“YOU’RE KIDDING ME?”

By

Gerry Niskern

I’ll admit it. You had me at Huggies. Coming from a decade where we washed our babies cloth diapers, I was constantly amazed at new products coming out every year to make new parents life easier.

First there was fitted diapers. Then came Huggies and after that the Diaper Genie. I was constantly surprised at how easy the new mothers had it. Around then, a Baby Monitor to keep track of the baby at all times, and now the Baby Shusher. Imagine that! A little device to turn on that creates a “kind of white noise” to encourage the infant to sleep a little longer.

Of course, all the different formulas and bottles were great, but later, the genius Sippy Cup. No More spills to clean up. And when the kid is ready for a stroller, now they are  the size of a Volkswagon. There is a place for everything: Mom’s purse, jacket, her drink, the baby’s diapers, bottles, changes of clothes, snacks, toys, and even a brother or sister. (I had a metal stroller that doubled as a baby walker when the foot platform was removed and the handle popped off.) Can’t tell you the price, it was a hand me down.

Next came all kinds of potty chairs designed just for the toddler boy or girl. All shapes and sizes and just as many books and advice from friends on “how to get the point across to the little tyke”. However, there really wasn’t a new innovative product to get the job done easily.

But wait, there is! MY POTTY WATCH! All you have to do is put the watch on the wrist of the tot.  Then you  explain that when it rings a happy tune, he/she should run and sit on the potty! As the instructions explain, “This will eliminate the problem of the child getting irritated at his mother nagging  him”. I’LL WAIT FOR YOU  TO INSERT YOUR OWN COMMENTS  HERE

Imagine, as the kid get older, no more nagging from mom to get up for school, take out the trash, “do your homework”. I can see that watch coming in handy over the years. That is, if it survives its flush down the toilet by the proud owner!

OME MEMORIES THAT KEN SHARED WITH ME OF HIS YEARS AS A PAPERBOY.

A Salute to earlier, young Laborers

Do you know the person who delivers your news every morning? I don’t.  Paperboys used to be a kid from your neighborhood. Ken, my husband,  remembered carrying the Republic and Gazette in the early 1940’s.

“Our station was located in front of a Chinese grocery store West of the State Capitol. When it rained, someone dragged the bundles into the doorway so they wouldn’t get wet.  We took turns folding our papers in the shelter. There were no plastic sleeves; we put our jackets over our canvas paper bags. We figured we could pedal fast enough to go between the raindrops.”

“On Sundays, after our regular route, we picked up papers from to R & G building, to deliver skipped customer for a chance to earn extra money. They gave us each ten extra papers. We rode over to Five Points intersection and sold them for 25 cents each. It added up.”

“ I recall one mischievous kid who lived in my neighborhood. In the mornings, he waited until he was a couple blocks from home so that his mother wouldn’t know and then turned on his bicycle siren. It was mounted on the frame and a spring held it against the tire. You could hear him all the way down to his station at Seventeenth Avenue and Buckeye Road. One morning a sheriff requested that he remove it.”

.

“I carried around 250 Republic papers in the morning and over 200 Gazettes in the afternoon. We collected every month and every customer knew us by name. I don’t remember how much we were paid per paper, but I made around $120 a month, not bad for a kid in the sixth grade. For any kid who wanted to work and wasn’t afraid to get up at 5 A. M. it was a great job because it didn’t interfere with school. I was able to maintain good grades and even trade up every time a new model Schwinn came out.”

“Those fine old homes around the State Capitol had big porches and the customers insisted their papers be porched. We didn’t realize it probably sounded like a thunderclap at 5 A. M. when it hit as we pedaled by.” ”

“The boys took their job seriously,” he concluded. “There was a great rivalry among the guys about who could go the longest without getting any “kicks” (complaints.) If one of the guys was really late, we would hide half his papers. It was a good incentive to get to the station on time.”

“If you were sick it was your responsibility to find your sub. No parents were out delivering your papers in their cars. It was easier to just drag yourself out of bed and do the route.”

