Labor day River Cruise

By

Gerry Niskern

Is your family looking for a way to celebrate Labor Day?   May I suggest a river cruise like our family used to take in Arizona?

Unlike the mandatory fashionable wardrobe for an ocean trip, let me describe our attire for a river cruise.  I don’t know what you call a river in your part of the country, but ours were not always deep and swift through the desert country.  All we needed was a bathing suit, a pair of cut off jeans; (to keep your backside protected from submerged logs and sharp rocks.) Everyone wore some old tennies and a hat.

We took our cruises on the Salt and Verde rivers here in Arizona. Grandma’s Romel style straw hat had a bill. She wore it like the general when she directed the launching of our summer river cruises. Grandpa couldn’t swim so he didn’t join our floating party. He trucked the inner tubes to the river and met us down stream at the end of the day.

In the middle of August, it wasn’t necessary to be a good swimmer, just a strong walker. You were always glad you had your tennies on when you had to swing your leg down inside the tube and push off against the rocks if you were grounded. In no time at all, you would be bobbing along with the current.

Our kids, along with their cousins, wiggled into their tubes, clomped down the muddy bank and with a whoop and a holler, were on their way.  They delighted in the heady freedom of being allowed to go on ahead of the grown-ups.

The water was pure and cold. It felt like melted snow against our hot skin as we floated away, one by one.

We cruised the low, clear river over water sculptured rocks in ever changing moods and colors. As the desert glided by, we passed mesquite, palo verde and an occasional stand of giant cottonwoods, their green and yellow foliage hanging over deep green pools.

Invariably, as we floated by, we were ambushed by a band of river pirates dropping from the branches above. Waves swamped our river craft and grinning kids who looked very familiar popped to the surface.   Sooner or later, one of the river pirates asked grandma for a safety pin to hold up his bathing suit; or another needed a Band-Aid. Grandma provided the items without fail from her waterproof plastic purse. You name it, she had it.

We floated on past little hidden pockets of lush vegetation. Blue herons swooped above the trees and settled on their skinny legs in the shallow water. Meanwhile, the strong, sentinel mountains held the brooding July thunderheads at bay.

Later, we sailed into a deep, green pool. Shouts and splashes echoed from the nearby cliffs as older kids cannonballed off huge rocks. Tiny rainbows arched through the sprays of wate

In late afternoon, we rounded a bend and saw the orange sunset reflecting off grandpa’s glasses as he stood waiting at our rendezvous point. The river moved swiftly there, so the men hauled themselves out of their tubes and waded us in.

Soon the smell of hot dogs sizzling from supple sticks filled the air. Damp towels hung like limp capes from kids’ shoulders while we listened to the ripple of the river, chirps of crickets and an occasional owl.

The moon rose cool and bright. Reluctantly, we packed up to go home. We knew we would be back to celebrate another Labor Day on the river that enticed us again and again.

So, have you been on a water journeys lately? How soon can you pull your wardrobe together for a Labor Day River cruise?

“NOTHING FAIR ABOUT STATUES”

By

Gerry Niskern

A wise author once said, “You can only write about war by writing one soldier’s story.” I’d like to go back in Arizona history and tell you about two Arizona war heroes. Lt. Frank Luke Jr. and Sgt. Sylvestre  Herrera,  who  both received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Luke’s was awarded posthumously after WWI and Hererra, during WWII, was the first living Arizona Congressional Medal of Honor recipient.

When I was a young girl, my friends and I used to wait for the streetcar in front of the State Capitol. While we waited we gazed up at a statue of the handsome Frank Luke Jr.  and fantasized about the history of the young flying Ace. Frank was looking upward into the sky, his flying cap and goggles in hand.

Surprisingly, I was not taught in school about Luke’s heroic skills as a “balloon buster” during WWI. He flew his planes thru such punishing enemy fire that five were written off after his missions.During two weeks in September, l918, in only ten missions, he destroyed fourteen heavily defended German surveillance balloons and four airplanes.  He was only twenty years old when he gave his life in an air battle near the village of Murvaux, France.

I finally learned more about Lieutenant Frank’s life from the fascinating and factually correct book, “Terror of the Autumn Skies” by Blaine Pardoe.

