“ Did you wish for rain?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Haven’t the rains been great? Don’t you wish they would continue?

Actually, I know it’s hard to believe, but our valley of the “Sun” has had more than its share of floods. Over the last one hundred years, Arizona has had years of drought and then years of unbelievable rains.

After a particularly parched summer when I was eleven the rains finally came. We kids celebrated in our usual way. We put on our bathing suits and ran, laughing and shouting with upturned, wet faces down Jefferson Ave that flowed like a river with its high curbs.

But the rain didn’t stop and the earthen Cave Creek Dam finally gave way and a wall of water hit Phoenix. The raised Santa Fe railroad track along l9th Ave dammed the water and the State Capitol building had to be sandbagged, though the basement still filled with water. The l7th Ave underpass was flooded too: but later we kids watched in amazement as one of the army’s new amphibious vehicles loaded with soldiers drove right through on the way to Luke Field.

I remember a neighbor telling my folks, ”Back in l938, the Salt River overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water and debris back. Central Phoenix was going to be flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”

Fortunately, much earlier in l870, the first mayor of Phoenix, John T. Alsap, had suggested the permanent town site of Phoenix be located on high ground, more than a mile north of the Salt River

Than, 20 years later, in February l890, during a long rainy spell the Salt, Gila, Santa Cruz and even the Colorado burst their banks and spread over farms along their courses. The Salt rose nearly seventeen feet and washed out the Tempe Railroad Bridge and Southern Pacific track between Tempe and Maricopa.

Sadly, most of the homes in the lower area were under water. Adobe houses melted like candy. Cattle and livestock were swept away.

Another extremely rainy year followed by rapid snow melt in the mountains and on February 18, l891, water that was 18 feet above normal did reach Washington Street. More than sixty families lost their homes. Telephone and telegraph lines were swept away.

I remember another summer, in the l970’s, when the rains were unrelenting. The ground was saturated and the overflowing canals couldn’t handle all the runoff. One Saturday morning we were rudely awakened as police cars drove through our neighborhood just south of the Arizona Canal with loudspeakers blaring “ATTENTION. PREPARE TO EVACUATE”.

Fortunately, about then, the rain stopped and the canal waters started to subside. Summer rains are great, but be careful what you wish for!

“Cool Truck”

By

Gerry Niskern

Maybe you remember seeing a little blue Ford pickup scurrying from store to store around our valley anytime from the 60’s to the early 80’s.   The bed was always stacked eight feet high with plump, handmade evaporative cooler pads. The rumble of the straight six engine bouncing off the pavement could be heard two blocks away.

The kids in our extended family loved riding along with Grandpa on pad deliveries. One of the perks was that Grandpa had the little workhorse so well trained it automatically turned into chosen Dairy Queens along the route.

As they grew older and needed part time summer jobs the grandchildren learned to make the cooler pads. Nothing smells as good as freshly shredded aspen wood as you grab armfuls and spread it evenly into sized trays lined with cheesecloth. You tuck the cloth in and staple it all around the edges. Then you grab the foot long needle threaded with string and take long criss-cross stitch and tied it off with a flourish…two minutes tops. The boys in the family were sure they would get to make deliveries in “the truck” when they got their drivers licenses. Wrong.

When hot, tired customers came into the shop for fresh pads each spring, they were not happy campers. Heaven help the homeowner who asked for supplies for his swamp cooler. My dad gave them all the help he could, but first corrected the errant customer that they were called evaporative, not swamp coolers. He showed them how to scrape the alkali from the louvered panels of the cooler, patch any holes in the bottom pan with a thick black adhesive. Dad patiently instructed all this to newcomers just as he had been helped with his cooler by a neighbor on an August day in l942 when we moved into our first house in the valley.

He sold them a new recirculating pump and clean, plastic arms to insure even distribution of water down through the fresh pads. More likely, he encouraged them to attach a garden hose to the drain on the bottom of the cooler and let the runoff help water the grass.

On one historic hot day in our family in l942, when Dad finished changing the pads in our side draft cooler and cool, refreshing air filled our new home, Mom and we girls decided that maybe we could stay in Arizona, after all.

Lucky are the people who have both evaporative coolers and air conditioners. On warm days from April up to the 4^th of July or until the dew point reaches 55, they can enjoy the breeze wafting through doors and windows open to the fresh air, and count on a small electric bill too.

