One time I asked Ken what he had taught his kids. “Nothing, that I can think of,” he replied. His offspring begged to differ!

Monday’s child grew up taking anything apart that had nuts and bolts and threads. Then his dad had to teach him how to put everything back together. “Right-tight” and “Lefty-Lucy” was the motto. They shared a love of building and mechanics. Dad taught him to start a nail straight. Monday’s child added, “He also taught me that at Bob’s Big Boy thousand Island dressing goes great on hamburgers.”

Tuesday’s child told me, “Dad taught us how to play poked. 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.”

Thursday’s child remembers dad teaching her how to ride her first bike. She got a 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 showed 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 that I remember was a matching silk turquoise gown and robe with gold embroidered trim. Great shopping impressed me?”

They all remembered the whole family playing hide-and-seek and dad putting them up in the linen closet where mom wouldn’t look. They got piggyback rides to bed and if they begged him to play 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 things that kids need to know.

“Choices for June Brides”

By

Gerry Niskern

          The delivery trucks are rolling.  The charge cards are burning up the wires; all in a mad frenzy to get the latest Cuisinarts, Keurig Brewing Systems and Ninja Blenders delivered before the big wedding.  This year’s new brides will have the latest tools at their fingertips to help prepare gourmet meals.

Today’s June brides also have the luxury of finding various fruits and veggies in the supermarket year round that normally were available only once a year.

No matter how many times I walk into a market here in our valley, I’ll never get used to the sight of summer fruit in winter. I’m hopelessly in the mind set that fruits should come in sequence of seasons.

The newlywed’s remaining challenge will be to combine two lifetime eating styles into one happy combination. Take strawberries for example.     New brides have the question of how to prepare the ruby morsels for finale consumption. The way her family enjoyed strawberries may not be at all similar to the dessert her new hubby is expecting when he picks up that strawberry scent in the kitchen. I remember my dismay when first married and we had dinner at my in-laws home. We had strawberries loaded with sugar over a white cake. “My goodness,” I thought, “Doesn’t that woman know the only way to serve strawberries is in a deep bowl, only slightly sweetened and heaped on top a biscuit type shortcake. Then pour cold milk over gently and dig in. Good to the last spoonful of milk turned pink and juicy crumbs.”

 When strawberry season is over we start getting the melons. When I served cantaloupe the first time as a new bride, I cut it in wedges and saved it for dessert, of course. Finally my new spouse said, “Aren’t you going to put the cantaloupe on the table?” It seems that in Texas, where he was from, a heaping platter of melon was sliced and served as part of the meal.

Later on we have golden peaches and plump apricots with a soft pink blush. This new bride made peach cobbler with a crust on the bottom and the top. This was served warm and topped with vanilla ice cream. New hubby expected fruit only on the bottom, covered with biscuit type mounds on the top and served cold, in a bowl and covered with whipped cream.

On day I decided to cook pork chops. I baked them on a bed of fluffy rice. Wrong! He informed me that you are supposed to fry pork chops and ‘rice is a breakfast food, served with butter and sugar.’ And by the way, white bread goes with a meal, not whole wheat.

I baked a Devils food cake, elegantly iced; I couldn’t go wrong there. But guess what? Did you know plain Devils food cake is eaten crumbled up in a tall glass of buttermilk; ditto for cornbread? “No,” I retorted, “Everyone knows cornbread is served warm, cut in squares, with butter”.

At this point I was thinking, “At least the drink is not a problem. How could you possibly serve ice tea differently did my mother did, an ice cold pitcher full with lots of lemon and a little sugar?” It seems Texas style tea was thick and sweet as syrup, poured warm over a glass full of ice.

About this time I was thinking, “maybe we really aren’t compatible for marriage?” Then summer was over and Thanksgiving loomed ahead. “What kind of dressing should I make to stuff the turkey?” I mused.

Let’s don’t even go there!

“I’M GOING TO A BASEBALL GAME!”

About fourteen years ago I went to another baseball game. A pee-wee league of three and four year olds was playing their first game. The families settled in as the team spread out on the field. The theory was, spread ‘m out and maybe the ball will hit one of them.

But wait, something was wrong. Future # 9 player was having no part of it. Bribes of bubble gum, “ice cream later”, nothing worked. He finally submitted his demand. Big brother had to go out there with him!