Different vivid memories of Silvestre Herrera take me back to Union Station on 4^th Ave in downtown Phoenix in August, l945 during WWII. One evening when I was a little girl my parents took me to see a brave young hero’s return home. When the train stopped the crowd surged forward and many hands plucked him from his wheelchair. I was distressed to see that he had no legs as he was passed from shoulder to shoulder of the cheering crowd. Finally Sgt. Hererra was placed on the back of a red convertible for a parade up Washington.

History tells us that when his platoon was pinned down by Germans in a forest near Metzwiller, France, he charged the enemy and captured 8 enemy soldiers. That same day, to draw enemy fire away from his comrades, Hererra entered a mine field and in two explosions lost both legs. He continued to fire upon the enemy which allowed his platoon to skirt the field and capture the enemy position.

Both young men came from completely different backgrounds. Frank was one of nine children from a prominent Arizona family. The statue of Luke is in front of the Arizona State Capitol on l7th Ave, facing down Washington.

Sylvestre was an orphan, born in Mexico, and raised by an Uncle in Glendale.  He was 27, married with three children when he volunteered and answered this country’s call. You won’t find a statue at the capitol erected in his honor.

THE THINGS THEY CARRY

By

Gerry Niskern

One of the characteristics that my mother loved when we moved to Arizona when I was a kid was the openness and lack of prejudice. We had moved here from a small town in the East and she loved the fact that no one cared if you were Italian, German, Austrian, Polish, Russian, or whatever. That had not been the case when she was growing up. She especially liked the idea that her girls were going to go to school in a state where most families were newcomers. No one carried  “home grown” bigotry to school.

I went to school with Mexican and Asian kids at Jackson and Adams Middle School. I graduated from Phoenix Union in l950 and there were many Mexican and Asian students graduating too. Daisy Yee was the Valedictorian of our class. Yes, the African American kids went to Carver but that changed the following year and the schools became desegregated.

I went to work at the Valley National Bank, which later became Chase. I worked along side Mexican and Asian girls in the Installment Loan Dept. We ran around together shopping on our lunch hour. One of the Mexican girls, Amelia, took part in my wedding.

Our ideas from home carried us thru school and on into adult life. Sure, some of our parents were liberal Democrats and others were conservative Republicans, but that didn’t define our lives. We were there to learn from past history and prepare for the future.

The kids in Arizona went back to school this month. Almost all wore new backpacks to carry their tons of books. But, think about this: they carried something else. They carried a heavy load of  political rhetoric that  they were saturated with from TV and the Internet. Even the Kindergarteners could probably tell you if their mommy and daddy was  Republican or a Democrat and the “state of our union” right now!

Think about it.

“Rolling On”

by

Gerry Niskern

I wrote this little story as related to me by my younger brother-in-law. He started driving after he retired from the Centura Rocket Company, Colorado,  where he was a designer.

Keith crushed the pink slip of paper in his fist as he strode from the office. His heart was pounding. The numbers on the driver’s lockers were a blur. He yanked  the metal door open and started throwing his personal things into a box.

“What kind of a joke is that? Saying I can’t drive my bus anymore. I don’t care what their new rules say about age limits; after years of hauling kids!”

He sat down abruptly and took a few deep breaths. He remembered his blood pressure and told himself to calm down.

“You have the blood pressure under control and passed the physical one more year, don’t blow it now.”

After a few minutes, he picked up his compass  and studied it. He chuckled as he remembered the first morning he drove the huge yellow vehicle. “Man, was I nervous…afraid I’d forget the route, get myself lost, or leave some kid stranded. I was scared that I couldn’t make friends with the children. He tossed the compass into the box and pulled out a sweat stained cap. “I remember I was drenched in nervous sweat when I finally stopped for that last pickup that day.”

A little girl was clinging to her mother when he pulled up. The first grader climbed the high steps, one at a time, sniffling and blinking back the tears. She said something to him; he couldn’t hear her at first. He leaned down to hear her timid voice. “Hi, Bus.”All the first day’s tension disappeared with his laughter.

He pulled his gloves from the locker shelf and thought back to the first winter of driving…November, December when the snow came. He used to stand on the bumper in the pre dawn darkness scraping thick frost from the windshield as icicles formed on his mustache.

He  prayed on those icy mornings as he made his way slowly from one huddled group to another, white curls of breath disappearing above their heads as they scrambled aboard.

