“Don’t Clean Out That Closet!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you read all those articles that come out this time of year instructing you how to clean out and organize your closets? Don’t believe a word of it.

It’s all a conspiracy of the fashion industry to force you to go out and buy new clothes. You’ve heard the old saying, “What goes around, comes around.” Well, if you wait long enough, any fashion will come around again.

Anytime that you go online, read the newspaper or watch TV you will get the latest fashion forecast. According to the breathless commentators, the exciting new color this year was an earthen burgandy. Well, I have sweaters, tees and turtlenecks in every shade of burgandy in my closet, and guess what; I didn’t buy them this year.

Every other year, bell bottom jeans are in, and then they are out; as are jean jackets, except when they’re in. The same is true of wide legs or skinny legs on pants. Wide belts with huge buckles for jeans for women are in, as they were twenty-some years ago. I have some really neat ones in my closet.

Ever since the l800’s, ready-to-wear manufacturers have enabled middle class to dress well. Before that everything was made at home or by a local seamstress. When Mr. Buttrick started the Buttrick pattern company he streamlined dressmaking for the average family in this country. Clothing was very affordable for everyone and of course, as years went by the fashion industry found it more and more profitable to declare styles and colors out of date.

Soon the car industry jumped in. In the l920’s General Motors was first to systemize the process of slightly altering cars each year to grab the buyers attention. Soon all the companies followed suit. After all, what was the point of buying a new car if the body style didn’t shout “new model?”

Years ago you could redecorate your home safely knowing that your choice of colors would be “in” for a few years. Not anymore. If an artist publishes a print in the trendy colors and it doesn’t sell out in six months, forget it.

After all, creating desire for the latest trend, whether it is a new car, redecorating your home or a new set of duds, is what has built the huge global market that exists today. On second thought, maybe you all better clean out those closets and go buy something new!

“Labor With Love”

By

Gerry Niskern

Labor Day was the signal of the end of the season at my parents business each year. They started their small manufacturing plant and retail store where they produced evaporative cooler pads and sold new coolers and parts here in the valley in l950.

The majority of residents used evaporative coolers.

When they opened, my dad, a time study engineer, had everything planned down to the last detail. The retail store was in front and in the large back facility he positioned    work tables, the rolls of cheesecloth and bales of shredded aspen needed. Every motion was planned down to the last detail.

When they placed the first ad for “unskilled” seasonal workers, only women applied. Some were Anglo and one was Mexican. They exchanged ideas on life and families as they worked together making the pads, laughing and talking. Heating and Cooling service men would stop by for parts and pads and kid around with the workers. Of course, they had to keep it quiet when the Spanish program was broadcasting the daily soap opera.

Ernestina, the original Mexican lady returned to work year after year. In the off season she worked at Phoenix Linen supply. Her husband worked a seasonal job at Anderson-Clayton cotton gin. They were raising four children in a home with a dirt floor and outside shower. All four kids eventually graduated from ASU.

Most of the Anglo women who applied worked one season for something special they wanted to buy for their home. Nellie, the second Mexican lady, came the second year. She worked at a bathing suit factory in the off season. She made fresh tortillas every morning for her family and always brought some to share.

One African American lady was their shaker for a few seasons. She shook and fluffed the damp excelsior so the women could grab loose handfuls more easily. They never had another shaker as good.

Mom hurried from the customers up front to the back room helping and supervising the women. She made them fresh coffee at break time which she served with liberal doses of her views on morals, democracy and whatever she had baked the night before.

As years went by the Anglos went on to better jobs and more Mexicans women answered their ads. Mom eventually learned some Spanish and they learned English.

By Labor Day, the season was over. Come the New Year, the help wanted ad ran again and the chance for honest labor was offered: No matter what your ethnic background or legal status. No one cared.

“The Face of Labor has Changed”

By

Gerry Niskern

Did you have any help preparing for the coming holiday that celebrates the working people in America? You probably had a lot more help from unseen workers than you realize. We all tend to take other peoples labor for granted, just like we take our country’s holidays for granted.

Our country’s unique national holiday came about because back in the late 1880’s around 10,000 workers in the garment industry walked off the job and staged a notorious strike in New York City. They demanded that common laborers in the United States have a day of recognition for their efforts.