When he got up to bat and finally connected, his dad was yelling, “run to first, no, no that way, first.” They needn’t have worried; the outfielder who picked up the ball was giving it to another fielder, “sharing” like he learned in pre-school! And he handed it to another boy, while their dads were yelling “Throw the ball. Throw the ball!” As the game went on players wandered over to sit in mom’s lap for a while or to play with a very interesting bed of ants nearby.

Later, when the game was over the dads were grinning from ear to ear. Their boys had finally played their first baseball game. Some of those same boys are playing together on Tuesday evening on the Mountain Ridge High School team for the State Division 1 Championship!

The parents job was just beginning. They’re the ones who drove the boys to practice, coached in the early years. They helped prepare the fields, manned the refreshment stand or brought the snacks. They raised money for the organizations. They spent mega bucks on club ball for their kids to get every opportunity to play and improve each year.

The mothers have used enough bleach to fill the Grand Canyon keeping the white uniforms clean and ready to go each game. They also had to keep an eye on the younger brothers and sisters who played behind the bleachers, except when they emerged to raid mom’s purse for money for the snack stand.

The members of the team from Mountain Ridge, especially the 11 seniors, are looking for revenge. They went all the way last year and lost the final game. They all agree that it won’t happen again. They are out to win and so are their parents!

“I’M GOING TO A BASEBALL GAME!”

About fourteen years ago I went to another baseball game. A pee-wee league of three and four year olds was playing their first game. The families settled in as the team spread out on the field. The theory was, spread ‘m out and maybe the ball will hit one of them.

But wait, something was wrong. Future # 9 player was having no part of it. Bribes of bubble gum, “ice cream later”, nothing worked. He finally submitted his demand. Big brother had to go out there with him!

When he got up to bat and finally connected, his dad was yelling, “run to first, no, no that way, first.” They needn’t have worried; the outfielder who picked up the ball was giving it to another fielder, “sharing” like he learned in pre-school! And he handed it to another boy, while their dads were yelling “Throw the ball. Throw the ball!” As the game went on players wandered over to sit in mom’s lap for a while or to play with a very interesting bed of ants nearby.

Later, when the game was over the dads were grinning from ear to ear. Their boys had finally played their first baseball game. Some of those same boys are playing together on Tuesday evening on the Mountain Ridge High School team for the State Division 1 Championship!

The parents job was just beginning. They’re the ones who drove the boys to practice, coached in the early years. They helped prepare the fields, manned the refreshment stand or brought the snacks. They raised money for the organizations. They spent mega bucks on club ball for their kids to get every opportunity to play and improve each year.

The mothers have used enough bleach to fill the Grand Canyon keeping the white uniforms clean and ready to go each game. They also had to keep an eye on the younger brothers and sisters who played behind the bleachers, except when they emerged to raid mom’s purse for money for the snack stand.

The members of the team from Mountain Ridge, especially the 11 seniors, are looking for revenge. They went all the way last year and lost the final game. They all agree that it won’t happen again. They are out to win and so are their parents!

“What is a Good Mother”

By

Gerry Niskern

Soon families across our valley will be honoring their mothers with a special Sunday brunch, family barbecue or another traditional feast. Dad and the kids will go on shopping trips for the perfect gift for mom because she is such a good mother.

But wait, just what is a good mother?

Before our first baby was born, I was convinced that I was going to be a great mom. After all, I was totally prepared.  I had read the entire Dr. Spock’s Common Sense and Child Care book, twice.

Then the learning really began. First of all, the big baby girl that arrived couldn’t fit into all the tiny  baby clothes that I had so carefully sewn. Then, surprise, we didn’t need the new rocking chair for middle of the night feedings. She chose to sleep through the first night, and all the rest. Her formative years were easy and of course, that made me the perfect mother. Then during her teenage years, she had a twelve o’clock curfew and I waited up.

The second baby kicked the rulebook right out the window. From ten months on, there was no structure he couldn’t climb. He wrote on walls with his crayons and screwed out all the air vent covers  with his little fingernails. His teen year’s curfew was 12:30 and I just tried to stay awake to listen for the front door.

The third and last was a loner. He grew up in the back seat of my station wagon as I taxied his older siblings to Scouts, choir practice, Little League and play dates. Also, by the time he came along I had learned kids wont eat liver once a week, now matter how good it is for them. When he was a teenager, his only instructions were, “ just be quiet and don’t wake us when you come in.”