My parents started the Cooler Supply Company in the early 50’s and prided themselves in producing the best cooler pads in the valley in their small manufacturing plant. Their pads cooled a large portion of the population in Phoenix, Glendale and Scottsdale. Dad and the old Econoline pickup with wrap around windows delivered to several school districts that had standing orders each year. Other dealers that waited for the truck’s low rumble were L. L. Smiths in Glendale, Paul’s Hardware in Scottsdale and Mike Barras in Sunnyslope.

The old 64 Ford pickup lived at our house in the early 80’s. As the kids in the family married and bought family cars, we still received a call from time to time, “ Could you bring the truck? We have something big to move” Those with a little more chutzpah say, “I’d like to borrow the Econoline for a while this weekend.” They’re entrusted with the keys along with the warning, “Don’t forget, if you give the truck its head, it will head straight for the nearest Dairy Queen.”

“Can you go home again?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you going back to your birthplace this summer?

Thomas Wolfe warned that “you can’t go home again” but most of us try anyway, don’t we?

I had two childhood homes. I lived in West Virginia the first ten years of my life but finished growing up in Phoenix. The first home was a little farm in the beautiful hills of West Virginia and the second was a wonderful old house with a big front porch a block from the Arizona state capitol.

A few years ago, in September, I went home again.

We drove the country roads through the beautiful green hills of West Virginia, and this time I was the resident historian! I recalled stories of our farmhouse that was still there, but voiced my sadness that the rasberry vines and peach, plum and cherry orchards are gone.

. My childhood home in Phoenix no longer exists. The block was razed in order to build a State Highway Dept. building. Other wiser, states have preserved the stately older homes around their capitols.

My grade school in West Virgina was still there, out in the country and going strong. First thru 8^th grades rode the school bus together to Limestone School. It was a long, long day for a first grader who had not had a kindergarten to attend . I don’t think my older sister ever forgave me for having to sit with me at lunch while I cried from homesickness. She was the pitcher for the fifth grade and as she reminded me, “my team is waiting for me!”

In Phoenix, my new grade school was Jackson on 21^st Ave between Madison and Jackson. At the nine A. M. bell, everyone stopped wherever they were on the playground or on the street arriving, and said the pledge of allegiance as the flag was raised. Jackson is gone. Nothing is there now but a pile of rubble and the lone flagpole.

Fairview, my tiny West Virginia country church, still holds services. It was such a wonderful interlude to sit on the front steps and look out over the green valley below while the memories flooded in.

Back then the children sang and recited on Sundays. The altar was covered with canning jars filled with daisies, roses, lilacs, and wild flowers brought by farm children. I’ll never forget the Easter Sunday the Jones twins were supposed to sing “Jesus Loves Me” as rehearsed. When they took the stage they belted out “You are my Sunshine”, complete with good, old West Virginia style yodeling. That was the day the choir director resigned.

The church of my Phoenix childhood, Capitol Methodist, on West Van Buren, had rousing Sunday night sings. That church building is gone too.

So, yes, Mr. Wolfe, sometimes you actually can go home again! But, at other times, you just have to visit those visions you hold dear in your heart!

“Beware of the Photo Nazi!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you going to a family reunion this summer? Reunions mean only one thing: GROUP PHOTOS. We all treasure that old family photo of the entire clan together. We can identify aunts, uncles and cousins by their common family features, but mostly, we know them by the way they dressed.

I saw an ancient family photo at a friend’s house the other day.  Some of the girls had huge bows on the back of their heads. That set the time and date and brought a lump to my throat. You see, the only picture I have of my mother as a little girl shows her wearing a dress two sizes too large (in the hand- me- down era) and sporting a oversize bow in her hair (circa 1918).

Invariably we enjoy identifying individuals by their unique style as we turn the pages of old albums and that reminds us of a great story we’ve heard about that person.

Something changed on the way to the family reunions nowdays. Who decreed that everyone appear exactly alike now?

With many family reunions planned this summer, there will be one individual determined to produce a cookie- cutter group picture. No doubt she will have sent out newsletters six months in advance with the strict instructions. “Everyone, men, women and children are to wear a white shirt for the family photo. And, everyone must wear tan slacks. No Exceptions” If she is extra efficient, she will bring along a few shirts and pants for any slackers.

Think about it. What’s the worst that could happen if the “photo Nazi” just relaxed a bit and let each family member show up in what they always wear?

Is the point of reunion pictures to have a rigid, boring photo of an army of relatives faces in a sea of red, yellow or blue tee shirts or an interesting group photo celebrating the different personalities in the family?

