“July Pastimes”

By

Gerry Niskern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me tell you a story of a little fireworks fun that went out of control in the “flash of an eye” or shall we say “of a rocket?” I’ll never forget the sight of that raging fire that surrounded our home. Many other homes were in danger on that hot night on the fourth of July.

A few young married men in our extended family had pooled their hard-earned money and sent away to other states for fireworks before they became legal in Arizona. After all, what could it hurt? They were going to be real careful.

When the sky grew dark that evening, their first rocket filled the sky with bursts of red, white and then blue stars. From what they thought was a safe sand-filled wash down below our house, the second rocket rose majestically. The third lifted off with the usual speed then, suddenly plummeted straight down the other side of the mountain!

One of the guys raced up the road to the house at the top of the mountain and down the other side. He found the tiny, smoldering fire that had started when the defective rocket hit the dry grass on the mountainside. He tried to snuff it out with his shoes. All at once, an updraft pushed the flames towards him. He stumbled backwards as the fire raced upward, singing the hair on his legs.

“Call the fire department,” he screamed down the mountain. “It’s spreading fast.” He turned on the neighbor’s garden hose and a pitiful stream of water trickled out. There’s not a lot of water pressure when you live on top.

Some of the fellows doing the rocket launching, fearing for the consequences of their activity, jumped into a car and drove off the dispose of the evidence. They threw their expensive fireworks in a dumpster and stayed away several hours. There was a lot of guilt and not too much Fourth of July fun.

Panic was beginning to set in, but cooler heads prevailed and soon everyone was grabbing beach towels, soaking them in the pool and racing back up the mountain to try to beat out the flames.

The fire truck arrived, but the driver couldn’t get the truck up the steep drive. The firemen finally hiked on up with portable equipment on their back. The slippery shale formation on the steep North Mountain slope made it difficult to keep they’re footing as they worked to put out the flames skittering through the brush tops.

The waves of heat were overwhelming. Wind gusts stoked the tinder provided by bone-dry leaves, twigs and dead branches. The fire sped towards the houses that ringed the bottom of the mountain and the homeowners worked desperately with their more abundant water supply.

“We sure want to thank you folks for helping us put out this fire tonight.” One fireman said when it was over. He pushed his helmet back from a face etched with grimy patterns of exhaustion. “Especially all you young people. I’ve never seen a group pitch in and work so furiously,” he continued.

Eyes were kept downcast as the young males in our extended family tried their best not to look guilty. “By the way,” the sweat-drenched fireman continued, “Does anyone know how it started?”

“Sure don’t”, our generous neighbor quickly answered. His home, on top of this mountain, had survived flames lapping at its foundation, minutes before.

The next morning, the black remains of mature Paloverde trees stood in mute testimony of the near disaster on the scorched desert mountain. It was three or four years before enough green foliage allowed the small desert animals to return and the sound of morning doves were heard again.

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

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

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

Father’s Day, 2015 style.

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

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

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

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

Dads Know the Best Games!

By

Gerry Niskern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mothers might know best, but dads sure are fun!

“Who will teach Mom and Dad?”

By

Gerry Niskern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now who is going to train the mommas and the poppas

“On the Road Again?

By

Gerry Niskern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Peak by Any Other Name?”

by

Gerry Niskern

The unrest in the Middle East is becoming referred to more and more, as America’s longest war. It is foremost on the minds of families who have lost a son or a daughter, brother or father. Those families are commerating the day in their own way. The rest of the population here in the valley can commemorate the fallen every day, not just on Memorial Day.

All we have to do is look up. From almost anywhere in the valley one can get a glimpse of the mountain that needed a new name, Piestawa Peak. We have a very visible monument to the men and women from Arizona who lost their lives in Iraq and Afganistan.

Just as the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery represents our nation’s war dead, Piesatwa Peak serves as a stark reminder of all the dead and wounded from Arizona.

If you are like me, when you see the mountain, you don’t just think of Lori Piestawa, the Native American woman who was killed in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Instead you’re reminded of all the war heros.