He learned how to spot the troublemakers fast. When he wrote up a student and they lost their riding privileges for a week, he knew which driver of the nearest route to notify, so the culprit couldn’t sneak on with another crowd.

Keith chuckled when he thought how he had gotten so he could predict the day, usually at the end of the first week, when five or six kids would jump out the back emergency exit. He would be standing there ready to herd them back on the bus.

Sure, times had changed a lot over the years. Kids had changed. First, the district  installed the surveillance cameras, then came the CB radio. “Code Red” to the office meant he was pulling off the road, doors locked, send the police. He sighed, tossing his first aid kit into the box. There was one time he wasn’t likely to forget.

One day he wrote up an eight year old boy, an automatic “no ride” for a week. The next morning, at the boy’s stop, a massive body hurled through the bus door towards him. Hands of steel dragged him down to the ground. A large woman pounded him while small feet kicked him in the head.

Keith drove the next day , taped ribs and all. The vice of fear gripping his stomach didn’t show as he joked  with the kids at the young kickers stop.

So it went…Now he had reached “that age” and been relegated to a van, a mini van at that! He’d be picking up pre-schoolers for a special education program. Forget it…not for him. He made a vow  to himself, “I’ll stay  one week, one week only, until they find a replacement. Not a minute longer.”

On Monday morning, Keith reluctantly pulled the yellow mini van out of the district yard. He was glad the other drivers had already gone. It was down right embarrassing. Six seats. Six pitiful seats! No way, thank you very much.

Later that morning, he eased the van to the curb on the last stop. A little girl slowly climbed aboard. Her chin trembled and he saw eyes bright  with unshed tears. She waved a brave good bye to her mother. Then as she turned toward him, she placed a small trembling hand on his arm and said softly, “Hi, bus.”

“Nostalgia is not for Sissies”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you heard about the trend in home building in the valley?  Perhaps you have read about the new “old” planned neighborhoods? Lately the developers have been touting the idea of communities with houses varying in size from 5,000 to 1,500 sq. feet. This will encourage people of all ages to live side by side. They describe wide sidewalks and narrow, traffic free streets. The homes will have porches close to the sidewalk and garages in the back of the property. No block walls, just fences low enough visit over. It’s even been suggested that gates could left be open so that school children could cut across yards on the way to and from school.

Clothes will be permitted to hang out on clotheslines. Small dwellings are optional on the rear of your property for mothers-in-law, or home businesses. People from all walks of life could live together in a wonderful network of human relationships.

I have just one question for you potential homebuyers who are standing in line and drawing for lots, “Are you out of your mind?” Better yet, have you read the fine print in your contract? What if you get all moved in and find out that you actually are expected to live the life style of the good old days?

Come to think of it, fair is fair. If you want to return to the charm of the 40’s and 50’s those clothes lines could be filled with cloth diapers, washed daily. You would use a  hose for hot water to fill the washing machine; then the diapers are rung through the wringer and rinsed in two tubs of clean water then through the wringer again, before hanging.

The problem is, while the laundry is being done, the little ones are not eating their Cheerios in front of the television watching a video.  Sorry, no TVs. When you do check to see what they’ve been up to, there are no spray cleaners or even paper towels to wipe up their spills.

Those breakfast dishes are washed in the sink, not popped onto the dishwasher. In your quest for authenticity in this return to yesteryear, none of those plastic baby bottles and disposable liners allowed. And when you take him out on that nice wide sidewalk for his daily dose of vitamin D, you will use a heavy metal stroller with tiny wheels that pushes like an army tank. Sorry, no lightweight jogging strollers with big wheels.

Of course, when the retiree calls about the tomatoes Junior has been sampling from his garden while cutting across yards to school, don’t despair. I’m sure all those friendly relationships you have been cultivating will pay off. Also, with the gates left open, what happens to all the doggies?   Before moving in, I’d suggest neutering.

As for those small dwellings on the back of your property, you might be able to get your mother-in-law to move in. That is, if you can catch her. Most of the mother-in-laws I know are too smart to fall for that arrangement.

Neighbors using the small houses for a home business or studio can be tricky. Sculpture welding involves bright flashes of light and woodworking tools can be very noisy in the late evening hours.