I knew Ken was serious about his job. We were in the eighth grade when I took my first ride on the cross bar of that Schwinn, on our way to a Girl Scout dance.  We started to fall and just before we hit, the bike swooped upright again. I commented on how strong he was and he replied, “Shoot, you’re about as heavy as the Sunday papers!”

Remember when we were all uncool?

By

Gerry Niskern

Do you remember when if someone in the family bought a new car, they took it around to show all the relatives? It didn’t have to be new either!

And remember when a young couple bought a house they moved in and enjoyed it. It didn’t have to be renovated with new bathrooms and top of the line kitchen. Friends dropped in anytime. and it was actually considered the polite thing to do to show them the whole house.

Do you remember when you went on vacation and absolutely had to send everyone back home postcards! You started writing them as soon as you got there. And the games you played in the evening were true board games that the whole family enjoyed together, no batteries required.

Remember when Dad came home with a couple of new jokes every night. How long has it been since you have heard anyone sitting around telling jokes; back before everyone got their solitary dose of daily humor on their favorite social media site?

“hand me downs” were actually looked forward to. If you saw an older cousin sporting a new dress/shirt, you knew you were going to have it next year. I remember playing a game with my two year old as I dressed him every day. He would ask me, “who give me this?” and I  would tell him the name of the cousin. He loved it and was always shocked when I would answer,”it’s yours!”

Remember when you were little and you were excited to be going to see your Grandma. Not because of a present you might be receiving or someplace your grandma might be taking you, but because, well, just because it was your grandma!

And do you remember when your best girl was happy to get a box of chocolates from the corner drugstore?

Just wondering if you remember when everyone was “uncool”!

“Sometimes it’s hard to understand”

By

Gerry Niskern

The talk radio station was spewing forth all kinds of opinions regarding the tragedy. You know the one; the baby that was accidentally left in a sweltering vehicle Some of the callers were indignant and furious. They just “couldn’t understand how any parent could be that neglectful.”

On the other hand, the majority of women callers were compassionate. Many said they could understand perfectly how something so awful could happen. Most named the number of children they had raised or were raising. They talked about how hard it is to be an alert mother when you are tired, or sick and possibly stressed out over a routine of home, job and childcare.  They weren’t condoning the mother’s forgetful actions, but they said they certainly could understand.

I thought of a good friend of mine, a conscientious  young mother of three.  She told me about nursing her newborn infant, then putting her down for a nap back in the nursery. Then she cleaned up the three and four year old, got in the car and drove to the grocery store. While she was there, it hit her; she’d left the baby at home!

I personally remember driving west on Thomas Road after a visit to the pediatrician with a three and five year old  and an infant. The whole family had the flu. Suddenly it dawned on me that I had just driven my car full of precious cargo through the red right by St. Joseph’s Hospital’s emergency entrance, nearly missing an ambulance. I still get cold chills when I think of what could have happened.

There have always been accidents involving infants and small children. Toddlers in Arizona have drowned in irrigation ditches, had accidents with animals and machinery. Parents  were exhausted, lost track and tragedies happened.

Interestingly enough, later on, when there were more cars on the road, kids were thrown from cars and killed because no one had invented seat belts or child safety seats.  How many of us narrowly escaped that potential tragedy? Now, we have mandatory laws about car seats. They must be placed in the back seat. Also, kids under thirty pounds or one year must ride backwards in order to cut down on possible injuries.

There is no doubt that this presents a unique problem. So far, this year nationally, 32 kids have died of hypothermia who were left in scorching vehicles. We have saved children from getting hurt in accidents, only to have them forgotten in the back seat.

One major opinion came blaring out of the car radio last week. “Throw her in prison; that’s the best deterrent to keep it from happening again.” Unfortunately, nothing has stopped these sad deaths from occurring.

Others have started some constructive thinking about inventing some creative devices to alert the parent that a child is still in the car. An alarm that would sound or some device attached to both you and the infant. It has even been suggested that the parents  leave their wallet, cell phone or purse in the back seat to function as a reminder. Last year, 82 % of kids hot car deaths were unintentional . It is a terrible and difficult decision for a county prosecutor to charge a parent in this type of case. At this point, we can only trust the law enforcement investigators to determine case by case what is gross negligence and what is one memory lapse.