The mountain may have Lori’s name on it, but as her mother said at a ceremony to honor the fallen soldier, “The monument represents all the sons, daughters, fathers, husbands and brothers lost in the war from an Arizona family.”

Many towns across the United States have statues of a lone soldier in their town square as daily reminder of the tragedy of war. There is a memorial that was part of my life everyday as I was growing up here in Phoenix. My friends and I used to gaze at the handsome features on the statue of Lt. Frank Luke Jr. as we waited for our bus in front of the State Capitol.  The Army Air Service flier was just 20 when he gave his life in battle in World War I. He was the first Arizona man awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously.

At the time, that prominent statue represented to valley residents all the men in Arizona who died in WWI , not just Frank Luke Jr.; just as Piestawa Peak represents all our fallen soldiers in the Middle East.

Gaze at Piestawa Peak in the pink and silver light of dawn or as the flow of sunset lights the mountain and be reminded of the lives that are still lost, and the casualty list that keeps growing.

People are changed by grief forever and it is those people who change the direction of the world.  Hopefully, some day everyone will forget their differences  and recognize their common humanity.

When Phoenix Boys Delivered the Newspapers

By

Gerry Niskern

The Phoenix Newspaper is celebrating 125 years this weekend. Here is a short bio of one of the former paper carriers, Ken Niskern

There is a landmark at 112 N. Central in downtown Phoenix known as the Heard Building. It used to be the location of the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette. The “Fresh Choice” café was located on part of the bottom floor of the Heard later.

Ken, my resident historian, remembers going down to the Heard building on Sunday mornings in the early 1940’s. Along with a couple buddies, he picked up Sunday papers to take out on complaints.   He pedaled his Blue Schwinn down the alley on the north side of the building. The printing presses were located in the basement.  “The lady in charge of skipped deliveries always gave each of us about ten extras papers. We rode over to Five Points intersection and sold them for 25 cents each. It added up,” he recalls.

The West Side of town had four stations; WA, WB, WC.  WD was located down on the curve of Seventeenth Avenue and Buckeye Road. Station WA was located around Eighth Avenue and West Van Buren, beside what was then the Arizona National Guard Headquarters.  He went on to day, “WC, my station was at Twenty-first Avenue and Adams, in front of a Chinese grocery store. If it was raining, whoever got there first dragged the bundles over into the doorway so they wouldn’t get wet. Then we each took turns folding ours in the shelter.”

“Later on we moved to Twentieth Avenue and West Van Buren. I don’t know why we were moved, but I can imagine that a group of kids that age weren’t too quiet. In fact, I recall one mischievous fellow, Cliff Cote, 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 you clicked it into position. 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.

Our new location was another Chinese store but it had a big canopy out front. Of course, on rainy days there were no plastic sleeves to keep them dry, so we put our jackets over our canvas paper bags. We just figured we could pedal fast enough to go between the raindrops.

I carried around 250 Republic papers in the morning and over 200 Gazettes in the afternoon. My route was Monroe and Adams out to 23^rd Avenue. About 90% of my customers paid by the year. The price was $7.95 for the Republic, including Sunday. The Gazette was 6.95 and both could be ordered for the bargain price of 13.95 per year. I’d say around that 80% of my people took both papers. 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. The yearly subscription renewal time was in December. It was a good time for tips! 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.”

Most of those fine old homes around the State Capitol had big porches and the customers insisted their papers be on the porch. “We used to have contests to see who could ‘porch’ a paper the farthest from the sidewalk while pedaling past at full speed.  I could “porch it’ from the sidewalk, a good 30 to 40 feet. Of course, I didn’t realize it probably sounded like a thunder clap in the early morning hours when it hit,” he mused. “And then there was the “Haunted House” on Monroe that we all kind of dreaded riding past. But my biggest worry was a big white bulldog that used to come bouncing out of the dark on 23^rd Avenue at the edge of town.

I was the station manager, no monetary reward, just the prestige of getting to boss the other guys around. Les DeFord was the station manager before that; I understand Les stayed with the paper and retired from the Advertising Dept. Carriers came and went, but I remember working on my station with Doyle Baine, Dick Woods, Chuck Peabody and Jay Brashear.  Jay later became the editor of the editorial page of the Phoenix Gazette.

