“Patriotic Privileges”

By

Gerry Niskern

They came in cut-offs and tank tops, baggy shorts and super size tees. They had ponytails, short hair and shaved heads; and that was just the adults.

The teenagers were easier to spot. They had that “I just turned sixteen today; give me my driver’s license” look. Their confidence was not shared by the designated parent trailing behind. Panic would best describe their expression.

The Fourth of July week has just concluded.  We were all treated to patriotic speakers enumerating the liberties and opportunities afforded us as citizens of this country. That’s exactly what I, along with other residents here in the valley, was doing last week, taking advantage of the privilege of carrying an Arizona drivers license.

The office of the Arizona State Motor Vehicle division was very busy. An elderly gentleman, in bell-bottom dress pants with white shoes and a wide white belt was waiting in the front row.  He was having a ball telling the arriving teens,” Sorry, there are no more licenses left, I just got the last one!”

The first line was the eye test and to get an application for a driver’s license renewal.  I soon became aware of the diversity of people at the facility. The Japanese lady standing next to me had an interpreter to help her fill out her application. The sweaty hat lying on the counter next to me belonged to an Hispanic man. It was obvious by the bits of grass clinging to his pants and shoes that he’d already been to work

I turned in my form and opted to have a new picture taken. After receiving a number I was told to wait to be called. It’s a good thing the lady’s calm voice calling out D036…D037…was very soothing since the numerous babies who had brought their parents for tests, had their own agendas. They were, in turn, screaming, laughing, talking and nursing. The rest were throwing toys, crackers and Tippee cups. One two-year-old cutie was eluding his mother by running under the ropes and through the lines of people. A few were actually sleeping.

One snoozing infant, sucking on his Binky, was handed off to Dad when his very nervous mother was called for her road test.  The examiner, an MVD employee, was wearing shorts and a big sports shirt. Silly me, I expected to see an uniformed officer. I was told later that that was the first thing the employees were taught, how to conduct road tests.

A senior on my left was holding her new license. I asked her how long the wait had been? “Oh, not long at all. We all came together on our bus and they took us right away. See those women in the motorized chairs over there. They’re in my group. I brought my cane.”

“Did you have to take the road test?” “Oh, no. I moved here a month ago.  I had just renewed my license in my home state.”

“When does your license expire?” I inquired. “In 2007”

“Did you get your first license at age sixteen?” She laughed, “Oh, yes. And now I’m 82.”

When I was on my way out the door I passed the nervous mom. She had failed her road test. She was choking back tears and asking” But, how will I get to work?”

The driver of the retirement resort bus braked for a sixteen-year-old chauffeuring his mom home in the family sedan as the soothing voice droned on…… D078……D079……

a native?

By

Gerry Niskern

A guest columnist for the Arizona Republic recently asked the question, “Are you a native?” He goes on to say that a native isn’t necessarily someone born in Arizona, but rather it’s what you have experienced here that makes you a native.

The “What if…?” questions that he posed were describing “late comers” as far as I was concerned. So I decided to ask a few qualifiers of my own. Here goes:’ If you watched the City of Phoenix fireworks on the 4thof July at Encanto Park that were set off on an island in the Lagoon or if you sat on the grassy slope in front of Encanto’s Bandshell and watch the entertainment at War Bond Drives,  you might be a native.

Do  you remember skating at the roller rink at  Five Points or going next door to Uptons for ice cream sodas to cool off? Maybe you had a cone from the very first Soft Serve ice cream machine in Phoenix, at the little restaurant on West Jefferson and l7th Ave.

Did you help the streetcar conductor turn all the benches the other direction for the trip back downtown at the end of the line  on 19^th Ave and Adams. Or did you go with your folks out to the Japanese farms on West Northern to pick the strawberries that were left in the field after the first crop was picked. Or maybe you remember the Vegetable Man (every neighborhood had one) who drove down the alley two or three times a week with fresh veggies for sale from his open-sided truck.

Did you watch the A-l Queens and the PBS Ramblers play in the old Joe Hunt Stadium on l9th Ave and Grand Ave? Did you ever go to the Strand or the Rialto on Saturday mornings? Better yet, was the Fox Leaders club movies on West Washington. And do  you remember the giant city Christmas Tree in the middle of Central and Washington, standing on a large platform in all it’s holiday glory.

Have you ever picked a Pomegranate from the hedge row along the railroad tracks on your way from school to nibble on. Maybe your dad brought home a truck bed full of over ripe cantaloupes from the packing sheds out on Grand Ave. They were too ripe for shipping but just right for eating and all the neighbors loved them!