And what can we do? Try a little understanding.

“Patriotic Privileges”

By

Gerry Niskern

They came in cut-offs and tank tops, baggy shorts and super size tees. They had ponytails, short hair and shaved heads; and that was just the adults.

The teenagers were easier to spot. They had that “I just turned sixteen today; give me my driver’s license” look. Their confidence was not shared by the designated parent trailing behind. Panic would best describe their expression.

The Fourth of July week has just concluded.  We were all treated to patriotic speakers enumerating the liberties and opportunities afforded us as citizens of this country. That’s exactly what I, along with other residents here in the valley, was doing last week, taking advantage of the privilege of carrying an Arizona drivers license.

The office of the Arizona State Motor Vehicle division was very busy. An elderly gentleman, in bell-bottom dress pants with white shoes and a wide white belt was waiting in the front row.  He was having a ball telling the arriving teens,” Sorry, there are no more licenses left, I just got the last one!”

The first line was the eye test and to get an application for a driver’s license renewal.  I soon became aware of the diversity of people at the facility. The Japanese lady standing next to me had an interpreter to help her fill out her application. The sweaty hat lying on the counter next to me belonged to an Hispanic man. It was obvious by the bits of grass clinging to his pants and shoes that he’d already been to work

I turned in my form and opted to have a new picture taken. After receiving a number I was told to wait to be called. It’s a good thing the lady’s calm voice calling out D036…D037…was very soothing since the numerous babies who had brought their parents for tests, had their own agendas. They were, in turn, screaming, laughing, talking and nursing. The rest were throwing toys, crackers and Tippee cups. One two-year-old cutie was eluding his mother by running under the ropes and through the lines of people. A few were actually sleeping.

One snoozing infant, sucking on his Binky, was handed off to Dad when his very nervous mother was called for her road test.  The examiner, an MVD employee, was wearing shorts and a big sports shirt. Silly me, I expected to see an uniformed officer. I was told later that that was the first thing the employees were taught, how to conduct road tests.

A senior on my left was holding her new license. I asked her how long the wait had been? “Oh, not long at all. We all came together on our bus and they took us right away. See those women in the motorized chairs over there. They’re in my group. I brought my cane.”

“Did you have to take the road test?” “Oh, no. I moved here a month ago.  I had just renewed my license in my home state.”

“When does your license expire?” I inquired. “In 2007”

“Did you get your first license at age sixteen?” She laughed, “Oh, yes. And now I’m 82.”

When I was on my way out the door I passed the nervous mom. She had failed her road test. She was choking back tears and asking” But, how will I get to work?”

The driver of the retirement resort bus braked for a sixteen-year-old chauffeuring his mom home in the family sedan as the soothing voice droned on…… D078……D079……

a native?

By

Gerry Niskern

A guest columnist for the Arizona Republic recently asked the question, “Are you a native?” He goes on to say that a native isn’t necessarily someone born in Arizona, but rather it’s what you have experienced here that makes you a native.

The “What if…?” questions that he posed were describing “late comers” as far as I was concerned. So I decided to ask a few qualifiers of my own. Here goes:’ If you watched the City of Phoenix fireworks on the 4thof July at Encanto Park that were set off on an island in the Lagoon or if you sat on the grassy slope in front of Encanto’s Bandshell and watch the entertainment at War Bond Drives,  you might be a native.

Do  you remember skating at the roller rink at  Five Points or going next door to Uptons for ice cream sodas to cool off? Maybe you had a cone from the very first Soft Serve ice cream machine in Phoenix, at the little restaurant on West Jefferson and l7th Ave.

Did you help the streetcar conductor turn all the benches the other direction for the trip back downtown at the end of the line  on 19^th Ave and Adams. Or did you go with your folks out to the Japanese farms on West Northern to pick the strawberries that were left in the field after the first crop was picked. Or maybe you remember the Vegetable Man (every neighborhood had one) who drove down the alley two or three times a week with fresh veggies for sale from his open-sided truck.