We had lots of district managers over the years. Some of the names that come to mind are Woods, Westmore and Bagwell. They would reward us once in a while with breakfast or pile us all into their car for a short trip somewhere. We didn’t go far due to gas rationing. One particular district manager that I recall vividly was a fellow by the name of Askew. One morning a car followed him to our station. A man jumped out and stuck a gun in his face and said he was going to teach him a lesson about his driving. The fellow made Mr. Askew drive him around a few blocks. The funny thing is, we all just kept folding our papers and pretty soon, they came back! I guess maybe we figured he needed a driving lesson.”

The boys took their job seriously. “There was a great rivalry among the guys about who could go the longest without getting any “kicks” (complaints.)

I, for one, knew my resident historian was serious about his job back in those days many years ago.  We were in the eighth grade when I took my first ride on the cross bar of that Schwinn.  We started to fall and just as I thought I was going to hit the ground, the bike swooped upright again. I commented on how strong he was and he replied, “Heck, you’re about as heavy as the Sunday papers.”

“Let’s go to some graduations!”

By

Gerry Niskern

It’s graduation time here in the valley and the parents of high school seniors can finally relax.

Actually, parents today can’t relax anymore then the moms and dads did back in l950 on graduation night.   There were four major high schools in Phoenix graduating students; the largest was Phoenix Union, then North High, St. Mary’s and Carver High. West High had just started and not completed a four year class yet.

The graduation celebrations for Phoenix Union High School started with Senior Ditch Day the week before the graduation ceremony. Ditch Day was held at Tempe Beach. There were several swimming pools at the Tempe facility located on the South side of Mill Avenue just over the bridge. Of course, some groups of kids always took off for Canyon Lake, six to a car, instead of going to the official Ditch Day where there was no alcohol allowed. A few juniors went along to the lake too.

On the big night the class of ’50 formed a line in early evening  in front of Montgomery Stadium for the ceremony. The young men were all wearing suits and ties. The girls wore long formal white or pastel gowns. No tradition caps and gowns for this crowd.

The rehearsal was held the night before and guess what?  My boyfriend, the class Salutatorian and I totally forgot to attend. I was busy typing his speech for him.

Discipline was strict in those days. I was punished by having to walk at the end of the line of 700 graduates. Since your place in line was determined by your class scholastic rating, instead of 150, I was # 700! Parents didn’t argue with the school back then!

We had a graduation dance in the Girl’s Gym. There were lots private parties and of course, after the dance some cruising up and down Central Avenue with trips to The Village Inn, Polar Bar or other restaurants.

Following are some quotes from graduates of other Phoenix high schools: St. Mary’s, the Catholic high school here in Phoenix had separate facilities for the boys and girls. A former student described the girls school as “ an ancient old two story structure across East Monroe Street from St. Mary’s Church.” For graduation the girls, all prim and proper, wore white caps and gowns and the boys wore black. The Knights marched across the stage at the Encanto Park Band Shell where they received their diplomas. (Yes, Encanto had a beautiful band shell back then. Pretty much where the amusement rides and parking lot exists today!).

The class of ’50 had already attended a mass and then a breakfast together. The graduates I spoke to don’t remember a having either a ditch day nor a dance for the graduates.

North Phoenix High School, on East Thomas Road, had their very first graduation without caps and gowns in l950. The graduates were allowed to wear suits and the girls could be creative with pastel colored gowns. Either long formals or the latest style of mid-calf, “waltz length” were allowed.

The Mustangs held their ceremony in their stadium, with a Baccalaureate service there the night before. The ceremony was followed by an “all-night” party at Bud Brown’s Barn, with dancing and breakfast served the next day at the Barn. Lots of the sororities and fraternities had their own private celebrations. The girls belonged to the X Club, Phi Sigma, and Kappa Delta Kappa among others; Esquire and Cavalier were two among the boy’s fraternities.

Carver High School graduated around 25 students each year. The official name of the school was George Washington Carver High School. When the school for African American students was built in l926, it was called Phoenix Colored High School. Later, largely due to the efforts of  Carver teacher Elgie Batteau, the name was changed to Carver.

