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.

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 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 to see the whole valley below thru the tall windows, or better yet from the balcony across the entire front of the house.
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 see the giant rolling dust storms coming from the Southeast and covering the downtown skyline before actually being warned by the TV weather lady.
We reveled in the twinkling city lights every evening and on the Fourth of July we marveled at Fireworks from a dozen towns and venues from our ringside seats on the balcony. I admit it. We felt a little superior with our “window to the world.”
But, eventually, I moved to a darling little house on the same street, just around the corner. Sadly, instead of being on the mountain, facing the valley, 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 didn’t see him, but many other people caught a glimpse and exclaimed at his size. Then one day, while eating breakfast, I had that feeling that someone was looking at me. There Mr. Roadrunner was. Sitting on the sill of the living room picture window and looking at me. He stayed a while and then hopped down and ran up the street on his long legs.
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 I provided. They hop right past them. Maybe the Momma rabbit warned them about processed food!
In the evening 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 fuzzy 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.
Other evenings I enjoy watching a para-glider catching the heat thermos above mountain. His loops and swoops are fascinating entertainment.
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 Saguaro cactus in the front yard forming its crown of white flowers in the spring. And last year the two smaller Saguaros were given a crown of white flowers. ( Arizona’s state flower!) The Organ Pipe cactus also grows red fruit and The birds love the treat, 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 of lemons 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 “ neighborhood ” Roadrunner!

I Knew a Dad
By
Gerry Niskern
I knew a dad who hurried home from work in the summer to take his two little daughters on a hike in the woods before dinner. He would quickly make some jelly sandwiches, grab the ice water bottle from the frig and call “Who’s hiking with me?” and of course, they were always ready. They hiked across the pasture and into the woods to see what the day had in store. Dad examined unusual plants and knew their names. He pointed out animal tracks and how to identify them. He helped the girls across the creek and explained the reasons for the colors in the various rocks. As they climbed up the sloping pasture to head to the house, the hikers plopped down among the wild flowers and ate delicious jelly sandwiches and drank the cool water.
In the winter he took the girls flying down that snow packed meadow on a sled, clinging tightly to his back. On Sunday That dad shoveled a path through deep snow from the house to the garage so the family could go to church. And in church the young father stood on crutches and conducted the service when the traveling pastor wasn’t there. The young dad had an injury that never healed properly. He stood on those crutches and worked at his job as an industrial engineer day after day. When the doctor said he had to go West to a dry climate for surgery or the leg would never heal, he loaded the family into a l941 Chevy and headed to Arizona. He had to be worried and concerned about caring for a family and keeping them safe in a strange part of the country, but he didn’t let them know it. During the long drive West he stopped an picked up young soldiers and sailors on their way home on leave. He loved hearing their stories and all about where their home was. On that long journey, he listened as baritones harmonized with his young daughters while in the back seat while singing all the songs on the Hit Parade.
He stood on those crutches and worked at the Goodyear Aircraft Company during the war. When the war was over and penicillin was released for the private doctor’s use, he was finally cured of the infection that had plagued him since age fourteen. With two healthy legs he explored the desert and the mountains of Arizona and when grandkids came along years later he took them hiking too.
That’s the Dad that I knew.

The Boy Next Door
By
Gerry Niskern
The boy next door just graduated from high school. He’s excited about starting college at NAU this fall. His future is ahead of him. He’ll be able to someday work where he chooses, have a business, move any where he wants. That’s what growing up in a Democracy allows. Freedom.
If today was eighty years ago, he would be headed directly into one of our armed services, and then straight overseas to battle. The many stories about D-Day this week reminds us that a large percentage of the men that landed on the Normandy beaches were teenagers. Take a minute and think about that.
Our country, along with our Allies, invaded Normandy eighty years ago to fight an authoritarian government that was intent on conquering the world. Nazi Germany had taken over the continent of Europe destroying countries and people’s lives. 150,000 men landed on five beaches on the coast of Normandy knowing that it was estimated that 50% of them would probably not survive.
Many books are available describing D-Day. The details of the invasion and the politics of why we weren’t involved in fighting that German government years earlier are explained again and again.
I can only truthfully write about my own memories of those war years. I vividly recall around age five, before I started to school, sitting in the kitchen and watching my mother cry as she listened to the radio while she worked. When I would ask why she was crying, she always answered, “Oh honey, it’s what’s happening to those people in Europe.” At that time, we still had cousins in Austria.
Later, I watched her crying the few times she received a precious V-mail from one of her two younger brothers in the Navy. One was a gunner on a destroyer and the other an electrician on a tanker. In December of 1943 my cousin, an eighteen- year- old Marine, was stationed at Camp Pendelton and was due to ship out. He was part of a Bazooka team. My Dad borrowed gas ration coupons and drove us to San Diego to hug him goodbye. We all cried that day. During the months ahead thousands of lives were interrupted and many thousands more lives were over.
Today the young men in the Ukraine are fighting to hang on to their Democracy. Their future plans are on hold. We’re committed to helping them. We can’t remain in isolation when other Democracies are threatened.
When we go to the polls in November we’ll be choosing between a future autocratic government or our present Democratic society where your kid next door can plan his future freely.

“Hug, Anyone?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Is it just me, or has anyone else been wondering about all the hugging going on these days? It has definitely evolved into a form of greeting and goodbyes too. And don’t even get me started on all the politicians hugging everyone on the podium before a speech.
One evening a couple of years ago, I was sounding off, as I’m prone to do occasionally, about all the social hugging; and I’m afraid I hurt a good friend’s feelings. He was a dedicated hugger. When I got my foot out of my mouth I tried to explain that I didn’t mean among family and old friends. You see, our friendship dates way back to grade school here in Phoenix. The sandy haired kid that I remember was the class cut-up. I’m indebted to him for providing many a laugh on long boring afternoons at Adams School.
I learned a little about the modern hug after consulting Miss Manners. She tells us that the hug has become a new form of social inter-action. However, she does not approve of acquaintances trying to skip the preliminaries of becoming close friends before starting the hugging. So, when did all this hugging start?
I grew up in an era when men shook hands and women hugged a little, sometimes. Parents hugged their children and maybe an aunt or uncle slipped in a hug or two, but not often. I confess I was born with that anti-hugging gene. My mother loved to tell how I, as the first baby around in years, would deftly dodge the out stretched arms of loving relatives as I made my independent way around the house.
When I worked at the Valley National Bank the vice-president demanded a hug and kiss from each girl as he passed around our checks. Suffice to say that he learned quickly to just give me my check on payday; no preliminaries.
I do realize that hugging is considered very important and one of the most pressing needs of elders for social interaction. My strong objection to the “social” hug is that it devalues the age-old meaning of the hug. The little social half-hearted hugs that I see as people part seem contrived and uncomfortable.
I ‘ve learned a lot about hugging and thinking before I speak!
I don’t know if my old friend from childhood ever forgave me for voicing my displeasure of too much insincere hugging, but I know one thing. If he were here today, I would sure give him a great big hug!!