Look around this Labor Day. Do you notice anything different? There is a lot of white hair out there. A fast growing number of the unseen workers are seniors. These older workers show up everyday, sometimes regardless of poor health. They see what needs done and they do it.

The people who hire seniors can’t say enough good things about them. They know they’re on time, with no call-in excuses of “the car broke down or the sitter didn’t show up.”

Do you know any of these people personally? Probably not, since they just melt into the blur of people who serve your needs as quickly as possible and get you on your way. When you do spot a senior on the job, remember that they are probably someone’s mom or dad, grandma or grandpa.

Most seniors didn’t expect to be working in what has always been described as their “golden years”. They’re working for various reasons. Many just plain need the extra income. Social Security doesn’t go far in this day and age. Others are stranded with no pension from life long jobs. Some were just unskilled or unlucky. As one fellow said to me, “By the time you can make ends meet, they’ve moved the ends!”

I recently attended a swim suit sale at one of our large department stores. The snowy hair on the sales lady was getting whiter by the minute as she tried to take care of the whole department by herself. When I overheard her say, “I’m getting too old for this!” I inquired about her age. She was 88.

Pat, a friend of mine, retired from the phone company a few years ago and is now a hostess at one of our local restaurants. “I ‘m working part time now in order to have money for traveling.

She went on to say, “I find that I have more patience because of my life experiences. In the restaurant business, you have to learn to not take things personally. You’re there to serve the public”

Jim retired from a large company and drives a van for the guests at a resort. He gets along with the young guys just fine. That is, after he let them know they were not to refer to him as “the old man.”

Several Seniors mentioned the fact that they were better able to relate to their grandkids because of working with the younger set.

I knew a distinguished gentleman by the name of Sam who is a Utility Person at AJ’s Preveyor of Fine Foods in Central Phoenix. He was 77. Sam raised ten children, had nineteen grandchildren and five greats. He’s retired from forty years with the U.S. Post Office; he always said, “I’m a people person and I love this job.”

When I asked him if he would be there on Labor Day, he answered cheerfully, “If it’s on Monday, I’ll be right here.”

“Have you been to a real football game lately?”

By

Gerry Niskern

The bright lights on the football field below our house have been on late in the evening the past few weeks. Down on the turf at the high school the jerseys are wet with sweat. It’s still in the upper 90’s at 7 o’clock. “Down-set-hut-hut!” The snap and the quarterback falls back and looks for the receiver. The slap of pads hitting pads and grunts, when spikes hit skin, fills the air as each linesman nails his guy. The scrimmaging goes on and on as these kids learn to play as a unit.

The boys get used to being called a few unprintables if they don’t hit hard enough, but as one young player confessed, “The worse part is the wind sprints at the end of practice.”   They won’t leave until around 8 and then it’s homework time. “If your coach is your science or math teacher, he’s harder on you than anybody.”

The quarterback doesn’t pull down 20 million a year and the halfback on this team didn’t receive a big fat signing bonus when he joined the team. They are required to sign in for workout during the summer. Most of the kids on the football squad at your high school can’t wait for the bell after last period.   Sure, there’s a little thought in the back of everyone’s mind that “maybe I could make the pros someday”, but that’s not what keeps them out there night after night. They love the game.

One of my earliest memories as a toddler back east is of sitting on the bleachers between my parents in the falling snow. While we cheered our team to victory the white stuff piled up on the blanket covering our laps. My uncle was their four- year quarterback. He was small but quick. He had to be. The steel mill towns up the river had a habit of keeping full-grown men in high school, at least through the football season. They played with little padding and Uncle Joe was rarely replaced during the game. I remember my mother screaming, “They’re piling on our boy.”

Years later in Phoenix, the big game at my high school was always on Thanksgiving Day. Back then most mothers timed the turkey to come out around six in the evening. After all, the Coyotes of Phoenix Union was playing their bitter rivals, the Mustangs of North High. The red and black against the red and blue was the best game of the year.

Forget the Pros. Think about taking your family to one of the games at your neighborhood high school. The Vikings have been gearing up. So have the Mountain Lions, Eagles, Knights, Cobras, Coyotes, Cardinals, Rockets, Demons, Trojans, Mustangs. The list goes on.