A former graduate recalled the boys wearing brown wool worsted suits for graduation. They were all purchased at Hanny’s, a well-known men’s department store in downtown Phoenix. They were all given a good price for the entire class.

The young ladies wore long formal gowns. The school gym was decorated in blue and white, the school colors, for the graduation dance.

The senior Monarchs had their ditch day at Encanto Park, but as with all the schools, some juniors decided to have their own celebration. They opted to take their own picnic and gather at Hole-in-the-Rock in Papago Park. According to one former student, “There were no cars available, so we rode the bus to the park!”

A common place of students went for fun was “the flume” over by Tempe, near the T. B. Sanitarium. You could ride on the swift water coming out of a big SRP pipe down over the road. It actually was quite dangerous because there was a gate under the stream where you could get sucked under.

The most popular teen age gathering spot remembered by everyone was “The Ship”. It was up on the West Side of 32^nd street on a little hill, between Camelback and Lincoln Drive. The unique rock foundation was what was left of a restaurant that had burned.  Kids from rival schools headed there on weekend nights; throw in a little drinking and a few fistfights usually occurred.

One former  St. Mary’s graduate laughed about going to “The Ship” with a crowd one evening. When she went over later to the car and opened the door to the back seat, she interrupted a couple engaged in some heavy petting.  The startled guy said, “Oh, hi there.” Then turning to the girl in the backseat with him, he said  “Let me introduce….uh, what’s your name?”

One “50’s” Coyote told me he cringed when his own high school Senior asked for the keys to the car one night not so long ago. When asked where he was going, he said, “To the Ship” with some kids”.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

My Mother Sang to Me

by

Gerry Niskern

Today’s young mothers sing to their baby while it is still in the womb as a way of bonding.  Looking  back, I have a feeling my mother was way ahead of her time. My earliest memories are of her singing to me.   Her voice wasn’t anything special, even a little creaky at times, yet when I heard her warbling I knew that all was well.

Mom sang while she was hoeing in the garden as I trudged behind her down the rows of beanstalks.  The old songs like “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer True” and the lyrics that always made me giggle,  “Ka, ka, ka Katie, beautiful Katie, I’ll be waiting at the ka, ka, ka, kitchen door” were in her hit parade of tunes.

She sang while she peddled her treadle sewing machine mending our dresses. She might break out into “When you wore a tulip and I wore a big red rose” when she was churning; patiently letting me take a turn when I was a toddler and could barely reach the plunger.

While making cottage cheese or kneading bread mom gave us her rendition of  “I’m Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.”  I sensed it had something to do with the fact that she would rather have been outside working.

Sitting and rocking to and fro on the porch swing in the evening after a hard day’s work, my mother turned to hymns. “Come to the church in the Wildwood, come to the church in the vale,” had the right rhythm for the creaking swing. I always thought if I concentrated hard enough I would see that “little brown church in the dale.”

My parents started out across the United States seeking the dry climate of Arizona, in the wartime summer of 1942.  Sometimes on the long August journey before air conditioning was available in cars, tempers flared and a foot fight broke out between us kids in the back seat.   Dad’s hand left the steering wheel and swatted randomly over the backseat, trying to connect with the culprit. That’s when mom would say, “Let’s all sing.”

“No, you sing mom, sing Redwing”…we begged. As the words “There once was an Indian maid, a shy little village maid”…came floating from the front seat, our young girls hearts melted while hearing the love story once more and peace prevailed.

Before long, Dad was picking up soldiers hitching a ride home on leave. Many a songfest was enhanced by a deep male voice joining the girl sopranos from the back seat. The young men provided great “raspberry” sound effects when we belted out “Dur Fuhrer’s Face”

The war dragged on, and later my sister had a sweetheart in the service. Mom joined her in “Always…I’ll be loving you always” or “Till the End of Time” at dishwashing time.

My mother taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.  But I also grew up with the assurance that you could get through almost anything with a good song.

I’m reminded of an old poem. Its last line goes something like this; perhaps you know it?  “ I’m richer than the child who was left a fortune of silver and gold, because…my mother sang to me!”