Home Sweet Home, Not!
By
Gerry Niskern
Do you know a young couple or family new to this country who would like to buy a home, a simple starter home?
Buying a starter home in 2022 is almost impossible. Thinkng back and comparing the ease of buying our first home in 1954 to the herculean task for first time buyers in today’s world is shocking; and it is so unfair.
Back when “the dinasours” ruled the earth, as our grandkids like to say, we bought our first, brand new, three bedroom, two bath home for nothing down, and $375 closing costs! We had one child and another on the way. The wage owner’s monthly salary had to be $300 a month or higher. Ken asked his boss to fudge on the numbers on the application, but he refused. Instead he raised him up to $300!
I know, in today’s world, those numbers are laughable. Our new home cost $4,500 and our payments were $45 per month, in cluding taxes. Our builder, in Phoenix, also built a grade school for the sub-division and a community swimming pool. It was a modest Public pool, but a welcome addition to the area.
While we waited for our new home to be completed, Ken worked many side jobs to save up for our appliances which did not come with the house; while I sewed pleated draw drapes for the windows.
We were the first ones to have grass and with a ton of effort, Ken dug up and replanted two mature orange trees in our front yard, from a orchard closing down.
He fenced the back yard and soon added a ranch style porch across the front. Then we paved the carport and driveway.
Our little house came with dark brown tile throughout. Ken covered it with new carpet as jobs permitted. When we moved in we had a card table and chairs in the kitchen, a hand-me-down couch and two lawn chairs in the living room, our brand new box springs and mattress in the master bedroom and our toddlers crib in her room.
How’s that for a “starter home”? It wasn’t easy, but it was exciting and fun too. Millions of young people would like the same chance to own a home today, but the opportunity is not there.
As recently as the l990’s modest three bedroom houses were selling for $99,000 to $l25,000. Our grandson bought their first home for $89,000 in 1994, but no one’s building those today. The economics of the housing market and all the local rules have squeezed out starter homes. Communities passed laws that ensured builders couldn’t construct smaller, more affordable homes. Also the cost of land, building materials and government fees are to blame.
Communities need to allow the building of more starter homes. The supply has been slashed by more than half over the last five years. There is construction for the rich and the poor, but nothing in between.
Cheaper older starter homes are nearly as hard to find. Families who desperately need them are edged out by investors who buy them to rent them out. Sooner or later the laws and regulations on corporations owning huge amounts of small hommes will have to change.
Sadly, those starter homes are now occupied by renters who cannot afford to buy them.

“Who is that masked stranger?”

by

Gerry Niskern

I woke to the sound of something running overhead. How could that be? Was it mice in the attic? If so, they were a new species weighing at least 50 pounds each. I convinced myself the sounds were probably a cat on the roof and I drifted back to sleep.
we’d purchased a home in the North Phoenix foothills. Every morning in the silver-pink light of dawn we delighted in watching the abundant wildlife. We could see rabbits nibbling on the dewy clumps of desert grass. In the middle of the day orange and black chuckawallas were usually “catching a few rays” on the gray shale rocks above the house. More exciting was the occasional bronze king snake curled up inside our garden hose. In the evening, as the safety of twilight settled over the mountains a fox, coyote or raccoon, followed by two smaller ones, might be seen traveling quickly and quietly down our street and disappearing into the darkness.
We loved entertaining our friends with stories of finding raccoons in our swimming pool area. We watched them slapping at the water in the Jacuzzi; obviously thinking there were fish at the bottom when they saw the movement of the self-cleaning spouts popping up.
We were often awakened at night when our wrought iron gate clanged as they squeezed their fat bodies through. If that didn’t wake us, the sounds of the squeaky voice of the mama communicating to the young that “they had five more minutes and then out of the pool and dry off”. If my husband went down to shoo them away, they just raised up from the deck and stared at him.
Later we learned It’s that direct look right at you with the cute mask of black around the eyes that convinces people raccoons are friendly, adorable creatures. Wrong! The delightful sight of a raccoon stopping two feet away and gazing steadily at you is not a friendly gesture.It is an act of aggression; they want you to back down. An adult racoon can do great harm to a human. I also learned that their droppings carry a type of leukemia devastating to humans.
One day at noon I saw one of the furry invaders peering intently at me from our roof top. I realized something was wrong. Raccoons are nocturnal and wouldn’t be out at noon unless…of course…..the footsteps at night…. They were living in the attic of our house!
I immediately embarked on a futile search for a city, county or state agency to come and get rid of them. There are all kinds of organizations who deal with wildlife, but none is interested in catching an adult raccoon for a homeowner. If there is a litter of kits they will come for them, but if it’s older raccoons, you’re on your own, always with the stern instructions, “don’t harm them.”
After days on the phone I finally reached a state biologist who assured me that I probably had a mama raccoon returning to her place of birth to drop her kits. That is their custom. She explained how they reach through the large vents on the end of your attic and rip the protective screen off with their human-like paws. They only need six inches to shove their head between the vents and then squeeze their chubby bodies into your home, soon to be theirs. No qualifying and nothing down.
I soon developed a close friendship with the State biologist as we tried her daily suggestions on how to rid our home of these squatters. We baited a cat trap with tuna tied in a bag in the cage. We papered over the vents so we would know if they left. We spread flour on the roof below to check for footprints every day. Each morning I tapped on the ceiling of the corner of each room to see if they were still up there. To my dismay, I’d hear the shifting bodies as I disturbed their sleep under the rafters.
After tiring of uninvited revelers partying in our attic every night, my husband decided pay a visit to the guest quarters. Armed with his weapon of choice, a large can of insect repellent, he crawled on his stomach as far back towards their cozy nest as he could and emptied the can. A large raccoon ran toward him. He threw up his arm, yelled and it veered off and away.
After a few days of checking the trap and vents, we covered the vents with hardware screen. It became obvious the raccoon and her relatives had moved out of our penthouse apartment.
Several evenings later, while watching TV in another room, I heard the screen door to the balcony rattle. Checking, I found it slid open about five inches. I saw a very pregnant mama raccoon and two young ones scurry away. The mama then stopped and stared at me. Later she opened the screen door again.
My husband went outside and gave her a surprise soaking with the hose. She seemed to accept the fact that she was not going to drop her kits inside our house this time and waddled laboriously down the steps.
We still saw her and her little ones at dusk from time to time; and later that year we heard that the next neighbor down the street was having terrible time with raccoons.

