“Imagine your home surrounded by fire!

By

Gerry Niskern

Every year the firefighters in our valley brace themselves for the Independence Day celebrations. When Fourth of July approaches and the desert grasses bake to a brittle brown, they can count on small wildfires set by firecrackers.

I’ll never forget sight of a raging fire that surrounded our home a few years ago.  Our home wasn’t the only one in danger. Some young adults at our own pool party were the ones who started the blaze. Not on purpose, of course. But then, it never is, is it?

These young fellows all grew up in Arizona and had felt deprived because, at that time, our state legislators had wisely banned the sale of fireworks to the public. They bought rockets out of state.

As the sky grew dark that Fourth of July evening, their first rocket filled the sky with bursts of red, white, then blue stars. From a seemingly safe, sand-filled desert 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 top of the mountain and down the other side. He found the smoldering tiny fire that had started when the defective rocket hit the grassy hillside. He tried to snuff the fire. Then, all at once, an updraft pushed the flames towards him. He stumbled backwards as the fire raced upward, singeing the hair on his legs.

“Call the fire department,” he screamed. “It’s spreading fast” He turned on the neighbor’s garden hose on top the mountain, and a pitiful stream of water tricked out. There is not a lot of water pressure when you live on top. Panic was beginning to set in, but soon everyone was grabbing beach towels, soaking them in the pool and racing back up the mountain to beat out the flames.

The firemen arrived and but couldn’t get their fire truck up the steep drive. They finally hiked on up with portable equipment on their back.  The slippery shale formation on the steep mountain made it difficult to keep their 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 dry leaves, bone dry twigs and dead branches.  The fire sped towards the houses that ringed the bottom of the mountain as those homeowners worked desperately with their more abundant water supply.

“We sure want to thank you folks for helping us put out the fire tonight,” one fireman said when it was over. He pushed his helmet back from a face etched with grimy patterns of exhaustion. “ I’ve never seen a group pitch in and work so furiously, especially all you young people.” he continued. Our (fireworks committee) couldn’t look him in the eye.

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

“Scents of Summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you planning a trip back home this summer? Are you going to visit family and friends, or is your trip really about capturing the memories of “the good old summertime?”

While walking past a newly moved lawn the other day, it occurred to me that the charisma of summertime is all in the smell. Think about it. Does that fragrance of freshly cut lawn remind you of rolling down grassy banks with your cousins amid peals of laughter? Or perhaps the aroma of grass was mingled with the scent of the dust freshly watered down for the first pitch in your baseball game. You can smell it now, can’t you?

After the game nothing was better than the tangy citrus scent of cold lemonade unless it was the first icy gulp after a hot game.

If you grew up here in the valley, surely you remember the aroma

the cantaloupe sheds out on Grand Ave as you drove past this time of year. How long since  cantaloupes in the supermarket smelled like that?

Speaking of melons there used to a family on West Jefferson, around llth Avenue, that sold the best watermelons in the valley. They kept them cold in large soda pop coolers. After much thumping and checking for sugar spots, your mother selected her melon.  They always plugged it for her. No need. They were all winners. Everyone gathered around the table at home. When she slid the knife into the dark rind, the melon split apart with a loud crack releasing the familiar sweet aroma.  It was heaven.

The fragrance of honey suckle and roses mingled with the ripe figs in our neighborhood. When the temperature hovered at 115, the smell of hot tar in the asphalt while we were bike riding was even stronger than the pungent odor of the Tamarisk trees as we relaxed on a wide limb while cooling off in the shade of the branches.

Summertime always sent older sisters out into the back yard seeking a tan. Soon the exotic smell of coconut oil rose from warm bodies. Inside the house the fresh, clean cooler pads made from shredded aspen wood meant summer was here.

Saturday brought the scorch of hot iron on the damp cloth as mom pressed dad’s pants for Sunday church. If you were allowed to go downtown on Saturday, the candy counters at Newberrys or Woolworth on Washington beckoned with chocolate aroma. And if that didn’t take your quarter, then the Carmel corn shop on Monroe tried.