When you are sitting out on the old style porch waiting for hubby to come home, no fair having a ceiling fan or mister system on the porch they weren’t invented yet! And of course, you won’t be calling him on a cell phone to pick up some fast food for dinner. He’ll have enough trouble trying to navigate the narrow, old-fashioned streets in his big SUV.

“How Do We Know It’s Almost August?”

By

Gerry Niskern

August is a special time of year in Phoenix and the Valley of the Sun. How do we know it,s almost  August? Forget the calendar. There are all kinds of tell tale signs that this unique month has almost arrived.

You know that brown spot in the yard? The one that you’ve been trying to green up all summer with extra hand watering; you realize you just don’t look that direction anymore. And those geraniums in the pots under the shade tree, dead.

The dog hides when he sees you with the leash in your hand. He’s not about to go for a walk on that hot pavement. And the weeds along side the streets are high enough to hide in. You’re not startled anymore when you see wading pools and patio umbrellas become airborne and blow past the window.

You know it’s August when the water in the swimming pool is unbearably warm. I’ve actually heard one fellow complaining that he was sweating while doing laps! And you can’t invite company over for dinner, because it’s too hot to barbecue outside and you’re sure not about to cook a real meal inside!

When I was growing up here in Phoenix, we knew it was August when we had grown tired of playing in the revolving lawn sprinklers and I’d read every new book in the children’s section of the Carnegie Library on W. Washington. August was when the sudden rainstorms in the middle of the night sent our neighbors scurrying from their sleeping cots in the back yard. The lightening flashes illuminated nightshirts flapping in the wind as they hurried in the back door before the rain hit.

You knew it was August when you woke up on a Saturday morning to the delicious smell of fresh Aspen cooler pads as the refreshing breeze wafted through the house. No one left their evaporative coolers on at night; we didn’t need to. Dad always changed pads in August after we had gone through a few dust storms. That was back when dust storms were called plain old “dust storms” before they were known as “Haboobs.”

When my kids were growing up I knew it was August when the cool beach vacation had faded from memory and unrest was breaking out because brothers and sisters were getting tired of each other. When their blond friend’s hair was turning green from all the chlorine in the pool. I knew it was August when their bathing suits were getting too small and were so faded you couldn’t see the color anymore. Their flip-flops were so stretched out all they did was flop.

I knew it was time to return the overdue library books; but I really knew it was August when my number two son who refused to give up short sleeves in the fall and long sleeves in the spring, finally started wearing short sleeves!

Now, the majestic storm clouds gather every afternoon. Then one evening in August, there is a spectacular sunset, and another and another every day.

Soon you won’t be able to  find that annoying brown patch in the lawn anymore, and the water in the pool will be refreshing again. The noise you hear are the school buses rumbling down the street, on practice runs, another sign that fall is indeed around the corner.

“Winning Ways”

By

Gerry Niskern

Did you enjoy the baseball games this spring and summer? . I like to watch the five and six year old girls starting softball.  I remember one opening practice game a few years ago.

First up was a chubby blonde.  After every pitch the umpire had to signal time out to explain she didn’t need to brush off her socks when the catcher’s scuffling threw up some dust.

Next was a redhead. She was about 34 inches high. She connected for a grounder that rolled through three girl’s gloves.  She decided there was enough time to stroll  to first while her dad pleaded, “no, honey, run…run!”

The gaggle of boys watching the girl’s game were falling off the bleachers laughing.

The players waiting their turn at bat weren’t wasting their time watching the game. They braided each other’s hair, traded jewelry or played with someone’s baby sister.

When they took the field, our pitcher was sturdy and low to the ground. What she lacked in accuracy, she made up in power. The other teams’ hitters had to jump straight up, three feet back or just plain run for cover as she blasted balls towards home late.

Twins, playing center and left field respectively, had softball confused with keep-a-way. When one got the ball, she  ran until she was tackled by her sister while the coach implored, “Please…throw the ball.”

The other evening I decided to watch one of the older girl’s games.   A sharp crack of the bat brought me to attention. They were practicing their hitting. The pitchers were sending sizzlers down the sidelines. The confidence and determination of the thirteen to fifteen year- olds was exhilarating. Uniforms were regulation, including cleats.

It was obvious when they took the field; they had found their positions.