Did you watch the A-l Queens and the PBS Ramblers play in the old Joe Hunt Stadium on l9th Ave and Grand Ave? Did you ever go to the Strand or the Rialto on Saturday mornings? Better yet, was the Fox Leaders club movies on West Washington. And do  you remember the giant city Christmas Tree in the middle of Central and Washington, standing on a large platform in all it’s holiday glory.

Have you ever picked a Pomegranate from the hedge row along the railroad tracks on your way from school to nibble on. Maybe your dad brought home a truck bed full of over ripe cantaloupes from the packing sheds out on Grand Ave. They were too ripe for shipping but just right for eating and all the neighbors loved them!

If you watched the Rodeo  Parade on North Central every year and if Monty Montana and his trick horse came to your school during Rodeo week, and you remember the JayCees chasing down anyone on the downtown  area not dressed western and fineing them, you might be a native.

If you swam at the Riverside pool and had the nerve to go down the gigantic slide or last but not least, dropped from a rope on a Cottonwood tree into the cool water of an irrigation ditch below, you REALLY might be a native.

If you answered yes to a few of my questions, you just MIGHT BE A NATIVE!

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 recently 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.

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 seethe giant rolling dust storms coming from the Southeast and covering the downtown skyline before being warned by the TV weather lady.

We reveled in  the twinkling city lites every evening and on the Fourth of July we marveled at  Fireworks from a dozen towns and venues from our balcony. I admit it. We felt a little superior with out “window to the world.”

But then a few months ago, I moved to a darling little house on the same street, just around the corner. Sadly,  instead of being on the mountain, 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’ve never seen him, but many other people have caught a glimpse and exclaimed at his siz

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. They hop right past them. Maybe the Momma rabbit warned them about processed food!

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 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.

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 Sauraurara in the front yard forming its crown of white flowers in the spring. The Organ Pipe cactus also grows red fruit in the spring. The birds love the fruit, 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 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 “huge” Roadrunner!

The Cooler Supply Company

By

Gerry Niskern

It used to be that this time of the summer, with temperatures around 106, the debate in many homes would be, “Is it time to turn off the Evap Cooler and turn on the AC? Always when the humidity  was starting to climb and the cooler wasn’t doing much good.

. Of course, it wasn’t that many years ago that the first warm spring days sent the dads in the households to pick up some fresh evaporative cooler pads. Today, the lucky residents in the valley are the ones that have both AC and evaporative coolers.

In years past Phoenix residents had all kinds of ways to keep cool in the summer. When I was growing up here, many neighborhoods slept out in the back yard on cots at night. Sometimes, when a sudden summer rainstorm came through, you could see the neighbor’s nightgown flapping in the wind as she scurried into the house to get out of the rain.

Other lucky homeowners had screened sleeping porches. Some of the hotels even advised guests to wrap themselves in wet sheets and let the fans waft cool air over them.

The evaporative cooler in one form or another has been around more than 2,000 years when the ingenious Egyptians discovered that a hot breeze became cooler when it blew over a damp mat. They began hanging wet mats in doorways to cool their homes. Hence the evaporative cooler: water+electric fan= cool air.

The cooler entered the American popular culture right here in Phoenix, Arizona. The first aspen pad cooler was demonstrated in downtown Phoenix on June 20, 1916. The three-sided box had a two inch shredded aspen pad enclosed in chicken wire nailed to the sides. Water dripped down through the pads, wetting them and the electric fan inside blew the cool air out.

Soon Goettle Brothers began manufacturing metal evaporative coolers. By l939, most homes and businesses were using some form of drip coolers.

This brings us to the story of my parents, Chester and Eva Craig and their evaporative cooler supply business. Our family arrived in Phoenix from West Virginia with two young daughters in August, l942. My parents both had severe health problems and needed the dry climate of Phoenix.  My dad, an industrial engineer, worked at Goodyear during the war. But, of course after the World War Two ended he found there weren’t many calls for industrial engineers in a town the size of Phoenix.

He worked for Palmer Manufacturing and learned the evaporative cooler business. Then in l950,  my parents started the Cooler Supply Company, located in a dark blue building on the corner of 16^th Street and Palm Lane. They sold new coolers, parts and supplies  and most importantly, began manufacturing the best hand made cooler pads in the Southwest.