The odor of cigars wrinkled your nostrils if you stepped into the lobby of the Adams hotel, just for a peek, of course. A trip past the Chinese Green Dragon that emitted the wonderful aroma of onions and spices on East Jefferson wasn’t on the way to anything, but the giant green neon dragon was fascinating to watch.

If the movie theatre was your destination, the smell of freshly popped corn beckoned.

Sunday afternoon meant family picnic time at Riverside Park down on South Central Avenue. The swimming pool was great. Then again, wading through the footbath that reeked with the smell of heavy chlorine you were required to walk through before entering the pool was gross. After a cool swim, the sputtering and popping of roasting hot dogs mingled with the vinagery smell of Mom’s potato salad. We washed it all down with a bottle of Barq’s, root beer, orange or strawberry.

The summer week was complete.

REMEMBERING ONE FATHER

By

Gerry Niskern

When I was ten years old I saw a boy walking past our new Arizona home. He was whistling a catchy tune. He had black wavy hair and wore a funny hat covered with button pins, Years later that young man became the father of my children.

I asked my husband what he had taught his kids.  “Nothing, that I can think of,” he replied.

Monday’s Child, started out by taking anything apart that had nuts and bolts and threads. Sooner or later his dad had to teach him how to put things back together. “Right-tighty” and “Lefty-Lucy” was the motto.  They shared the love of building and mechanics. Dad taught him to start a nail straight. “He also taught me at Bob’s Big Boy that Thousand Island dressing goes great on hamburgers”

Thursday’s Child remembers dad teaching her how to ride her first bike. She got the 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 taught 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 was a matching silk turquoise gown and robe with gold embroidered trim. Great shopping impressed me!”

Tuesday’s Child says “Dad taught us how to play poker. 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.”

They all remember the whole family playing hide and seek in the house and dad putting them up in the linen closet where mom didn’t look. In those days they got piggyback rides to bed. If they talked him into playing 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 little things that kids need to know.

It turns out that that kid with the funny hat covered with pins was pretty knowledgeable about a lot of subjects. Who knew?

REMEMBERING ONE FATHER

By

Gerry Niskern

When I was ten years old I saw a boy walking past our new Arizona home. He was whistling a catchy tune. He had black wavy hair and wore a funny hat covered with button pins, Years later that young man became the father of my children.

I asked my husband what he had taught his kids.  “Nothing, that I can think of,” he replied.

Monday’s Child, started out by taking anything apart that had nuts and bolts and threads. Sooner or later his dad had to teach him how to put things back together. “Right-tighty” and “Lefty-Lucy” was the motto.  They shared the love of building and mechanics. Dad taught him to start a nail straight. “He also taught me at Bob’s Big Boy that Thousand Island dressing goes great on hamburgers”

Thursday’s Child remembers dad teaching her how to ride her first bike. She got the 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 taught 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 was a matching silk turquoise gown and robe with gold embroidered trim. Great shopping impressed me!”

Tuesday’s Child says “Dad taught us how to play poker. 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.”

They all remember the whole family playing hide and seek in the house and dad putting them up in the linen closet where mom didn’t look. In those days they got piggyback rides to bed. If they talked him into playing 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 little things that kids need to know.

It turns out that that kid with the funny hat covered with pins was pretty knowledgeable about a lot of subjects. Who knew?

Instant Genealogy

By

Gerry Niskern

It’s that time of the year again; the holidays. Families will be criss crossing the country, going back home.

The truth is, there is something everyone will look forward to more than Grandma’s cooking.  That’s the sharing of family stories.

I recall as a toddler, standing around my Austrian grandma’s kitchen and listening to her chuckles and chatter with cousins visiting from Europe. They were having a good time reminiscing.  I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, except for my grandma’s one and only  English phrase,  “Damn right!”