The younger generation of mothers has taught me many things. Some of the first lessons I learned were after my daughter became a mother. Allergy shots at the doctors are tolerated well if the kid gets to choose a candy bar later.  And guess what, children don’t really need to wear undershirts from October till April. They also don’t catch the sniffles when they forget their sweaters; head colds come from contact with germs.

My granddaughter’s mother helped me realize that working mothers are indeed good mothers. Their children learn earlier to be self-reliant. They understand how to budget their time and keep track of their activities. They learn to repack their own book bags at night before school because Mom is busy getting ready herself in the morning.

My grandson’s wife taught me that breakfast goes better with cartoons. Sometimes bare feet are okay in the wintertime and, that daddies can change diapers, give bottles and even match socks with hair ribbons.

Mothers pushing jogging strollers that pass me on the walking trail have shown me babies don’t have to be in their cribs for naps. These multi-task moms speed along at a brisk pace getting their workout while baby is soaking in Vitamin D and “stacking up Z’s”.

The new moms have introduced me to time out, sippee cups, safety car seats, nursery monitors, bottle liners,  baby wipes and Huggies. The ultimate in luxury is the Diaper Genie. Unbelievable! I really could be a perfect mother with all these new baby innovations. It almost makes you want to start all over again.   Almost!

There’s been more then a few earthquakes reported around the world recently. I was reminded of a column I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy

“Same Room Next Year”

by

Gerry Niskern

Something woke me. I think it was the silence. The echoing waves that lulled us to sleep at night breaking below our room were suddenly quiet. Too quiet. I sensed, felt and heard something all at the same time. What was it?

A monstrous murmur, moving closer and closer.

A penetrating, prodigious groan of some giant, deep within the earth.

A dull roar, but no, more than that, a feeling of tension and then…the bed started to tremble and then shake violently!

I looked up. “No, not again,” I pleaded. “This happened on our vacation last year. It’s not fair.” My answer was snapping and popping as the ceiling moved above me. I could see brick walls swaying in a crazy dance high over my head in the pre dawn light. They undulated back and forth, back and forth. I decided it wasn’t a good time to bargain.

The walls are going to cave in on us. We’re two floors down, in an old seaside hotel hanging over a cliff above the Pacific. So much for early, California charm.

Complete terror shut down my brain and I told myself it was not happening. It was all a dream. An instant later I shot out of bed and dashed towards the door as my husband started for the balcony. We collided in the dark room as we both made the announcement, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Come on, the balcony,” he urged. “Maybe we can get down to the beach.”

“No,” Miss science class drop out answered. “There’ll be a tidal wave!”

I turned back towards the hall door as he yelled, “Wait a minute. I have to find my jeans.”

Bracing myself in the doorjamb, I screamed “Hurry up. Hurry up.” I was planning to hit the street in my nightgown whether the world was ready or not!

By the time we reached the stairs, the worst tremors seemed to be over. One by one, trying to act casual in various states of undress, other hotel guests and we straggled out into the open space above. Believe me, the three hundred-pound guy in glow in the dark boxers was not a pretty sight.

We stood around in the chilly dawn, arms crossed in strategic places. We shared stories and nervous laughs about our common ordeal. One fellow started laboriously explaining the movement of the pacific tectonic plate and the North American tectonic plate and how forces produce changes in the earth’s crush. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no one was listening. The men all had their attention on the blonde in the black see through teddy.

Various thoughts kept running through my mind like, “I want to go home! Could we even get a flight out today? Would the freeways be passable?” I found myself repeating the old childbirth litany, never again, never again. This was not what I had in mind when I agreed to a natural environment vacation.

Ken convinced me it was really over. He asked why not go back to our room? Personally, I could think of a million reasons. Later he went for coffee and rolls and we turned on the news to get the results of the quake.  We watched harried television newscasters explain solemnly in their usual pompous manner that the quake had been an 8.6 on the Richter scale, but not to worry. Then we watched them dive under their tables as television equipment fell around their heads and we felt another one!

“I’m out of here.” I yelled.

“Hurry up, will you?” Ken urged as we started up the cement stairs again. This time, there was a slight problem. The steps kept moving sideways when I tried to put my foot down.