Two Princesses
By
Gerry Niskern

When I heard on Thursday that Queen Elizabeth had passed away one thing popped into my mind……Paper Dolls!
Many years ago my sister and I shared a wonderful big book of paper dolls (look it up) of the two little English princesses. We were in seventh heaven. Imagine! Two little princesses who were sisters and best of all, they were almost our ages. Elizabeth was two years older then my sister and Margaret Rose was two years older than me.
We punched out their cardboard figures and carefully cut out each wonderful outfit they were to wear. Our imaginations took over as we played with the dolls. Many scenarios took place as we imagined their lives and acted them out. Coronations, Royal Weddings, Baptisms; we did it all.
Just one thing though; I never got to be Elizabeth, the future Queen, because as my sister told me repeatedly, “She’s my age, the oldest, so I am Elizabeth and you have to be the little sister, Margaret Rose.” Big sisters have to make tough calls, I guess. We played dress up and pretended, dreamed of being a princess ourselves some day. We heard bits and pieces about the English princesses lives during WWII on the radio, in news reels at the movies, and in anything we could get our hands on to read. We learned that as a toddler Elizabeth had some reins attached to her crib so she could sit and pretend she was riding her pony anytime she wanted. We also learned that her nanny of many years was instructed to always wear brown or grey so she wouldn’t detract from the sisters costumes in public.
We knew that the girls stayed at Windsor, just outside of London during the bombing. Their parents stayed at Buckingham Palace. We heard the broadcast by Elizabeth to the many English children who were sent away for safety by their parents.
Later, we read all about Elizabeth and Phillip’s wedding and then when she became Queen we watched her Coronation on television. At last we could see her life in real time. We watched it all as we were growing up and became mothers just as she did. As the years went by, we were aware of her children’s marriages, divorceses and the heartbreaking rifts that occurred in her family as they do in the lives of all little girls who dream of being princesses and grow up to become mothers too.
Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, lived their life in public view. Elizabeth served her time as Monarch with propriety and steadfastness and had to make some tough calls. She didn’t allow her younger sister to marry the man she loved, Peter Townsend. He was a divorced man and as the Queen she couldn’t allow it according to the church. She took a ton of flak for that call. When England recently celebrated her Platinum Jubilee and the Royal family appeared on the balcony of Buckingham Palace she didn’t allow Prince Andrew, Prince Harry and Megan to appear there with the other “working Royals”. Another tough call by the older sister.
Margret Rose’s big sister died this year and my sister did too

“Labor With Love”

By

Gerry Niskern

Labor Day was the signal of the end of the season at my parents business each year. They started their small manufacturing plant and retail store where they produced evaporative cooler pads and sold new coolers and parts here in the valley in l950.
At that time, the majority of residents used evaporative coolers.
When they opened, my dad, a time study engineer, had everything planned down to the last detail. The retail store was in front and in the large back facility he positioned work tables, the rolls of cheesecloth and bales of shredded aspen needed. Every motion was planned down to the last detail.
When they placed the first ad for “unskilled” seasonal workers, only women applied. Some were Anglo and one was Mexican, the first of many Mexican women who worked there. No one cared if they were illegal, had green cards, or were born here.They exchanged ideas on life and families as they worked together making the pads, laughing and talking. Heating and Cooling service men would stop by for parts and pads and kid around with the workers. Of course, they had to keep it quiet down if the Spanish program was broadcasting the daily soap opera.
Ernestina, the original Mexican lady returned to work year after year. In the off season she worked at Phoenix Linen supply. Her husband worked a seasonal job at Anderson-Clayton cotton gin. They were raising four children in a home with a dirt floor and outside shower. All four kids eventually graduated from ASU.
Most of the Anglo women who applied only worked one season for something special they wanted to buy for their home. Nellie, the second Mexican lady, came the second year. She worked at a bathing suit factory in the off season. She made fresh tortillas every morning for her family and always brought some to share.
One Black lady was their shaker for a few seasons. She shook and fluffed the damp excelsior so the women could grab loose handfuls more easily. They never had another shaker as good.
Mom hurried from the customers up front to the back room helping and supervising the women. She made them fresh coffee at break time which she served with liberal doses of her views on morals, democracy and whatever she had baked the night before.
As years went by the Anglos went on to better jobs and more Mexicans women answered their ads. Mom eventually learned some Spanish and they learned English.
By Labor Day, the season was over. Come the New Year, the help wanted ad ran again and the chance for honest labor was offered: No matter what your ethnic background or legal status. No one cared