“Rolling On”
by
Gerry Niskern

School’s starting everywhere and it couldn’t start without the bus drivers. Some are new at the job this year, and some are old timers. Here is the experience of just one.
‘I wrote this little story as suggested to me by my younger brother-in-law. He had worked at Cox Toys as a model train designer and later at the Centura Rocket company designing rockets. He started driving after he retired.’

Keith crushed the pink slip of paper in his fist as he strode from the office. His heart was pounding. The numbers on the driver’s lockers were a blur. He yanked the metal door open and started throwing his personal things into a box.
“What kind of a joke is that? Saying I can’t drive my bus anymore. I don’t care what their new rules say about age limits; after years of hauling kids!”
He sat down abruptly and took a few deep breaths. He remembered his blood pressure and told himself to calm down.
“You have the blood pressure under control and passed the physical one more year, don’t blow it now.”
After a few minutes, he picked up his compass and studied it. He chuckled as he remembered the first morning he drove the huge yellow vehicle. “Man, was I nervous…afraid I’d forget the route, get myself lost, or leave some kid stranded. I was scared that I couldn’t make friends with the children. He tossed the compass into the box and pulled out a sweat stained cap. “I remember I was drenched in nervous sweat when I finally stopped for that last pickup that day.”
A little girl was clinging to her mother when he pulled up. The first grader climbed the high steps, one at a time, sniffling and blinking back the tears. She said something to him; he couldn’t hear her at first. He leaned down to hear her timid voice. “Hi, Bus.”All the first day’s tension disappeared with his laughter.
He pulled his gloves from the locker shelf and thought back to the first winter of driving…November, December when the snow came. He used to stand on the bumper in the pre dawn darkness scraping thick frost from the windshield as icicles formed on his mustache.
He prayed on those icy mornings as he made his way slowly from one huddled group to another, white curls of breath disappearing above their heads as they scrambled aboard.
He learned how to spot the troublemakers fast. When he wrote up a student and they lost their riding privileges for a week, he knew which driver of the nearest route to notify, so the culprit couldn’t sneak on with another crowd.
Keith chuckled when he thought how he had gotten so he could predict the day, usually at the end of the first week, when five or six kids would jump out the back emergency exit. He would be standing there ready to herd them back on the bus.
Sure, times had changed a lot over the years. Kids had changed. First, the district installed the surveillance cameras, then came the CB radio. “Code Red” to the office meant he was pulling off the road, doors locked, send the police. He sighed, tossing his first aid kit into the box. There was one time he wasn’t likely to forget.
One day he wrote up an eight year old boy, an automatic “no ride” for a week. The next morning, at the boy’s stop, a massive body hurled through the bus door towards him. Hands of steel dragged him down to the ground. A large woman pounded him while small feet kicked him in the head.
He drove the next day , taped ribs and all. He wouldn’t let the vice of fear gripping his stomach show as he joked with the kids at the young kickers stop.
So it went…Now he had reached “that age” and been relegated to a van, a mini van at that! He’d be picking up pre-schoolers for a special education program. Forget it…not for him! He made a vow to himself, “I’ll stay one week, one week only, until they find a replacement. Not a minute longer.”
On Monday morning, he reluctantly pulled the yellow mini van out of the district yard. He was glad the other drivers had already gone. It was down right embarrassing. Six seats. Six pitiful seats! No way, thank you very much.
Later that morning, he eased the van to the curb on the last pickup. A little girl slowly climbed aboard. Her chin trembled and he saw eyes bright with unshed tears. She waved a brave good bye to her mother. Then as she turned toward him, she placed a small trembling hand on his arm and said softly, “Hi, bus.”

“Don’t worry, the rain is coming”

By

Gerry Niskern

(This column from the Arizona Republic seems appropriate again!)

It’s late this year, and worrisome. We usually have a first big storm by the Fourth of July. But, relax, it’s coming, and it always comes with a bang! Here are some memories of past wet summers. Enjoy.
One day, years ago it was raining so hard I could hardly see them out on the sidewalk. One toddler ran by, laughing, the feet of his soggy sleepers slapping the pavement. Baby brother came into sight; his drenched diaper, laden with rainwater, dragging behind. Big sister in pink pajamas led the parade of upturned, wet faces squealing with the joy at the rain that had finally come after a long period of despair.
That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. On the days my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came, as always, sometime in July.
We have had years of drought and years of unbelievable rains. That summer, before the rains came, the huge dust storms, the weathermen now call them Haboobs, left an inch layer of dirt on the bottom of everyone’s pool. The kids begged to swim, so I became an expert at pool vacuuming…every single morning!
The thunderstorms that sometimes come tearing thru the valley create havoc, but just manage to give everyone’s grass a good soaking. It’s hard to believe, but sometimes we do get too much precipitation.
Years ago, in the l940’s when I was a kid, the rain finally came and drenched the parched ground, but didn’t stop. The Cave Creek Dam finally broke. The railroad tracks along Nineteenth Ave dammed the water. The residential area around the Arizona State Capitol building had heavy flooding. We kids, in the blissful ignorance of childhood, just enjoyed riding our bikes through the knee high water flowing curb to curb in the streets. We didn’t realize that most of the businesses were sandbagged and the Capitol basement had flooded.
We were even treated to our first look at an U. S. Army amphibious vehicle. The Seventeenth Avenue underpass was flooded too and the kids all watched in awe as a group of soldiers came down the street and drove right through the deep water.
I’ll never forget my dad returning from hiking alone on South Mountain. He was caught in a downpour so hard that he said, “I couldn’t see or breathe. I was really beginning to panic!”
I remember a neighbor at that time telling my folks, “Back in l938, the Salt River really overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water back and all of central Phoenix was in danger of being flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”
One other summer, when my kids were in their teens, around 1970, we lived in a different neighborhood and the rains were again unrelenting. The ground was saturated and one Saturday morning police drove through the area shouting on loud speakers, “Attention, Prepare to evacuate!” Arizona Canal just North a few blocks of us was starting to overflow its banks
The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they will surely nourish our spirits.
Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain above me, mixed with the pungent smell of desert grass below will be like heaven as I watch the rabbits and quail scurrying for shelter from the rain that is sure to come soon.