Nothing smells as good as freshly shredded aspen wood. After wetting down and shaking out the excelsior, you lift armfuls and spread it evenly into various sized trays lined with cheesecloth, tucking the cloth in and stapling it all around the edges. Then you grab the foot long needle threaded with string and take long criss-cross stitches and tie it off with a flourish; two minutes tops. This was accomplished by strictly following dad’s timed, motion studied techniques.

The whole family learned to make pads and daughters also worked the office. Grandkids could count on summer jobs,  but his regular crew of eight or ten employees produced thousands of pads each season. They supplied cooler pads to the school districts, numerous warehouses and local stores. Many hardware stores had one of his metal racks outside on the sidewalk stacked high with plump pads.

When hot, tired customers came into the Cooler Supply for fresh pads each spring, heaven help the homeowner who asked for supplies for his swamp cooler.  My parents gave them all the help they could, but first corrected the errant customer that they were called evaporative, not swamp coolers. They showed them how to scrape the alkali from the louvered panels that holds the pads and then patch any holes in the bottom pan with a thick adhesive.

They sold them new recirculating pumps and clean plastic arms that distributed the water over the pads to insure even flow of water down through the fresh pads.  They usually encouraged them to attach a garden hose to the drain in the bottom of the cooler and let the water run off help water their lawn.

They patiently instructed all newcomers just as the neighbor men had helped my dad on an August day in l942 when we moved into our first house in Phoenix. When dad finished changing the pads in our side draft cooler and refreshing air filled our new home, Mom and we girls decided that maybe we could stay in Arizona, after all.

Just as my dad planned the layout and process of making pads, my mother managed the supervision of the personnel. She insisted on making fresh coffee for the crew’s A. M. and P. M. breaks, not standard procedure in those days.

On Mondays, she always brought samples of a new recipe she had tried the weekend before, along with cuttings from her flower garden to share. As she helped the young women at their worktables, they were given 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 respectfully. After all, she would say, “everyone knows that a leopard can’t change his spots”.

When a new girl came to work that was having a hard time financially my sister and I would get a phone call “I have a new girl who is “between the devil and the deep blue sea. Clean out your kids closets and bring down some clothes for the woman’s children.” Those were usually accompanied by a cash advance on her first paycheck.

In the 60s my dad traded his first old green delivery truck for a new blue Ford Econoline. If you lived here in the valley then you might remember the little truck stacked eight feet high with plump, handmade evaporative cooler pads scurrying from store to store around Phoenix. The rumble of the straight six engine bouncing off the pavement could be heard blocks away. Dad supplied the best pads available in the valley, but also gave credit to his vendors. He delivered to Mike Barras in Sunnyslope, Smiths Hardware in Scottsdale and L. L. Smith in the West valley.  He even had outlets in Apache Junction and Flagstaff. Everyone stocked up early in the spring and paid him at the end of the season.

When someone elderly came into the shop we were instructed not to charge them sales tax. My dad always said, “It’s not right to tax old people”. He made it up himself.

After running the small manufacturing plant for over thirty years, my parents sold the business in the early eighties. Chester and Eva Craig and the Cooler Supply Company were an important part of Phoenix commerce during the last half of the 20^th century. In part, because of them, residents here in the valley were better able to endure the scorching, hot summers.

Consider yourself lucky if you have both an AC and an evaporative cooler on your home.

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.

“Summer Melt Down”

By

Gerry Niskern

Summer in Phoenix and the Valley of the sun means only one thing. How to keep cool!  There are all kinds of ways to chill. There are our swimming pools, water parks and air conditioning everywhere, but at the end of the day; everyone is looking for an ice cream shop.

Back a few years, we had Woods Candy Kitchen, downtown on West Washington. Their fudge was heavenly, but their ice cream was even better especially after a Saturday morning movie.

Of course, there were several Upton’s Ice Cream Shops around the valley. One was at Five Points intersection, right next door to the town skating rink. Nothing like a thick chocolate shake to cool down after a warm evening of roller-skating. They used to make it in a large metal blender, pour your glass full and leave the can. The charge for this shake was one whole dime!