If you watched the Rodeo  Parade on North Central every year and if Monty Montana and his trick horse came to your school during Rodeo week, and you remember the JayCees chasing down anyone on the downtown  area not dressed western and fineing them, you might be a native.

If you swam at the Riverside pool and had the nerve to go down the gigantic slide or last but not least, dropped from a rope on a Cottonwood tree into the cool water of an irrigation ditch below, you REALLY might be a native.

If you answered yes to a few of my questions, you just MIGHT BE A NATIVE!

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!

By

Gerry Niskern

That old saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” I can sure relate to that.

I recently moved from our home of 25 years on the side of the North Phoenix Mountains where we commanded a view of the whole Valley of the Sun. I always had the happy feeling of going on vacation when I pulled up the drive and went inside.

I loved seeing the beautiful, pastel and silvery sunrises bursting over Piestawa Peak at dawn. In the evening I cherished the  fantastic golden, pink Arizona sunset many days at dusk.  We didn’t have to watch the weather forecast. We knew when Glendale was getting rain, and could seethe giant rolling dust storms coming from the Southeast and covering the downtown skyline before being warned by the TV weather lady.

We reveled in  the twinkling city lites every evening and on the Fourth of July we marveled at  Fireworks from a dozen towns and venues from our balcony. I admit it. We felt a little superior with out “window to the world.”

But then a few months ago, I moved to a darling little house on the same street, just around the corner. Sadly,  instead of being on the mountain, I was facing the mountain. No more sunrises and sunsets. My view from the backyard was cut off from Mother Nature’s colorful sky paintings by a two story house and lots of trees.

While they were lifting and carrying, The movers spotted a road runner in the new back yard. “It’s the largest one I’ve ever seen,” they said. Try as I might, over the months,  I’ve never seen him, but many other people have caught a glimpse and exclaimed at his siz

Any morning that I look out back I see a little bunny or two. Seems like there is a steady crop of tiny bunnies. They  always find a  tasty clumps of grass to nibble on. They don’t like little carrots. They hop right past them. Maybe the Momma rabbit warned them about processed food!

When I step out the front door and look up at the mountain I see tiny little hikers running around on the very top. They seem to be celebrating reaching the summit. It’s like a miniature puppet show. But before I can take a step, there, running across in front of me is a family of Quail. Papa, Mama, and dozen little chicks in a line scurrying to catch  up. They didn’t hesitate to take the right – of- way. My front yard seems to be their ancient trail.

I have to admit I’ve lived here on the desert since I was a kid, but I never really paid a lot of attention to the desert flora and fauna. I’ve been fascinated watching the giant Sauraurara in the front yard forming its crown of white flowers in the spring. The Organ Pipe cactus also grows red fruit in the spring. The birds love the fruit, but they have to sit on the fruit while pecking at it for their meal. It’s quite a balancing act and fun to watch them sometimes lose their balance.

Best of all, the back yard had a very old Lemon tree. It produces tons of lemons the size of small grapefruit. I’ve made gallons of lemonade and I’ve given dozens of bags away. I’ve had the chance to meet neighbors who asked to pick some as they had always done in the past.

So, if you are in the neighborhood, stop by for a glass of lemonade.

Who knows? We might spot that “huge” Roadrunner!

The Cooler Supply Company

By

Gerry Niskern

It used to be that this time of the summer, with temperatures around 106, the debate in many homes would be, “Is it time to turn off the Evap Cooler and turn on the AC? Always when the humidity  was starting to climb and the cooler wasn’t doing much good.

. Of course, it wasn’t that many years ago that the first warm spring days sent the dads in the households to pick up some fresh evaporative cooler pads. Today, the lucky residents in the valley are the ones that have both AC and evaporative coolers.

In years past Phoenix residents had all kinds of ways to keep cool in the summer. When I was growing up here, many neighborhoods slept out in the back yard on cots at night. Sometimes, when a sudden summer rainstorm came through, you could see the neighbor’s nightgown flapping in the wind as she scurried into the house to get out of the rain.

Other lucky homeowners had screened sleeping porches. Some of the hotels even advised guests to wrap themselves in wet sheets and let the fans waft cool air over them.

The evaporative cooler in one form or another has been around more than 2,000 years when the ingenious Egyptians discovered that a hot breeze became cooler when it blew over a damp mat. They began hanging wet mats in doorways to cool their homes. Hence the evaporative cooler: water+electric fan= cool air.