It would be much more fun many years from now when future generations are looking at a family photo taken in 2015 if they will see teenage girls in low rise jeans, a few chubby ones with their “love muffins” showing. The boys could be in their baggy shorts. The twenty or thirty- something gals (the lines are a little blurred these days) would be sporting tube- tops and obviously a lot of new boob jobs too. The guys who work out would be showing off in muscle shirts.

There might be little boys with spiked hair in camouflage shirts or pants (Oh, yeah, that was back during the Middle East conflicts.)

They’ll remember that uncle who always had his Blue Tooth growing out of his ear; he might miss a money making deal!

There’s that aunt still wearing her bouffant hair and grandpa in his signature overalls. And there’s the cousin who joined the commune in her Hippie days, in her long braids, and granny dress.

Years from now, you will be glad everyone dressed as their personality dictated.

Viva la differences!

“July Pastimes”

By

Gerry Niskern

Every day while walking I listen to the rush of water plunging from the pumps along the irrigation ditch. The pampered, pristine lawns I pass by are watered by irrigation. The other day I was reminded of an amusing E-mail story concerning our resident’s preoccupation with grass.

‘God was talking to St Francis and asking whether the people on earth were enjoying the variety of grasses and wild flowers he had provided. He was flabbergasted to learn that people on earth got rid of all of them and planted plain grass around their houses instead. . He was even more bewildered to learn that they water it faithfully, but then pay to have it cut…..and hauled away!’

We all know the pleasure of smelling newly mowed grass. As a kid, it was right up there with rolling down a grassy knoll then climbing to the top and rolling down again.  Another summer pastime was playing in the irrigation water.

When I was a child here in Phoenix on special days shouts were heard in our neighborhood, “They’re irrigating the capitol grounds!”  Kids for blocks around the state capitol would race to don bathing suits and head for the lush grass around the capitol. (This was before the politicians decided to cover most of those beautiful grounds with government buildings). When we got there the clear, cool water was pouring into the areas between the sidewalks. We ran and played in knee high water; only once in a while accidentally splashing the state office ladies walking to lunch.

When the irrigation evaporated, we turned to lawn sprinklers.  On any hot day in July somebody’s mother would be watering their grass, using a variety of whirling sprinklers.  We kept cool running in and out of the crystal droplets.

My father cut his grass on Saturday afternoon.   He was grateful he hadn’t listened to helpful neighbors back east when they advised him, “Don’t pay to haul your lawn mower to Arizona. You won’t need it. The yards out there are all sand.”

About the age that I was playing in the irrigation water as a child, my husband said he was running a thriving lawn business.  He even had one customer out by Camelback Road and Lateral 14. He transferred twice on the city bus to reach the expansive grounds of that country home.

Years later when we moved into our first home, he couldn’t wait to get the lawn started. (How he would have loved the luxury of ordering a few rolls of sod!)   He was so proud to be the first guy in the subdivision to cut his grass.

I can’t say he was so thrilled later when he spent hours pulling and digging bullhead weeds out of the Bermuda grass. Nothing hurts the tender feet of little ones like the sharp prick of a dry bullhead burr. Daddy was happy when the owners of those little feet grew big and he decided they could take over the mowing chores. He even brought home a used riding mower.  # 1 son was delighted since he was planning on being the next Andretti.  He loved to see how fast that baby would accelerate. After we lost a couple of rose bushes and a small grapefruit tree, guess who was back in the mowing business?

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.

In many hospitals here in the valley over this weekend new dads will hold their babies for the first time. They will look into the eyes of a unique little person who will give them that piercing “you’re my dad” stare. If he sticks his fist in his mouth, dad knows he has a genius for sure.   A nurse will then have the boldness to suggest that now they will be instructed in how to give their minutes old infant their first bath.

-With their heart pounding in their chest and with hands too big to pick up such a fragile treasure, they will proceed to lay the infant out like football on  their hand as big as the baby’s chest. He will  learn to sponge warm water over the rolls of fat, being instructed to get between every wrinkle. All the while vowing never to be separated from this little person who is waiting for him  to dry them off carefully. He’ll help pull on a little nightgown and place the tiny stocking cap on his baby’s head.  The new dads this weekend will have so many plans for the future. They’ll leave the hospital visualizing a million skills  to teach their new child.  They plan to spend time, hours and hours. But the problem  is,  none of them plan to spend it onlyt on the weekends.