Accidental Birder
By
Gerry Niskern
“A bird does not sing because it has an answer,
It sings because it has a song”…..Maya Angelou

I woke up the other morning to find my rock covered back yard totally darkened with tiny, Finch- sized black birds. The massive flock was a sea of black bobbing heads as they feasted on something deep among the rocks. The back fence was lined with more of the small birds waiting their turn at this breakfast buffet. I have no idea what the attraction was; nothing like that feeding frenzy had ever happened before. My grandson suggested it might have been ants.
My number 1 son has often pointed out some interesting birds in his neighborhood and now I had a story to tell him!
I’ve never been a bird watcher, but I started recalling some special memories of birds that I have seen here in Arizona.
Once on a drive with my dad when I was a kid we rounded a sharp curve on a dusty desert road just as a hawk with a snake in it’s beak flew up out of some bushes and over the hood of our car. The startled hawk dropped his reptile lunch on the hood of our car. The lucky snake got a reprieve and we had a great story to tell our friends.
Another precious memory is of being able to look down from our balcony into a tiny hummingbird nest in a tall Hibiscus bush below. I was able to watch those tiny blue eggs in their nests every year without disturbing the mama birds.
Living at the base of the North Phoenix Mountains, I sometimes had the thrill of seeing the shadow of the huge wings of an owl overhead at dusk as it swooped down on a prey while I was sitting out on our balcony.
Because of our very wet winter here in our Sonoran desert, nature has provided the birds with a bountiful supply of food. Just in my yard alone the Saguaro and it’s cousin the Organ Pipe have outdone themselves. The Saguaro had creamy, white blossoms, even on it’s one tiny arm. The birds love the nectar and of course, the bats visit and pollinate at night.
The Organ Pipe stands at highest arm about l2 feet, with many branches. Starting in May and all of June it was a something to behold. Each morning I opened my front blinds to a unique gathering of birds feasting on the red fruit that the Organ Pipe produced. Everyone seemed to have a “seat at the table”. Both small and large friends were perched up and down the cactus branches. White-winged doves, Cactus wrens, even pigeons came to the banquet. No one could be bothered to stop eating and chase a newcomer away!
I’ve never paid a lot of attention to our bird population, but once I stopped and actually looked at the many species this spring, I’ve become fascinated. Most fly, but some travel only on the ground like the quail and roadrunners. I wonder if they even know that they are missing the “Pitaya Dulce”(sweet cactus). It’s been said to be better than watermelon.
When I go out front to sit in the evening (not right now!) I hear beautiful bird songs; and a few a little screechy. I wonder sometimes if the tiny mama bird that peers down at me from her nest in the hole in the Saguaro agrees with me.
There is estimated to be around 47 million official birders in the United States.
Actually, there is 47 million and one!

“Did Anyone Ask the Kids?”

By

Gerry Niskern

When politicians are running for office, it’s “all about the children” in every campaign speech. But guess what, those concerns are forgotten when it comes to budget cutting time.
I was dumbfounded when it was announced last year that the city budget for the coming year would include cutting back on the number of days the City of Phoenix public swimming pools would be open, I couldn’t believe it; not in the heat of this city.
After all, Maricopa County boasts more than 126,000 millionaires. When our city officials travel worldwide touting Phoenix, the fifth largest city in the United States, do they mention that we can’t afford to keep our public pools open for the entire summer? Surely, I thought, someone will remember how hot it is here in August, and revise their thinking about an early shutdown. It’s still hot and hundreds of kids still need a place to swim.
This year the lack of life guards was one problem. Perhaps if the wages were comparable to other essential city jobs there would be plenty of applicants.
Who can forget the feeling, growing up here in Phoenix, of arriving hot and tired at the counter of the public pool, paying your admission, getting a safety pin with a number and a basket for your clothes and finally jumping feet first into that deliciously cold water? It was heaven. Wherever you learned to swim as a kid, canal, river lake or pool, I’ll bet you’ve never forgotten the delight of that day.
Times have changed and thousands of children have the benefit of a pool in their own back yard. Then again, thousands of kids don’t even have a back yard, let along a swimming pool. Many parents of kids who use the public pools work hard at two minimum wage jobs. They manage to scrape together enough each day for the kids to get to swim. For many that is their only recreation all summer.
Let’s ask our representatives to think about those idle pools on their way home each day to cool off a bit in their pool with the family before dinner. And then when it comes to the budget for next year, sharpen their pencils for cuts in other areas besides on the backs of kids.
After all, did anyone ask the kids? Oh, that’s right. Kids don’t vote!