“The Yellow School Bus”

by

Gerry Niskern

They’re big and cumbersome. Annoying, actually. They block our view and slow us down when we are trying to get across town in a hurry.  Every neighborhood is invaded by them around the middle of August.  Yellow school buses.

You can be sure that sitting on one of those buses that you are trapped behind, is a wide-eyed child just starting school. He is finally going to read!  His world is expanding and he is rushing to meet it through education.  Many children start dreaming of riding the school bus right after they receive their first Fischer Price school bus toy when they are toddlers. They placed their little pretend person in the front seat, because, of course, that is where they will ride to school when they are old enough.

I know.  I had those some illusions myself about riding in the front of the bus. Each school morning when I boarded the bus bound for our little country school I was sure that would be the day I  would finally get to ride in the front seat,  across from the driver.  Every time I climbed up those  steep steps,  I looked up to see our bus driver’s own  two little girls sitting smugly in the coveted seat. Just like Charlie Brown kicking a football, I didn’t stand a chance.

When I got to the school that first day, there wasn’t room for all the beginners.  Around forty children were crowded into twenty little desks.   Every year the farmers’ wives sent all their little ones, even three and four year olds, hoping for a miracle and the school would let them start first grade. The poor teacher had to weed out the ones that were too young and send them home.

Then, there was Charlie. I don’t remember his last name, but I will never forget his ingenuity at avoiding the whole issue of starting to first grade. He came on the bus with his older siblings as he was supposed to do. However, at recess time, he made a break for it. He slipped out of the schoolyard and walked home.  His father brought him back. He placed Charlie firmly in his seat and turned to put his lunch pail on the shelf. By the time he turned around Charlie was already out the door ahead of him. We kids watched in fascination as the crying little boy and his frustrated daddy went through the same routine time after time. I don’t remember who won, but something tells me it wasn’t Charlie.

I followed a bus out of our neighborhood the other morning. Seeing some of the excited Hispanic children boarding reminded me of the story my mother always told about her first day of school. The bus ride was fun and her sister directed her to the first grade room.  When class started, she concentrated as hard as she could, but she understood very little that the teacher was instructing them to do.  She remembers gulping back tears as she smoothed her freshly ironed dress with sweating palms. She tried to copy the alphabet as the teacher was indicating. Most of the other little German, Polish and Hungarian children were having just as hard a time struggling to understand. These offspring of immigrant parents played at home, just as my Austrian mother did, and didn’t learn English until they started to school. They all eventually learned English,  and were reading by the end of the year, but it was very hard.

I’m sure we all agree that whatever grade the kids on that slow yellow bus are in they deserve a safe ride to school. Please remember, when a bus is stopped, stop sign out or not, do not pass.

By the way, when I played school bus with my little great-grandson, he always  took the red-haired boy and I got to be the yellow headed girl. And I confess, I  always grabbed that front seat!

“Sounds of Summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

Do the sounds of summer take you back to memories of childhood?

Sometimes the charisma of summer is all in the sounds. Try to recall the sound of the water drops hitting the dust as the field was watered before the first pitch of the Little League game. And after the first pitch came the crack of the bat. You can hear it now, can’t you?

After the game, nothing was better than hearing the ice tinkling in the ice cold lemonade unless it’s your first crunchy gulp after a hot game. Or how about the merry sound of the Ice Cream man’s chimes and you knew soon that cool ice cream would be sliding down your parched throat.

When I was growing up near the State Capitol, there used to be a family on West Jefferson, around 11^th Ave. that sold the best watermelons in the whole valley. They kept them cold in a large, soda pop cooler. Mom’s

thumbs beat deep thuds as she tapped the melons.  Later, at home when she slid her big knife in the dark green skin, her choice melon split apart with a loud ripping sound. It was heaven.

Inside the house, the whir of the evaporative cooler motor meant a welcome breeze. Of course if the cooler wasn’t doing too well, in high humidity, that meant we were in for one of our monsoon storms.  The shattering snap of lightening and deep growl of thunder, even today, reminds me of the neighbors who slept in their backyards on hot nights. They had to run for cover many a summer night after hearing the drumbeat of the rain come marching across the yards.

Sunday afternoon meant family picnic time at Riverside Park down on South Central Ave. We headed for the sounds of water splashing and the shrieks of kids as they

became airborne off the huge slide and landed with a scream in the pool.

After a cool swim, the sputtering and popping of roasting hot dogs mingled with the sounds of a snap and hiss as dad opened bottles of Barq’s Root Beer, Orange or Strawberry pop.