In the parking lot again, we watched people throw suitcases with clothes spilling out, into their car trunks. One driver shouted back over his shoulder, “I don’t care if they are just aftershocks!”

We decided to walk into the village and try to calm down. The shop keepers told us that the epicenter had been inland and the beach was perfectly safe and then they told us to stay, relax, enjoy the rest of our vacation and could they wrap up that little trinket for us?

We returned to our room eventually.  I set the world’s record for changing into a bathing suit and getting outside again. Every few minutes during the day, the beach trembled for a few seconds. Putting my hand palm down on the sand, it was a strange sensation to feel the beach moving.

Then, as the day drifted by, the sun and surf conspired and lulled us into a calm complacency. When we checked out a couple of days later, we conferred our kids long held suspicion that we were certifiable. We both nodded in agreement when our old friend, the hotel manager, asked, “Same room next year?”

“Today’s Moms need a few old maxims”

By

Gerry Niskern

Today’s young mothers, either working or stay-at-home, strive to achieve unrealistic standards set by today’s society. Many magazines demand that mothers see that their children are involved in sports, music lessons and other enriching experiences every single day. They struggle to meet every need of their children’s entire emotional, psychological and intellectual well being twenty-four seven.

Today’s mothers are encouraged to raise their children to think they are the center of the universe. Heaven forbid that the child is bored or allowed to think for themselves.

I imagine some readers remember complaining as a child about having nothing to do. I think the usual reply back then was, “Find something to do, or I’ll find you something.” Believe me, you didn’t want to know what that was!

My mother would advise today’s mothers to instead, arm themselves with an arsenal of maxims! I was raised by the maxim method, but didn’t realize it until years later.

When l begged to have my long braids cut off and my hair styled, I was informed that “beauty is only skin deep and furthermore, just remember that pretty is as pretty does.”

     On the afternoon my boyfriend and I ditched highschool, she flung open the front door and announced that she was “mad as a wet hen” after the school called and if I thought I had gotten away with it “I had another thought coming. You’ve cooked your own goose and your dad is going to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

After a Saturday date, as we approached the front yard, the front porch light the size of a lighthouse beam would suddenly blaze on. I just knew she was smugly thinking, “I nipped that in the bud.”

     Certain occasions in our family were command performances. Family holidays, birthdays and especially funerals were required attendance. “What do you mean, you can’t go. Your Uncle John was the salt of the earth. Services are at two o’clock. Be there. After all, blood is thicker than water.”

Long after I became a mother myself, she continued to mother the young women who worked in my parents small manufacturing business. On Monday mornings she brought them samples and copies of a new recipe that melted in your mouth. When she worked along beside them she gave them 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 respectively or were always four sheets to the wind; everybody knows, a leopard can’t change his spots.  Mom arranged a cash advance on her first paycheck if a new girl was having a hard time financially. She simply informed my dad that the poor girl was between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Mom supplied love in abundance, but she also gave us no nonsense replies to self-indulgent complaining. Most of the maxims she used were simply shortcut ways of telling us to stand on our own two feet and think for ourselves. Crocodile tears were not acceptable.

So, as my mother would say to young mothers today, “ Learn a few maxims. Who knows? Maybe someday when your children are adults, they might look back fondly at your method of upbringing and say, “She was worth her weight in gold!”

“I Went to a Celtic Wedding!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Tears of joy glistened in her eyes as the barefoot bride clad in white came slowly up the hill. As she swept into the groom’s eager arms she laid her dark head, crowned with a wreath of purple flowers, on his shoulder. He touched her lovingly as they danced slowly round and round and round.

The family and friends gathered in the meadow beside the tinkling rhythm of Oak Creek heard the couple speak vows of promise and love to each other and the bride’s child. The Red Rocks beyond stood in silent witness to the love flowing from everyone gathered at Red Rock Crossing last Sunday afternoon.

Earlier that day, as guests arrived at the large Ramada they found beautiful place settings and flowers on purple cloths adorning all the tables. The Groom came earlier to do the decorating! The side tables began to fill with the delectable dishes of a pot luck luncheon. Chili bubbled in a crock pot beside three kinds of lasagna. There were salads of every kind and fruit plates too. Slices of ham piled on a platter beside the rolls; mouth watering food brought by loving family and friends. No need for a wedding planner or special wines at this simple, relaxed time. A quick sip of champagne to toast the couple. After the long, long hike up the creek to the meadow where we watched this Celtic wedding take place the food was eagerly enjoyed by all!