Years later, I was a teenager when relatives visited my parents out here in Arizona. My first reaction was, “I don’t have time for these people. I don’t really know them anyway.” But before I knew it, I was hanging around the dining room table late into the evening laughing at the stories being recalled. I was amazed to learn that my very proper daddy had burned down the family garage when he was four years old…and he couldn’t tell his mother what he’d done because he still couldn’t talk.  After all, my aunt explained, “he was the baby of our family and he didn’t have to talk.”

Years later, after my husband’s parents were gone,  some cousins stopped at our house to visit. Our kids learned a thing or two about their dad’s childhood.  They couldn’t believe that when their daddy was about five years old he was allowed to go badger hunting with his older cousins and their pack of greyhounds in west Texas. According to the story, “he was talked into sitting on top of one badger hole and another little cousin was told to sit on another hole. That strategy was supposed to slow the badger down when it came out, and the older boys could shoot it. There was one problem. The badger just about scratched the gullible five year old to pieces trying to get away.”

Our nephews, who were always being lectured by their dad about the dangers of smoking, loved the story about their daddy caught sitting behind a chair puffing on his uncle’s cigar every chance he got, when he was only two years old

As the years go by, everyone, if we’re lucky, will have more and more of these family interludes in our life.  All these stories affirm that we are indeed a family connected and the laughter is the catalyst that holds the clan together. The kids take it all in and come to realize that when they were growing up, mom and dad weren’t perfect, in fact, even a little naughty sometimes. That’s good for everyone. It kind of levels the playing field a little, doesn’t it?

“8^th grade graduation debate”

By

Gerry Niskern

“Adams we sing to thee,

School that we love,

Let our voices ring out clearly.

To the skies above”

            Those were the words we sang as my 8^th grade graduation class marched into the auditorium at Adams School one morning in May of l946.

Much has changed since then.  As those students went on to high school, college, marriage and raised families, many of our social trends changed too.

The more rapidly our society became affluent, the ways in which we honored our 8^th grade graduates grew more elaborate. Parents gradually went overboard.

The ceremonies became more elaborate in most schools with expensive suits for the boys. The girls tottered across the stage in high heels matching $200 dresses.  There were limos ordered to transport the graduates to their parties in many areas.

I’ll be the first to admit, years later , as the parent of a middle school graduate, I was as guilty of succumbing to neighborhood peer pressure as anyone else. When our first child graduated from middle school, we were living in an affluent California neighborhood. My daughter and I spent hours shopping for the perfect dress and then, of course,  she had to have her hair done. Next we found out that “everyone’s parents were taking the graduates out to a special dinner before the ceremony”. Needless to say, our budget did not match the norm at that school!

That’s how it starts. Everyone’s doing it.

Later there was a move by the Arizona state lawmakers to prevent school districts from issuing certificates of 8^th grade graduation. There was concern that with the elaborate celebrations the kids will get the idea that their education is finished.  The lawmakers also felt that immigrant families need to be reminded that education is not complete at 8^th grade. They need to pursue higher education.

Perhaps the legislators will also reconsider the law they passed this year ruling that “Dreamers”, no matter how many years they attended school here or regardless of scholastic achievements, had to pay “out of state” tuition at our universities? How encouraging is that?

Let’s not lose sight of one fact that graduating from 8^th grade has always been a sense of accomplishment; 8 years of classes, homework and test were completed!

That class of mine that marched into the auditorium of Adams School years ago singing the school song was accompanied on two pianos by two girls from our class. We girls wore dresses we had labored over in Home EC class. Identical pattern, but  a choice of pastel eyelet material.  The boys wore dress pants and good shirts.

When the ceremony was over, a group of us, boys and girls, trooped several blocks west to our primary school, Jackson, to say hello to our former teachers. We stopped by one fellow’s house and his mom took snapshots. At the next stop, My mother threw together  some sandwiches for my  unexpected crowd. Then off we went downtown to the movies.

In other words, we made our own celebration, the best kind.