned to work, save and return to buy more land for the family farm.  I honestly don’t know if they ever became citizens.

From 1870 to 1920, approximately 25 million immigrants came to the U. S.  It was the first large wave of immigrants that settled and populated this country. Political instability, restrictive religious laws and deteriorating economic conditions started the largest mass human migration in the history of the world. The United States needed cheap labor and welcomed them.

My mother didn’t know English when she started school. Each evening she and my grandfather went over the day’s reading lesson. She helped him read the newspaper. He was very interested in learning about his new government and how it worked. They learned the language together.

My grandpa and grandma worked hard, raised a large Catholic family and paid taxes. None of the children in that second generation had more than two children each. In other words, they assimilated, just as the Hispanics working in the United States will also do in time.

Even though most work two minimum wage jobs to make ends meet, some of my Hispanic neighbors have the prettiest yards in our area. And my guess would be that many a school child is helping dad learn English in the evening, while mom is at work.

The income gap between the U. S. and Mexico is the largest between any two contiguous countries in the world. This disparity is producing massive demand in the U. S. and massive supply from Mexico and Central America. Yes, we need to tighten security and regulate the future flow of immigrants.  But we also have to include expansion of the legal immigrant labor pool. But most important of all, we need to treat the existing population of illegal immigrants with practicality and decency.

What we don’t need is to beat-up on an entire racial group. That’s not the America I know and it’s not the America of the Lady in the harbor.

JOSE’S VALENTINES

By

Gerry Niskern

Everywhere I look in the supermarket there are valentine hearts. Pink ones, gold ones, even a pair of red foil covered chocolate lips inviting the sweethearts to choose some declaration of love on Valentine’s day. No where in the world do they celebrate Valentine’s day as passionately as they do here in the United States.

The little boy with dark hair who came up behind  me in the checkout line hugged a package of valentines proudly to his chest.  He nodded yes, his brown eyes lighting up, when I asked, “Are those for your school friends?”

“Jose`, andale!” his father in line called.

The child hurried forward to place his package on the counter along with his family’s groceries. His father, in sweat stained shirt and muddy boots covered with bits of grass, pushed him forward. The boy’s mother, wearing a white utility uniform, carried a little girl.

“Jose`, of course, I should have guessed,” I thought, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if the little sister’s name was Maria.” A couple of weeks ago when I read in the paper that the name chosen for most baby boys in California and Texas, (and I’ll wager Arizona isn’t far behind) was Jose`, I wasn’t surprised. Someday we’ll probably hear that Maria is the most popular name for  infant girls.

Jose`s’ parents reminded me of my grandparents, Joseph and Mary, who came to the United States of America from Austria, sometime in the 1880’s.  Many of those immigrant families named their children for that Joseph and Mary of long ago.

My grandfather was recruited to work in the coal mines of this country. Men in Europe were sought to work in the mines, steel mills and numerous menial jobs to fuel our countries’ growth.

My grandfather learned that hanging onto his name was a little more difficult than acquiring the job. Many times he told his children the story of how he tried to correct the paymaster at the mine. It seems that each week, on payday, the man called out Gunto.  My grandpa would once again patiently explain that it was pronounced Gunta`, with an A. The next week, the cocky fellow would again call out Gun –“Toe.”  That always brought him a laugh or two. You didn’t argue with the paymaster. Grandpa finally gave up and started answering to Gunto, and that was how the family name was changed.

My grandparent’s first son was named Joseph. That Joe served as a gunner on a destroyer in World War II. After the Atlantic campaign, his ship was diverted to the battles in the Pacific. His first born was also named Joseph and he too served our country in the navy.

My grandpa expected his son Joe to bring his beginners reader home each night from school. Every evening after supper, the two of them went over the words the boy learned in school that day. Then they would spread the daily newspaper on the kitchen table and together sound out the words that gave the news of America. My grandfather wanted to learn everything about his new government.

It was a big decision for my grandparents to come to a new country and start over. Many of our grandparents made their decision, worked hard, and did their best to fit into a nation that was and still is, growing and changing.  We all make decisions, big ones and small ones, although many not as momentous as moving half way around the world.

Just coming to Arizona was a huge decision for many of our parents.  Sometimes it takes years to know if it was the right thing to do, but many of us today are benefiting from those decisions.

I think a lot of little boys named Jose` will be helping their daddies learn English and something about the history of their new country. And I imagine twenty years from now, Jose` will be the most common name of our young men in the armed services.

So happy Valentines Day to all the little boys named Jose`, and remember, always make sure they spell your last name correctly!