Most games start around 7 and are over early. The tickets are no more than three or four dollars. The bleachers aren’t wooden anymore and if you need a backrest, sit up top. Maybe you can show your kids or grandkids the plays you used to make or mom can teach them one of her old high school’s cheers. As you walk along the sidelines, you will feel part of the tension of the parents who have taxied these players to their practices year after year. They’ll be secretly praying that there is no “piling on” their boy.

When the band marches onto the field you’ll wish you knew the words of the school song. And I promise you, you’ll see a real football game!

“Get Over it!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Get over it! That’s what I find myself wanting to say to complainers about the heat here in Phoenix. Yes, we have high temperatures in the summer in Phoenix; and yes, it takes some getting used to. Do I need to remind everyone that we also have 7 or 8 months of beautiful weather?

Come on folks. You go from your air conditioned house to your air conditioned car to your air conditioned business or store. Those who work outside are allowed to complain, but not during our 7 or 8 months of beautiful weather, right?

I’m always amazed and a little disgusted by the weather forecasters in our valley each year at the first indication that the temperature might get up to 90 degrees, usually sometime in March. They immediately declare summer is here. Their constant chatter would have newcomers believing the first little flurry of heat will remain through the next six or seven months. Wrong. And don’t even get me started on their “Haboob” chatter.

Those of us who grew up here in the valley know that we always have warm and cool periods all through the spring and into June. We’ll have the occasional rainy periods and the heat will be turned on and off quite a few times in most households during the spring.

We long time residents also know that there is one good alternative to the high electric bills from air conditioners during the spring and fall months; evaporative coolers. During those periods when the dew point is below 55, evaporative coolers do an excellent and thrifty job. If you are lucky enough to have one on your home now, then you know that you can leave your windows open on the balmy spring days when using your cooler.

When a customer came into my dad’s cooler supply business years ago, heaven help him if he asked for help with his “swamp” cooler. Dad gave him lots of help, but first corrected the errant customer, telling them the correct name was “evaporative coolers”. I still cringe when I hear the term “swamp” cooler.

He told them the following: to service their cooler early in the spring. Use a two-speed blower motor. Install a thermostat to keep the temperatures regular during the cool nights. Install a re-circulating pump to save water and use a product to keep the alkali soft. (makes clean up a lot easier.)

The smell of fresh Aspen pads, the best, by the way, on the first hot days of spring and summer and the electric bill that is less than a fourth as with your AC will be enough to make you “get over it” and decide to stay in Arizona.

“School’s Starting Already?”

By

Gerry Niskern

The first thing I always think of when I hear that school is starting is “It’s time to get a Big Chief tablet and a new pencil.” Okay, now you know I started school in the Dark Ages!

I once asked a few people of various ages “What is the first thing that pops into your mind about school starting?” Here are some of their answers.

One five year old in my family who was eagerly waiting to start Kindergarten said,” I think I will learn to read,” and after a long pause, “And I think I will be thinking a lot.” I posed the question to his little sister who was starting Pre-School, but she “took the fifth!”

A granddaughter in middle school looked surprised at my question and answered, “Why, that’s easy. The first thing I always think about school starting is now we can go shopping for clothes.”

One fifty-something in our family answered. “I remember my first thought when I started first grade was, “I’ll get to ride the school bus with the little red-haired girl. Maybe I’ll get to hold her hand.” He continued, “I did; but after school started she got her long hair cut and I didn’t want to hold her hand anymore.”

An 89 year old friend said when school started each year, “ I worried about getting all my books. I prayed they hadn’t changed the texts so I could use the ones my older sisters had. Then off I went happily in my sister’s hand me down dresses too.”

A friend who has taught Kindergarten for many years answered. “That’s easy. Crying children; I call September the crying month. Only a third of my kids have had pre-school experience. The parents are actually the biggest problem. If they would say goodbye and just leave!”

My friend, a retired teacher who taught mathematics to seventh and eighth graders for years said, “Now when I realize it’s time for school to start again I think, great. I don’t have to go.” And then he added, “Tennis anyone?”

Last, I asked a young neighbor. She’s the mother of four grade school children and her response was, “Hallelujah!”

“ 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!