The summer week was complete.

THAT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN

When you read about all those tornados that hit the south and Midwest every year aren’t you glad we don’t have tornados in the Phoenix area? Tell the truth. Do you think, a little smugly, “Well, we might have horrific heat in the summer, but at least we don’t have tornados?

Actually, one day in the late l970’s, my # 2 son, a teenager, and I were standing at the kitchen window looking out in amazement. We thought we were just having a super size dust storm, but something different was happening. The house was shaking. At around five-thirty the sky had turned an eerie green. Large sections of shingles were swooping by, followed by huge wood structures hurtling past. I remember trying to yell above the roar that sounded like a freight train was bearing down us, “I think we should get in an inside doorway. Something weird is happening!” We headed for the inside pantry.

My husband was on his way home when from the West valley when he heard on the car radio that a funnel cloud was moving toward the central Phoenix area. Breaking all speed limits, he reached our neighborhood in time to see the entire roof of my parent’s house under construction, down below our little mountain lying on the other side of the street.

He raced up our steps and burst in the door. “Hurry, hurry” he yelled. “Upstairs!”

We ran up behind him and suddenly, we were looking at bare sky. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I was numb with shock and told myself, “This is not happening. This must be a dream.” We were standing in our bedroom and rain was stinging our faces!

My husband raced back downstairs to go buy plastic tarps to stretch across the rooftop. When he carried up his extension ladder he climbed up on what was left of the roof and started nailing the cover down. My son was still numb with disbelief when his dad yelled down to “get on up on the ladder and grab the ends and nail them down.” He looked at me and yelled, “But, mom, what if the son-of-a bitch comes back?”

The next morning, when assessing the damage, we saw that the funnel cloud had totally lifted the roof structure from my folks house and all the framing inside was swirled like a giant spoon had stirred it. We learned later that the tornado had destroyed a large building on Seven Ave, South of Camelback, swept north and ripped apart  the condos on a little mountain right off Twelfth Street and then slammed into our house on top 14^th street.  It swooped down and destroyed my parent’s construction site and moved on out to Paradise Valley where it uprooted some trees.

Later on, the insurance companies and the weather bureau debated long and hard if it was actually a tornado. Most insurance companies finally reluctantly paid homeowners for damages, still arguing that “the Phoenix area doesn’t have tornados.”

The Rain Will Come

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. Little 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.

That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. When my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came sometime in July.

We have always 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, when I was eleven, 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, 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 above us was starting to overflow its banks.

This year, I can’t wait to sit on my balcony and watch neighborhood children playing in the rain; the mist rising as I listen to the drumbeat of another approaching torrent.

The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they nourish our spirits.

Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain behind me mixed with the pungent smell of fresh cut grass below will be like heaven as I watch the neighborhood children turn their faces up to the rain that is sure to come soon!

Political Junkie Wannabees”

By

Gerry Niskern

I think I’ve told the story before of  my first exposure to politics. When I was around a year and a half-old and just learning to talk, I was dropped off at my grandmother’s house. My mother’s brothers, all strong union members, did their best to teach me to say, “Vote for Roosevelt”, because FDR was running. When my folks came to pick me up my Republican dad was treated to my political stump speech as a result of my uncles coaching. It was all in good fun, but my dad was a guy who believed his politics were his own affair; as by the way, many others do today.

Just think, it’s now full speed ahead for the presidential election with four months to go. I don’t know if I can take much more election grind with all the debates and constant challenges from friends and even total strangers.

Even at the workplace  where most people spend the major part of their lives, there is tension.  Of course, people and their fellow personnel need to converse during the day; there are lots of topics that work. Sports, music, family and books are good for starters. If there is some kidding around about favorite teams, its great. But many people become very passionate and too aggressive about some subjects. Politics is one of them. You know, there is a federal law that employers can enforce that deals with what is and what is not allowed in conversation in the workplace. The four “no nos’ are: money, sex, religion and politics. Any of these at any time can cause discomfort and disruption.

The trouble with allowing political discourse is that people always think that the other person is mistaken and if they will just listen they can convince them to change their minds.

Do you sometimes suspect that political junkies want to show off their newfound knowledge on a particular issue? Hence, the aggressive questioning of others political persuasion has become the norm today.  Sure politics makes for exciting conversation. But, we all need to observe some civility and restraint.

I know a hair stylist friend who is shocked these days by the number of people who plop down in her chair and demand to know, “Well, what are you, Republican or Democrat?”  Everyone needs to remember that others may also be up on the issues and have strong personal opinions.  And that should be their right and privilege to keep their decision private.