We’ve all seen them; the weekend fathers. In the restaurant where you’re having a Sunday breakfast.  They’re with the little girls whose hair is all tangled in the back. She tells him, “You’re hurting me, Daddy” when he tries to brush it, so he lets it go. Their sons hate to have their face washed first thing in the morning, so Dad doesn’t.

Father’s Day, 2015 style.

Actually, every Friday is Father’s Day. Their divorced dads pick them up on Friday evening. They get to have their company for the entire weekend, usually every other, and they have to bring them home to Mom on Sunday by bedtime.

The fathers come to their children’s grade schools in SUVs, sedan, little sports cars or pickups.  Dads pull up to middle schools and grab the kids back packs and load them into BMWs or Hondas. ( no hugs at this age!)  They arrive at preschools in Porches or 85 Chevys.

You’ll see at the batting cages, in Discovery, at soccer practice, waiting for gymnastics class to be over. They might visit the toy store; then again, they might end up at dad’s laundromat. At lunch time, no matter what dad does for a living, a good portion will lend up at Mc Donalds, the great leveler. It’s safe to bet they’ll end up back at dad’s apartment, sooner or later, watching the ball game on television.

My granddaughter tells me she remembers learning the names of all the pro football teams and their quarterbacks by the time she was five. He daddy knew all her Barbies names and their friends. He was pretty good at color coordinating their outfits too.  HAPPY FATHERS DAY!

Dads Know the Best Games!

By

Gerry Niskern

I passed a scene the other day that  “warmed the cockles of my heart”. At a city bus stop a young father and mother danced, laughing around their baby’s stroller,   “flipping” each other with one of the infant’s blankets. The baby was standing in the stroller waving his arms and giggling at the antics of his parents. I’d say that daddy had a sense of fun, something dads need in abundance.

We all know that some dads make lots of money, while other dads are worth more then they earn. Smart dads learn to make their own fun with their children.

In the summer my dad helped us make kites out of newspapers. He put a message on the string and the wind carried it up out of sight. We believed him when he told us we were sending secret messages to the heavens. He took us hiking in the woods and in winter, we careened down icy hills on a sled, clinging to his back.

My cousin’s dad could always be counted on to pull his big, black Oldsmobile up to the curb and call to us kids, “Come on, let’s go get an ice cream cone.” Another cousin’s daddy teased us unmercifully, but I think we loved him best.

Our sons remember playing “submarine” with their dad every summer. They clung to his back while he swam underwater the entire length of the pool. Each year they tried to beat their record of trying to stay with their personal submarine the whole way. One toddler, in turn, taught daddy patience when he “played” donuts on his dad’s pricey record player.

The little girl in our family had tea parties with her daddy, but the tea was hot chocolate. For some reason, he felt it was important to teach her chocolate was one of the five food groups.

One young mother in our family laments the condition of her house when she comes home from shopping and daddy has been in charge. Pictures are tilted on the walls, lampshades are askew and pillows are everywhere. Nobody seems to know what happened, but she can pretty much guess there was a ball involved and daddy invented the game. He also started the game of  “get me” when someone needs to be dressed after bath time or a diaper needs changed. The child gets to chase through the house evading dad as long as possible.

Today’s fathers are lucky. The women’s movement in this country over the past forty years has helped young mothers realize they don’t have to do it all. Dads are no longer assigned the lone role of disciplinarian as the majority was in days past. Fathers share the hands-on job of raising the children. Instructors in parenting classes find that most fathers excel in the “burrito wrap”.  Most dads can fold, wrap and snug a receiving blanket around a newborn better than mom does. They get to feed, dress and share all the activities of their kids.

I see mothers trotting behind jogging strollers along the walking path every morning. Babies are usually sleeping out of sheer boredom. On weekends, it’s a different story. When Dad’s in charge, they’re flying down the path, blankets flapping and bare feet waving in the breeze.

I think the baby belonging to the young couple at the bus stop will remember the good times when he grows up, because after all,

Mothers might know best, but dads sure are fun!

“Who will teach Mom and Dad?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you heard the old saying, “Home is where the heart is”?  Well, I have another one for you. “Home is where civility begins”.

As you make your way through the day at work, school or play here in the valley, don’t you sometimes wonder where all the manners have gone?

Good manners are not just a discussion of which fork to use at the table. Although good manners help people glide more gracefully through life, I’m referring to the rudeness that is rampant.  The need for civility is everywhere.

