“Songs 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 with the infant. I  have a feeling my mother was way ahead of her time. My mother sang to me, when I toddled after her down the rows of bean stalks as she picked a “mess” for dinner.

She sang while she peddled her treadle sewing machine mending our dresses. The songs I remember best were the ones she sang in the car. When my dad’s flailing hand was trying to connect in the back seat with an unruly child, Mom would quivkly say, “Let’s all sing.”

When we tired of harmonizing, we begged her to sing our favorite,. “Sing Redwing” I would plead. She always started… “There once was an Indian maid, a shy little village….as the song of unrequited love spilled from my mother’s lips, we were spellbound.

My grandson’s wife always sang lullabies to her first baby, a baby boy. He listens spellbound, brown eyes solemn and wide.

He had books that played tunes when you open them or touch a spot on the page.

His pushcart played melodies as he trudged behind it. The videos he watched were full of music. Nothing comforted him, hushed him or soothed like his mother’s voice when she started singing softly to him.

Mothers are remembered for many things; their cooking, wiping away tears and cuddling. But the one thing my great-grandson and I both can say is  “My mother sang to me”.

“Mother’s Day” Series # 1

By

Gerry Niskern

Moms and food go together. With my mother, it was food and family stories, always with a moral.

One of my first memories is of my mother standing in our kitchen making cottage cheese. I can’t tell you how she did it, but I know there was a cloth bag involved. Anyway, it was the best cottage cheese you’ve ever tasted.

That brings us to buttermilk; cold, tangy, buttermilk. I was allowed to help pump the churn plunger up and down. (A process that would have gone more smoothly without my help, I’m sure.)  After that she used wooden paddles to collect and shape the mounds of butter from the bottom.

All these dairy products were the result of mom insisting that we have Daisy, a young cow.   Mom suspected that she was part deer because she kept leaping the barbed wire fences to chase the bulls.  Mom hiked across the steep hillsides to bring her back and soothed her scratched udder with balm but the milking process was hectic.

Dad worked in town, but mom loved living in the country. She planted large gardens, plowed and hoed them herself and canned vegetables and fruit every summer. She made deep fried fritters with chunks of peaches, apricots and plums.

I’m always amused about the ongoing debate of today’s young mothers. Should they work or be a stay-at home mother? With mom, there was no question. She was a working mom; in the barn, kitchen and the garden.

But along with the chores was a running monologue of her opinions on democracy, morals and life in general.

In the l930’s, during the dark days of the depression, one or two men came to our back door every day. They would ask if they could get a drink from our pump in the yard. Then they would as if they could do some work for a bite to eat. Mom never let anyone go away hungry. Occasionally, I was trusted to carry a battered tin pie pan heaped with steaming eggs and generous slices of homemade bread and butter out to the destitute man waiting on the porch. Mom always followed with a fresh pot of coffee.

When my adult kids are reminiscing about grandma’s cooking, each remembers a favorite dish. Was the Sunday roast beef, with mashed potatoes and gravy, the “to die for” meatloat, or the fresh green beans, seasoned with bacon that was the best.

I’m here to tell them that the chicken and homemade noodles win, hands down. The egg noodles were rolled out on Saturday, cut into thin strips and laid on wax paper to dry overnight and dropped into the golden broth on Sunday before she finished frying the chicken.

On second thought, I forgot to mention Halupkis. Every European country seemed to have their version of cabbage rolls. Mom’s recipe came down from her mother. Each roll, (leaf of cooked cabbage), contained a delicious mixture of ground beef, pork and rice. They were cooked in a large pot in brown gravy with bits of tomato floating.

I should mention the creamy dill flavored potato soup. Of course, my husband votes for her pies.  She baked two every Saturday up until the day she left us.

In her kitchen, while cooking, Mom taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.

I wonder if many of today’s young mothers who occasionally announce that they are “cooking tonight” will be remembered so well?

“Let’s all go to the Prom”

By

Gerry Niskern

Among the paintings by Norman Rockwell is one titled “ After the Prom”. In the image a teenage couple is seated at the soda fountain of a drugstore. The girl is dressed in a waltz length pink gown with cap sleeves.  Her date is holding her purse and pink sweater while she adjusts her corsage. The soda jerk waits to take their order. A trip to the corner drugstore for a soda after the prom…imagine that!