During the ceremony the traditional mingling of blood from the groom’s left wrist and the brides right was sealed with long ribbons tying them together by the groom’s step-father who performed the ceremony. They remained bound together the rest of their beautiful day as they embraced mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, grandparents and friends.

As the day was winding to a close, I spoke to the new Mr. and Mrs. Brandon Thomas. “When your great-grandpa Kenny and I were young marrieds we used to camp here at Red Rock Crossing for entire weekends without another soul showing up. After putting our young kids to sleep in the tent and zipping it up, we used to go down to the deep pool and have a romantic, moonlight swim. So I’m not surprised that you, Brandon, brought your bride here to Red Rock Crossing to be married.”

“Voices”

By

Gerry Niskern

What do you think about the new friends we all have acquired in the past few years?  You know the ones. They’re voices. That’s all, just firm voices.

At first it was a little disconcerting having someone I can’t see and didn’t know giving me authoritative orders. I remember years ago when we were waiting in the car for a real estate lady who ran into her bank for a quick minute. Suddenly, a woman said real loud, “Your engine is running and your seat belt is not fastened!”  I don’t know who went straight up first, my spouse or me. That was just the beginning the invasion of the voices.

Now days at the airport, when we are finally relaxing a little on the moving sidewalk, in one of many repetitious commands a voice instructs us over and over to “stand to the right and walk on the left, please”.

Then, there is our new robotic buddy at the supermarket. Actually, I like him. I get finished checking out faster and he’s never sniffing from a fresh cold.  He invites me to “press start here, scan the first item and put it in the bag.”Of course, he does get a little cranky sometimes. If I have a large item, like a twelve pack of cola, and decide to put it directly into the cart, he repeats “put the item in the bag, put the item in the bag! PUT THE ITEM IN THE BAG!!! By this time the courtesy clerk is scurrying over to see just how retarded I really am and the customers behind me are snickering.

Of course, his R2D2 chum at the gas pump doesn’t talk to me at all. He doesn’t have to, as long as I need him more than he needs me. I quietly slip him that little credit card and he delivers. Gas. Nothing else. No oil checks clean windshield or “have a nice day”.

On the other hand, there’s another voice we can be sure we’ll never hear. When we call the doctor’s office and get their menu with more choices than you care to use, there’s one option we don’t have to worry about receiving. Press # 5 and you can speak to the doctor himself.  Forget that one!

The voice in the box at the fast food drive- in offers a different challenge. Now, we know there is actually a live person on the other end of this form of communication. The problem is, they can never quite hear you and you sure can’t understand them. Come to think of it, maybe they could get lessons on how to speak clearly and distinctly from Mr. Robot.

Today’s children are different. They’re accustomed to taking orders from the voices in their toys. One little toddler I know pushes her pink fire engine along and is delighted when a voice tells her “Look both ways when you cross the street…In case of emergency, call 911….or Don’t talk to strangers!” The older kids take their instructions from their video game voice of authority before beginning a game. Maybe that’s better than the arguments we used to have as kids on the rules for Monopoly.  .

As time goes on, we’ll all continue to be introduced to more and more new voices in our lives

I have just one request. Could somebody please put a microchip in the take- home box in the restaurants? He could yell, ”Hey lady, you’re forgetting your doggie bag!”

“The Inner-child Wants to Play”

By

Gerry Niskern

There are bunnies, chicks, beautiful eggs and jelley beans everywhere we go in the valley these days. That only means one thing. Easter is coming and the family is making plans.

Easter is a special time, a time for family gatherings; in other words, knock down, drag out quarrels and fights. Or to put it another way, family games! You remember board games, don’t you?  Those were the games everyone, young and old played in the days before it became the norm to shuttle the kids off into the other room with their solitary Nintendo and computer games.

It’s time to start checking out the new games for fun at the Easter get together and for summer vacation time. There are loads of new ones out there.

Of course you can’t beat our family’s old stand by, Gestures, a different form of Charades that’s good for all ages. Even the tiniest player can try to guess the secret movements of his team. (Just make sure the men’s team doesn’t use their zoom lens on the video to see the answer cards across the room. Trust me, I speak from experience on this issue!)