For example, do you ever get a “thank you” wave when you stop to let a car into traffic? How often do other drivers pull over and wait for funeral processions to pass as traditions suggest? At the airport, do you constantly dodge large bags swinging from someone’s shoulders? Actually I believe they are the same fellows who sling their carry-ons out into the aisle to stop everyone from deplaning, while they retrieve their bag from the overhead.

Okay, now to the kids!  What ever happened to having dinner out with mom and dad being a treat?  Have you ever sat near a large table of parents and kids; kids who were allowed to get up and run wherever they pleased, that is? Pity the poor waiter who has to balance large trays and hope that they don’t stumble over a speeding munchkin and send the scalding food flying.

Or perhaps you’ve been treated to the screeching of little hands on balloons while you dine. Of course, that’s preferable to the jolting bang when the balloon finally bursts.

My favorite is the screamer. The toddler who is allowed to yell at the dinner table at home because it’s cute is suddenly embarrassing to mom and dad when he exercises his vocal chords when having dinner out. Sorry, folks, it is too late then to try to shush him. Manners begin at home.

According to an article in The Arizona Republic by Mark Schwed, of the Palm Beach Post, it’s never too early to teach proper behavior and it’s never been more timely.  Recent studies show that teachers spend 40 percent of their time on discipline that could be curbed greatly if the kids were just taught a few rules of common courtesy early on at home.

Parents can give their children music lessons, French lessons, and sports coaching, but if they don’t have the basic idea of how to act civilly, they will not do well in life.

The problem is, more and more people live for them selves and do not feel morally accountable to anyone for their actions. They resent being limited the freedom to be themselves.

Everyone agrees that civility is the glue that holds our society together. Showing respect for our fellow citizens does not take fancy words or gestures. We all know that when your children or grandchildren see you practice consideration, they will mimic your actions.

Perhaps some social rules are too old-fashioned for today’s society; but I still cringe when I hear some one say, in public, “get your butt over here” as I heard a store manager say to a clerk the other day. Sometimes it is hard to curb the use of foul language in aggravating situations, but it is worth the effort to try.

When you teach your child civility, you are teaching life skills.

Now who is going to train the mommas and the poppas

“On the Road Again?

By

Gerry Niskern

Well, vacation time is here and I’ve been thinking about those road trips we used to take.

Do you remember those long two week car trips called family vacations?  It’s always been questionable if it was really a vacation for the dad who was driving. Ken and I  decided to take one in our new/used RV  a couple of years ago.  We decided all the presidential hopefuls could carry on without us for a while.

I learned that RV drivers are prone to make the same announcements that my dad used to make when I was a kid in the back seat.  “ Let’s get on the road early. We’ll stop for breakfast later.” My sister and I kept pointing out the cafes along the highway while dad kept hitting the accelerator.  I can still remember my mother finally saying thru gritted teeth, “Stop this car now. I need my coffee!”

Meanwhile, on the road again this time we enjoyed the beautiful green farms of Utah and finally hooked up at an RV park in cool Pocatella, Idaho. It was great; as long as we were nimble enough to dodge the skateboards and bikes. Every evening along the way we watched in amazement as the huge 13 foot tall RVs lumbered in. They had names like Cougar, Wildcat and Mountain Lion and were ready for the wild country. Once they parked the slide-outs appeared. One each off the bedroom, the living room, formal dining room and library. I assume there was a wine cellar in there somewhere. The satellite dish went up and they settled in for an evening of T V, in the great outdoors.

These two history buffs enjoyed exploring the main streets in the little towns along the way. That is, the ones that hadn’t been wiped out by a gigantic Wal Mart on the edge of town. Butte, Montana has done a great job of preserving their old historic buildings.

Of course, we got lost a few times along the way. Every website assumes you have a GPS. I know. We should get one. But  I don’t think the RV driver is allowed to snap at the GPS lady giving those soothing directions.

Glacier National Park was as beautiful as its pictures. At Logan’s Pass on the Continental Divide, we saw wildflowers and majestic glaciers all around. On the way to Eagle Falls we had a neat surprise.  As we rounded a hairpin curve, a bear stepped out of tall grass. I think he was a surprised as we were.

A boat ride around Coeur d’Alene Lake, Idaho was cool, especially in the bow enjoying the fine spray from time to time

At beautiful Idaho Falls a lanky 12 year old threw down his fishing pole to point out the best photo spots; even offering a hand over the rocks. Chivalry is not dead after all.

After chillin’ at Jacobs Lake for two days we headed home where we finally found our rain that had been eluding us, between Flagstaff and Phoenix.

Vacation was over and somehow it was better than those trips as a kid. You do remember them?