When our pitcher stepped into the pitcher’s circle, her windup gave us an Instamatic flash of form as her right arm started up, the left glove raised too. She was the picture of grace up on her right toe as her left foot left the ground and she turned on the power in true Joan Joyce style! The first baseman stretched out and snagged a wide throw from left field to rack up their first out. Nothing was out of her reach.

One of their opponents hit a sharp grounder between short and third. The red haired third baseman dove for the ball and on one knee managed a straight throw to first base.

The few hits the pitcher gave up were quickly taken care of by the catches of the fielders.  They took turns circling the ball yelling, “I got it. I got it…and they did!

It was apparent the girls had developed a keen batters’ eye. In the last inning, the redhead was up first. She strolled to the plate and whacked the mud from her cleats while the fielders moved back. She swung at the first pitch…a crack…the ball jumped off her bat for a hot grounder past third. She dashed to first and then later, a bruising slide to second to avoid a tag. Later skinned elbows were ignored as she stole third.

The pretty blonde up next hit a hi- bouncer over the pitchers’ head and got on first.

The opposing pitcher was throwing mitt dusters when the sturdy pitcher came to bat. She swung…the high ball went off as if from a rocket launcher and sailed over the left field fence.  This time there was no ridiculing from the crowd of young male fans. They were on their feet as the winning runs came in…whistles through the teeth and clenched fists thrust skyward.

The hugs and hi fives  in the dugout  couldn’t begin to match the smiles of triumph on the faces of older women in the stands who remembered when the ball diamonds were for Boys Only!

“The Flowers of summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone knows that simple flowers bloom as gorgeous around a small home as they do around a mansion. Home gardeners are reaching back to flowers prized by their grandmothers.  I’m beginning to see flowers from yesteryear growing in many front yards around the valley.

There is an enchantment to old-fashioned flowers. They were the blossoms that the pioneers brought with them across the country. Flowers were the inspiration for poetry, symbols for political parties, and bouquets for lovers. More importantly, they were the symbols of home.

Lately I’ve sighted stands of colossal sunflowers; each huge flower with a crown of gold nodding slightly as it follows the sun to the west. After dark, the giants turn their allegiance to the east again, waiting for another sunrise. A friend of mine raises unique sunflowers and they were the theme of her daughter’s wedding.

Passing by Hollyhocks recently was a pleasant surprise. They always remind me of playing with the bell shaped blossoms as a little girl. We spent endless summer hours making dresses for our dolls from their petals.

When I was a child back in West Virginia the women carried canning jars full of flowers to the alter of our little country church all summer. There were daises, queen’s lace, violets and lilacs with heart shaped leaves of dark green and the rich perfume of pink, white and purple blossoms. Years later, I picked sprays of purple from a lilac bush in the front yard of an elderly friend’s little house on East Cherry Lynn. She brought a tiny bush from Michigan as a bride.  Lucky for me, no one told her lilacs wouldn’t grow here in Phoenix, Arizona.

One Phoenix resident who grew up in Tennessee remembers the iris of her mother’s garden and raises them in her garden here too. Best of all, she tells me, after moving to Phoenix was finding fig trees growing in the Valley of the Sun just as they did in Tennessee.

Another friend from a dusty West Texas town recalls helping his mother lace string up and down the back of their drab farm house to hold the climbing Morning Glories she planted every year. He can’t grow the prohibited vines here now, but Morning Glories will always mean home to him.

Beds of marigolds remind another Phoenix woman of her wedding on a farm in Maryland. Queen Annes Lace from the meadow in large vases, surrounded the wedding couple.  That old favorite blooms here in the spring.

Beautiful roses are blooming everywhere.  I’ll confess I have a special place in my heart for roses. Not the hot house variety, but roses offered fresh and fragrant in the arms of a neighbor from her garden.

When I was a child I knew a lady whose farmhouse was at the end of a long country road. She had no electricity or running water, but the old house was surrounded by many large, beautiful rosebushes. Starting on my first birthday in June, until we moved to Arizona, she brought me a huge bouquet of roses of every color. I was positive that she lived in a mansion.

“Nation of immigrants celebrates the Fourth of July”

By

Gerry Niskern

E Pluribus Unum

E pluribus Unum, “from many, one”, was the original national motto of the United States.