As children, everyone played games. Old Maid, Tiddly Winks, Go Fish and puzzles to name a few. How about Monopoly, Parcheesi, or Aggravation? Those childish amusements helped us develop skills and knowledge. We learned about planning, strategy and reasoning. And if we’ve been lucky, we have been able to remain enough of a child to still enjoy the challenge of a game.

How does your family compete? You know, when you think about it, it’s all about competition. My sly old grandma knew about that human trait.   She used her grandchildren’s competitiveness to her advantage as we gathered in her kitchen on cold winter evenings. First she dumped a stack of corncobs out in the middle of the floor; then all the little cousins were given a large pan and told to see who could shuck the most corn. I don’t remember what the prize was, if indeed there was one.  But she always had dry corn for her chickens throughout the winter.

I remember when I introduced our oldest grandson to his first board game,  Hi-Ho Cheery’os. He was three. He was so taken with the idea that I was awakened the next morning at dawn with a little face peering down at me and saying, “ Hey, Grandma, do you remember that game?

There’s an old saying that goes something like this, “ You can learn more about a person’s character after an hour of game playing than you can in a lifetime of conversation.”

Easter also brings new boyfriends and girlfriends to meet the clan. The young people in our family don’t worry about their friends passing inspection with Mom and Dad. The important question is “Are they game players?”

Sooner or later, after the baked ham and strawberry pie, someone will suggest a game of spoons. That’s played by passing and collecting sets of cards and then everyone grabbing for a diminishing supply of spoons.  If the new girlfriend hangs in until the end, even after breaking a nail or two, Grandpa can be heard to whisper, “She’s a keeper, get that girl an engagement ring.”

I found our old Mr. Mouth game the other day. On one Easter day I introduced my little two-year old great-grandson to the trick of flipping the small disks into the opening and shutting frog’s mouth. I’m not sure how much I learned about his character, but I was playing Mr. Mouth the next day as the sun came up over Piestawa Peak.

I wrote this column for the Arizona Republic a few years back, but it still applies!

“The Snowbird Club”

By

Gerry Niskern

. Have you ever complained about or made fun of the hundreds of motorhomes that arrive in our valley each winter? Come on, I know some of you have.

Actually, those Snowbirds in their RVs are tougher than you think.  They deserve a lot of credit for surviving in their tiny little home for six months each year.

Last weekend on our anniversary we took our “new” previously owned motorhome on a shakedown cruise.  “Don’t worry” we told our kids, “Nothing to it”.

I was cautioned, “Don’t over load the storage space. We’ll eat out most of the time.  ”  So I took, four eggs, a half loaf of bread (no toaster) and 4 hot dogs .  I was receiving plenty of instructions from the guy who has taken the universal male oath to never follow instructions.

The first evening, we couldn’t drive to dinner because we were tethered. We had already plugged into the RV Park’s power source for water, electricity and sewer, put out our awning, and set up our outdoor chairs; hot dogs for our anniversary dinner.

We wondered why the overhead air conditioning wasn’t working when we tried to stay cool that first afternoon; the  next morning we realized we were plugged in, all right, but the park hookup breaker wasn’t on. . The refrigerator had been off on all night

I took my shower with explicit instructions of “how to shower in a motorhome on two gallons of water” Sounds easy till you try it; especially with someone yelling through the door, ‘Don’t use too much water!’ Instead of a two gallon, I’m guessing I had a two-pint shower.

The large coveys of Quail we had enjoyed watching all day suddenly disappeared about 5 o’clock. When we tried to sleep with the one lightweight blanket we had packed  we knew why the Quails hunkered down early. Nights in the Arizona desert are freezing.

In the morning the tub had three inches of grey water.  We tried a plunger and then searched for Drano.  Finally we read the instruction manual. Guess what? There is a control panel to check everything!  There are three water tanks in a motorhome. The clean water tank, the grey water from showers and sinks, and the black water tank (you don’t even want to know!)

The furnace went on unexpectedly the next evening. We worried it might be malfunctioning so we shut off the propane and flipped the circuit breakers inside. That worked. That is until the next morning we couldn’t get the coffeepot to brew, the micro to work and then we realized the frig had once again been off all night.

On the way home we agreed: Maybe we’re not tough enough to be Snowbirds.