Sure we are subject to hateful, derogatory images and dialogue on social media, but that and usually the source, can be easily deleted. Face to face confrontations are another story.

We all realize and dislike how polarized this country has become in the last several years. Let’s don’t take it a step further and become even more polarized within our parties and among our friends and even family. One suggestion would be for everyone to sit down and read an accurate history of our country. It will do wonders for your new found political education that “talking heads” on television, radio and social media won’t do.

Sure we’ll all remember this year of 2016 as an unusual campaign with the excitement  and antagonism seldom seen in recent decades, but let’s lower the dialogue.  Friendships weave the strong fabric of our community and nation, but lets also keep in mind the thread of friendships is precious and fragile.

Journey Back to the Future

Seventy four years ago this summer my young mom and dad packed up all their earthly possessions, young daughters and drove from Moundsville, W. VA to Phoenix, Arizona. It was wartime and everything was uncertain and unknown; a job, a house, and most importantly a doctor for each. They both were suffering from severe health problems that only a move to a dry climate like Arizona and major surgery would help.

In those days no one could afford long distance calls to keep in touch. And information about their destination was limited too. They were told it was never cold in Phoenix and so mom gave away all her wool blankets and handmade quilts. Dad gave away a brand new lawn mower because, of course, there were no lawns here, just sand and rocks. Where was Google when they needed it?

Fast forward to this last Thursday morning when my great-grandson Brandon started a journey from Phoenix back to 70 miles from Moundsville, medical school in Pennsylvania. He was driving a rental truck filled with all their  possessions, and pulling his wife, Teg’s truck. His grandfather Ron drove with him in Brandon’s Matrix. They reached Georgia on Saturday evening, where Teg and their son Ian were waiting. Ron will fly home today and on Tuesday Brandon and Integrity will head north to their final destination.

This journey was different in so many ways. Ron’s daily cell phone communication kept Brandon’s mom informed.  Minde, in turn, forwarded reports of their trip every day and sometimes two or three times, to concerned family members.

When my folks came West their large close knit families back home waited anxiously for letters to hear how things were going. On the other hand, Brandon’s families and friends  had daily updates of their trip.

Even though my great-grandson knows that he will be persuing his life long dream in the medical field and they have a house waiting, there is one thing about this journey 74 years later, that remains the same. There will always be parents, grandparents and great-grandparents sending good thoughts and love and patiently waiting to hear the latest news about how things are going!

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.

All my friends heard me complaining about having to renew my driver’s license last week. Because I have Glaucoma, I was worried about passing the eye test. I passed just fine, but the whole event reminded of another time years ago when I had worried about passing a test for my driver’s license. It might bring back some memories for you too.

My first Drivers License

“I’m not having another baby until I learn how to drive” I declared as I heaved my whale sized body out of the car, slammed the door and lumbered up the walk to the door of my Ob’s office. I hated having to wait for someone to take me places. I wanted my own wheels!

The following summer, while my young husband, Ken, was at Arizona National Guard camp I stayed with my folks. Every evening mom took care of my baby, while my dad took up the role of my driving instructor. We went to a huge insurance company’s parking lot and I drove, round and round and round. I shifted from first, to second, and over to third, over and over and over.
“Press the gas gently, and slowly let off the clutch”, my dad patiently repeated the words, again and again. His old green Chevy truck bucked and choked, lurching forward by frantic leaps and bounds, like a rodeo bronco   I eventually got the hang of it and just as I was congratulating my self, thinking, “There’s nothing to this driving business” my dad commented, “Now tomorrow, we start practicing parallel parking.”

“You mean, between two cars?” I gasped. “Yes.” He laughed. “That’s what you usually park between. You won’t get your drivers license unless you can parallel park to the officer’s satisfaction.” “Well, there goes my dream of my own wheels.” I sighed.

After a couple more weeks of practicing parallel parking, Ken drove me over to the MVD, and waited in our brand new black Ford two door sports sedan. I was petrified.  I knew I couldn’t do it. I took the written test with no mistakes. But I couldn’t feel happy because I was instructed to report to the driving test officer.

My feet were dragging with dread when I started out the door. Then I saw a crowd around our car. A distraught young woman was crying as the officer was writing out her first driving ticket! It seems she had started to pull out with the officer for her driving test and had managed to take off our brand new left rear fender. Seeing the distress all around, the officer said that after we exchanged insurance information I was free to go. He initialed my test form and said “It’s okay, young lady. You don’t have to take the driving test. You passed!”

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!