Our country has never been a homogeneous nation. George Washington, our first president, understood that. He envisioned millions immigrating to the United States to make this country great. For most of the next two centuries, mass immigration was the rule, not the exception. So again, this year, as a nation of immigrants, we celebrate the Fourth of July, our country’s birthday.

With the exception of the Native Americans, all of our ancestors emigrated from another country. In fact, when people are diligently looking up the family genealogy they are often disappointed when they can’t find the citizenship papers of the first members. There’s a reason for that. Millions didn’t become naturalized!

That’s right. A large percentage of immigrants in the 1800s and early l900s did not actually become citizens. Immigrants were asked to sign a Letter of Intent to become a United States citizen, but most started working and raising families and somehow didn’t get around to following through. And yet, in many states, aliens who had only filed Intent, were allowed to vote.

My grandfather was recruited in Austria in the late 1880’s  to come here and work in the coal mines of Pennsylvania and then West Virginia. My grandparents saved and sent money home to buy more land for their families adjoining farms. They never intended to stay, but they did. Did they become citizens? I can’t honestly say.

It’s interesting when I hear someone declare, “My grandparents came here, they worked hard and became citizens!”   I’m tempted to ask, “Are you sure?” Actually, there were no limits on immigrant laborers. Between l870 and 1920, approximately 25 million immigrants came to the U.S. The United States needed cheap labor and welcomed them.

Over the years skeptics always predicted that the newcomers would never be assimilated; that they would never adapt to the civic culture of the United States. History proved them wrong. They have become giants in industry, business, medicine, law and in any area you can name. As a small, more personal example, those from large families have smaller families and the third generation has even less.

Yes, we urgently need to tighten security along the border. We need to stop the drugs coming north and stop the flow of guns going south.  Just as important,  we also need to help legalize the immigrants who were needed here and have been working, paying taxes, buying homes and raising children to be good citizens. We are not at a totally new place in our country. We’ve been here before.

We need to treat the existing problem of immigrants with practicality and decency.

Come on, Guys. Demonizing an entire race or religion  is not the American way.

“Scents of Arizona Summers”

By

Gerry Niskern

You can smell them now, can’t you? If you were lucky enough to grow up here you know every delicious smell of our state. And even if you didn’t, you’ll recognize most of the delicious aromas.

If you rolled down the car windows in the spring coming to and from work the smell of the orange blossoms was wonderful. Back when the valley was filled with groves, the citrus scent was everywhere.

How about the scent of the dust freshly watered down infield for the first pitch at a baseball game? Or the smell of the boys sweat, dirt soaked uniforms as them pile in the car to go home?

I remember the aroma of the cantaloupe sheds out on Grand Ave as you drove past this time of year. How long since cantaloupes in the stores have smelled like that? My Resident Historian used to back his pickup up to a shed and they would fill it to the brim with “over ripes”, enough for a neighborhood feast!

When I was a kid, we bought our watermelons from a house on W. Jefferson who kept them in a pop cooler. When mom slid her big knife in the dark rind, the melon split with a loud crack, releasing the sweetest aroma in the world.

The fragrance of freshly cut grass mingled with the aroma of  honey suckle and ripe figs in neighborhoods. At ll5, the smell of hot tar in asphalt was as strong as the odor of the Tamarisk trees where we kids played on the wide branches.

The exotic smell of coconut oil rose from warm bodies as teenagers sunbathed in the back yard and inside the house the smell of fresh aspen cooler pads mingled with the smell of mom pressing dad’s pants for church.

Does anyone remember when the candy counter at Newberry’s beckoned with chocolate aroma; or when the caramel corn shoppe over on Monroe tried to take your quarter. Cigars wrinkled your nose as you passed the Adams hotel (which you walked thru quickly just to cool off in the lobby) , but a trip past the Green Dragon on Jefferson emitted onions and spices of Chinese fare.

The required walk thru of the foot bath at the swimming pool reeked with heavy chlorine, but worth the running plunge in the cool water.  Which smelled better: the sputtering hot dogs or the icy cold Barq’s Root Beer from the snack bar?

But, best of all to old timers and brand new residents,  is the pungent smell of our desert after a summer rain? The scent of wet creosote mingling with the fragrant  sage is found only in Arizona!