The cooler entered the American popular culture right here in Phoenix, Arizona. The first aspen pad cooler was demonstrated in downtown Phoenix on June 20, 1916. The three-sided box had a two inch shredded aspen pad enclosed in chicken wire nailed to the sides. Water dripped down through the pads, wetting them and the electric fan inside blew the cool air out.

Soon Goettle Brothers began manufacturing metal evaporative coolers. By l939, most homes and businesses were using some form of drip coolers.

This brings us to the story of my parents, Chester and Eva Craig and their evaporative cooler supply business. Our family arrived in Phoenix from West Virginia with two young daughters in August, l942. My parents both had severe health problems and needed the dry climate of Phoenix.  My dad, an industrial engineer, worked at Goodyear during the war. But, of course after the World War Two ended he found there weren’t many calls for industrial engineers in a town the size of Phoenix.

He worked for Palmer Manufacturing and learned the evaporative cooler business. Then in l950,  my parents started the Cooler Supply Company, located in a dark blue building on the corner of 16^th Street and Palm Lane. They sold new coolers, parts and supplies  and most importantly, began manufacturing the best hand made cooler pads in the Southwest.

Nothing smells as good as freshly shredded aspen wood. After wetting down and shaking out the excelsior, you lift armfuls and spread it evenly into various sized trays lined with cheesecloth, tucking the cloth in and stapling it all around the edges. Then you grab the foot long needle threaded with string and take long criss-cross stitches and tie it off with a flourish; two minutes tops. This was accomplished by strictly following dad’s timed, motion studied techniques.

The whole family learned to make pads and daughters also worked the office. Grandkids could count on summer jobs,  but his regular crew of eight or ten employees produced thousands of pads each season. They supplied cooler pads to the school districts, numerous warehouses and local stores. Many hardware stores had one of his metal racks outside on the sidewalk stacked high with plump pads.

When hot, tired customers came into the Cooler Supply for fresh pads each spring, heaven help the homeowner who asked for supplies for his swamp cooler.  My parents gave them all the help they could, but first corrected the errant customer that they were called evaporative, not swamp coolers. They showed them how to scrape the alkali from the louvered panels that holds the pads and then patch any holes in the bottom pan with a thick adhesive.

They sold them new recirculating pumps and clean plastic arms that distributed the water over the pads to insure even flow of water down through the fresh pads.  They usually encouraged them to attach a garden hose to the drain in the bottom of the cooler and let the water run off help water their lawn.

They patiently instructed all newcomers just as the neighbor men had helped my dad on an August day in l942 when we moved into our first house in Phoenix. When dad finished changing the pads in our side draft cooler and refreshing air filled our new home, Mom and we girls decided that maybe we could stay in Arizona, after all.

Just as my dad planned the layout and process of making pads, my mother managed the supervision of the personnel. She insisted on making fresh coffee for the crew’s A. M. and P. M. breaks, not standard procedure in those days.

On Mondays, she always brought samples of a new recipe she had tried the weekend before, along with cuttings from her flower garden to share. As she helped the young women at their worktables, they were given liberal doses of her views on good morals. She advised them to” take the bull by the horns” and break it off with boyfriends that were not treating them respectfully. After all, she would say, “everyone knows that a leopard can’t change his spots”.

When a new girl came to work that was having a hard time financially my sister and I would get a phone call “I have a new girl who is “between the devil and the deep blue sea. Clean out your kids closets and bring down some clothes for the woman’s children.” Those were usually accompanied by a cash advance on her first paycheck.

In the 60s my dad traded his first old green delivery truck for a new blue Ford Econoline. If you lived here in the valley then you might remember the little truck stacked eight feet high with plump, handmade evaporative cooler pads scurrying from store to store around Phoenix. The rumble of the straight six engine bouncing off the pavement could be heard blocks away. Dad supplied the best pads available in the valley, but also gave credit to his vendors. He delivered to Mike Barras in Sunnyslope, Smiths Hardware in Scottsdale and L. L. Smith in the West valley.  He even had outlets in Apache Junction and Flagstaff. Everyone stocked up early in the spring and paid him at the end of the season.

When someone elderly came into the shop we were instructed not to charge them sales tax. My dad always said, “It’s not right to tax old people”. He made it up himself.

After running the small manufacturing plant for over thirty years, my parents sold the business in the early eighties. Chester and Eva Craig and the Cooler Supply Company were an important part of Phoenix commerce during the last half of the 20^th century. In part, because of them, residents here in the valley were better able to endure the scorching, hot summers.

Consider yourself lucky if you have both an AC and an evaporative cooler on your home.