Donofrios served sodas with a large scoop balanced on the rim of the glass  at their restaurant on Washington and later on too, when they moved  to the West side of Central between Van Buren and Monroe.

On date night, the only place to take your girl friend for an ice cream treat after the movie was the Polar Bar Drive In. The teenager’s cars cruising Central ended up at the Polar Bar that featured all kinds of ice cram concoctions, but their specialties were their 50 cent Sissies and dollar Zombies; no one could finish one of the Zombies, but some guys sure tried.

I think the forerunner of the Dairy Queens was a little shop on l7th Ave and Jefferson, across from the State Capitol that had the first soft serve ice cream in Phoenix. It was a creamy delight.

Of course, the ideal pleasure for our palates in earlier times in Phoenix was homemade ice cream. Every family in our clan owned a large hand turning freezer, at least a 6-quart. They gathered at our house, first making a stop at the icehouse up on 19^th Ave and about McKinley.  The large blocks of ice they bought were wrapped in burlap.

Later on, Crystal Ice had big yellow dispensing boxes on many corners. It was coin operated and you could have your choice of a ten-pound block or a great labor saving bag of crushed.

Before we moved to Arizona, back in West Virginia, someone always made fresh peach. The creamy peach flavor had golden pink gems with bits of nectar throughout. The strawberry ice cream was tart, tasty and loaded with sweet berries. Raspberry, black or red was my favorite as a kid. It was easy then because we had a small farm with all kinds of fruit trees and berry patches.

Fresh banana was heavenly but for the purists in the family, there was always mixed vanilla with fresh milk, rich cream and loving care.

While the women were combining the luscious blends, the men worked furiously with their ice picks on the blocks of ice in the yard. Chips of ice flew through the air, and if a large sliver landed on the grass, it quickly found its way into a kid’s mouth. The teenagers disappeared when the cranking started, but could be counted on to show up when the cans were ready to be opened and the paddles with icy chunks clinging to the blades lifted out.

One year, Uncle John, who always drove the latest model Oldsmobile, showed up with a surprise. He carried a large box into the yard and lifted out a miraculous new freezer. Instead of a handle to turn the ice cream, there was a motor on top. Imagine not having to hand crank the cream for an hour!

My dad and the other men gathered around and watched enviously as he layered rock salt and ice into the bucket around the shiny new can and plugged it in. Uncle John strutted around chewing on his cigar and razzing the other men as they sweated over their freezers. After 20 minutes, just as written on the instructions, the motor on the new freezer stopped.

We all gathered around for our first taste of ice cream made the modern way. As we drifted away and began to eat, we realized something was wrong. At first we thought we were imaging it, but no, it was salty. Real Salty!

Gradually, one by one, we slipped behind the garage and dumped our bowls and went to fill them from one of the other freezers. No one had the heart to say anything about the salty taste from the wonder new electric freezer.

At the end of the day, when the women were washing up their freezer cans to take home, Aunt Sophie, Uncle John’s wife, held hers under the facet in the yard to rinse it. Sever streams of water spouted from the seams along the side of the can. The salty ice cream mystery was solved!

The tradition of homemade ice cream in the hot Phoenix summers has lingered on in our family. A while ago, I was getting a little concerned about our frozen pleasures. You see, our old freezer gave out and I went shopping for a new one. After trying several department stores and being told they only carry one-quart frozen yogurt makers, I was frustrated. However, I wasn’t nearly as bewildered as the young clerks who answered my questions as I continued my search by phone.

Most of the people I talked to didn’t have a clue of what I was talking about when I asked, “Do you carry ice cream freezers?” I could tell by their vague replies that they thought ice cream came in paper cartons from the local supermarket.

The Fourth of July is coming up Try bringing back the tradition of summer family gatherings featuring homemade ice cream. You can choose electric, but hand turners are still available. The kids will love helping turn the handle and the sweat equity they put into it will make their first bowl, whether its strawberry, peach, or vanilla, taste delicious!

Try an old fashioned freezer celebration (they still make and sell them) for a fantastic summer meltdown!