Some of you have heard this Fourth of July story before, but I think it is worth repeating and is new to many other readers.

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.

“Summer Melt Down”

By

Gerry Niskern

Summer in Phoenix and the Valley of the sun means only one thing. How to keep cool!  There are all kinds of ways to chill. There are our swimming pools, water parks and air conditioning everywhere, but at the end of the day; everyone is looking for an ice cream shop.

Back a few years, we had Woods Candy Kitchen, downtown on West Washington. Their fudge was heavenly, but their ice cream was even better especially after a Saturday morning movie.

Of course, there were several Upton’s Ice Cream Shops around the valley. One was at Five Points intersection, right next door to the town skating rink. Nothing like a thick chocolate shake to cool down after a warm evening of roller-skating. They used to make it in a large metal blender, pour your glass full and leave the can. The charge for this shake was one whole dime!

Donofrios served sodas with a large scoop balanced on the rim of the glass  at their restaurant on Washington and later on too, when they moved  to the West side of Central between Van Buren and Monroe.

On date night, the only place to take your girl friend for an ice cream treat after the movie was the Polar Bar Drive In. The teenager’s cars cruising Central ended up at the Polar Bar that featured all kinds of ice cram concoctions, but their specialties were their 50 cent Sissies and dollar Zombies; no one could finish one of the Zombies, but some guys sure tried.

I think the forerunner of the Dairy Queens was a little shop on l7th Ave and Jefferson, across from the State Capitol that had the first soft serve ice cream in Phoenix. It was a creamy delight.

Of course, the ideal pleasure for our palates in earlier times in Phoenix was homemade ice cream. Every family in our clan owned a large hand turning freezer, at least a 6-quart. They gathered at our house, first making a stop at the icehouse up on 19^th Ave and about McKinley.  The large blocks of ice they bought were wrapped in burlap.

Later on, Crystal Ice had big yellow dispensing boxes on many corners. It was coin operated and you could have your choice of a ten-pound block or a great labor saving bag of crushed.

Before we moved to Arizona, back in West Virginia, someone always made fresh peach. The creamy peach flavor had golden pink gems with bits of nectar throughout. The strawberry ice cream was tart, tasty and loaded with sweet berries. Raspberry, black or red was my favorite as a kid. It was easy then because we had a small farm with all kinds of fruit trees and berry patches.

Fresh banana was heavenly but for the purists in the family, there was always mixed vanilla with fresh milk, rich cream and loving care.

While the women were combining the luscious blends, the men worked furiously with their ice picks on the blocks of ice in the yard. Chips of ice flew through the air, and if a large sliver landed on the grass, it quickly found its way into a kid’s mouth. The teenagers disappeared when the cranking started, but could be counted on to show up when the cans were ready to be opened and the paddles with icy chunks clinging to the blades lifted out.

One year, Uncle John, who always drove the latest model Oldsmobile, showed up with a surprise. He carried a large box into the yard and lifted out a miraculous new freezer. Instead of a handle to turn the ice cream, there was a motor on top. Imagine not having to hand crank the cream for an hour!

My dad and the other men gathered around and watched enviously as he layered rock salt and ice into the bucket around the shiny new can and plugged it in. Uncle John strutted around chewing on his cigar and razzing the other men as they sweated over their freezers. After 20 minutes, just as written on the instructions, the motor on the new freezer stopped.

We all gathered around for our first taste of ice cream made the modern way. As we drifted away and began to eat, we realized something was wrong. At first we thought we were imaging it, but no, it was salty. Real Salty!

Gradually, one by one, we slipped behind the garage and dumped our bowls and went to fill them from one of the other freezers. No one had the heart to say anything about the salty taste from the wonder new electric freezer.

At the end of the day, when the women were washing up their freezer cans to take home, Aunt Sophie, Uncle John’s wife, held hers under the facet in the yard to rinse it. Sever streams of water spouted from the seams along the side of the can. The salty ice cream mystery was solved!

The tradition of homemade ice cream in the hot Phoenix summers has lingered on in our family. A while ago, I was getting a little concerned about our frozen pleasures. You see, our old freezer gave out and I went shopping for a new one. After trying several department stores and being told they only carry one-quart frozen yogurt makers, I was frustrated. However, I wasn’t nearly as bewildered as the young clerks who answered my questions as I continued my search by phone.

Most of the people I talked to didn’t have a clue of what I was talking about when I asked, “Do you carry ice cream freezers?” I could tell by their vague replies that they thought ice cream came in paper cartons from the local supermarket.

The Fourth of July is coming up Try bringing back the tradition of summer family gatherings featuring homemade ice cream. You can choose electric, but hand turners are still available. The kids will love helping turn the handle and the sweat equity they put into it will make their first bowl, whether its strawberry, peach, or vanilla, taste delicious!

Try an old fashioned freezer celebration (they still make and sell them) for a fantastic summer meltdown!

“Future Father”

By

Gerry Niskern

My adult kids have read this remembrance before. I hope when they see it posted this Father’s Day, they will read it again as a way of remembering  “Dad”!

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. His offspring beg to differ!

Monday’s Child, grew up 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?

SUMMER VACATIONS

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you a transplant headed home this summer?

Is home where you can find Mama’s luscious lasagna or Aunt Edna’s peach pie with tender crust that rests under a scoop of homemade ice cream?

Perhaps where your clan gathers the tomatoes are big enough to cover a slice of bread and taste like a tomato should. Maybe you’ll have a glass of cold buttermilk out on the porch of the old farmhouse or pancakes with fresh blue berries.

But the truth is, when headed home, everyone is really looking for something more than food when the family gathers. That’s the sharing of family stories.

When we went “back home”  when I was a teen, my first reaction was, ‘I don’t know these people. Why do we have to visit them?’ But soon I found my self hanging around the dining table 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

He couldn’t tell his mother it was on fire because he still couldn’t talk very well. “After all”, my aunt explained, “he was the baby in our family and didn’t have to talk”.

Years later, at a family reunion our own  kids heard about how their “safety first” dad went badger hunting with his older gun toting cousins and their pack of Greyhounds in Texas when he was only  five years old.  He was told to sit on top of the Badger hole and another little cousin made to sit on the other hole. The strategy was that they would slow the Badger down when he came out and the older boys could shoot it. However, there was one problem. The Badger just about scratched the five year old to pieces on the way out!

Our nephews who endured their dads lectures on the dangers of smoking, loved hearing about how their daddy was caught many times sitting behind a chair puffing on his uncle’s cigar when he was only two years old.

Everyone, if we are lucky, will have many of these family interludes. The old stories and laughter are the catalyst that holds the clan together. The kids take it all in and realize that when they were growing up, mom and dad were a little naughty sometimes. It kind of levels the playing field, doesn’t it?