I know some girls in Paradise Valley who are getting ready for their prom. The girls have been shopping for the right gown for weeks.  Strapless is a must. They plan to spend around $400 for their dresses, but with shoes, purse, makeup and hair the evening will run closer to $600. Their dates will be in a rented tux, of course. But that’s just the beginning. He’ll be footing the bill for the dance, dinner at an upscale restaurant first and hopefully sharing a limousine with a group. Typically, they will go on to another party after the prom.

On the other hand, our Junior-Senior prom at Phoenix Union High School was held in the gymnasium. My date picked me up in his low riding black Chevy coupe. The cool look was achieved by loading the trunk with sand bags.  A trip to Coney Island down on Central Ave for a chilidog or a ride out to the Ice Cream Polar Bar on North Central for a Zombie were a couple of the after dance options.

A friend of mine from Minnesota reminisced,  “My prom in the 40’s was held in May when the weather was good. My date picked me up in an Essex for the $6 dinner dance. My gardenia corsage was $3.  All the juniors and seniors went whether they had a date or not. The gowns were long and the boy’s suits were dark.”

We both share the experience of raising children of the 60’s who spurned the idea of anything traditional. They wore their hair long and their army fatigues baggy. Needless to say, since they worked hard at being anti-establishment, going to a prom was out of the question. By the time our free spirits had offspring of their own, the prom was popular again but prices had changed. Dress prices had quadrupled and tuxedos and limousines were a must.

Actually proms started changing in the late fifty’s. Another friend who went to Glendale Union High School remembers paying around $45 for her gown and of course, shoes dyed to match.  “My boyfriend showed up in a white tuxedo he had rented for $20. He brought white orchids.  The prom was a dinner dance at the Bali Hi Hotel in Phoenix.  After the dance everyone raced home and changed clothes. Then we drove to up to Yarnell, and had a sunrise breakfast at the old “Ranch House Café. Don’t ask me why!” she laughed.

. If you didn’t have a date,back then, you didn’t go.

It seems we’ve come full circle; because now groups go to the prom without  dates. Sounds good to me!

My great-grandaughter is going to the prom this year. She will be the first girl in our family to go to the Prom in a long time.  She had the trendy typical formal invitation complete with balloons and flowers. I don’t know where it will be, but I know she will have a wonderful time and some great memories.

My date for that prom in April, 1950 always said  the most expensive part of prom night was the price of the ticket he received for having straight pipes on his Chevy coupe that could be heard several blocks away. He thought that maybe the limousines aren’t such a bad idea.

  An Arizona family Easter

By

Gerry Niskern

When our kids and their cousins were growing up here in the valley, they thought the Easter Bunny hid his eggs out on the desert. Grandpa usually scouted out a pristine site shaded by Palo Verde and Mesquite trees the week before.  The dozens of eggs that Grandma dyed were hidden before our extended family and grandkids arrived. The eggs snuggled among the gold desert poppies and blue lupine.

The tradition of dyeing eggs in bright colors and giving them to family and friends goes back centuries. The Egyptians and Persians practiced this tradition long before Christ was born In the Middle Ages it was forbidden to eat eggs during the 40 days of Lent. However, the hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter egg tradition was born.

Different cultures have developed their own unique ways of decorating their Easter eggs. Our family always typically started out with wax crayons, delicate designs to follow and great expectations. After a few eggs are colored and the first container of colored dye hit the kitchen floor; the job became a little rushed and it was all downhill from there.

Actually, it didn’t matter, because the eggs my kids valued most were the ones they found on the desert that the giant Arizona Jackrabbit left among the desert flowers. .

For years we gathered North of Thunderbird Road in the area where the Moon Valley Country Club now stands. After the egg hunt, the older kids rode ride a small go-cart and the dads fired off toy rockets for the kids to chase and try to be first to find them.

When that area started to fill in with houses, we met for our picnic on the beautiful desert land just East of Scottsdale Road and Bell, that is of course where the North valley residents shop at The Great Indoors and surrounding stores.

Finally, we moved our picnic place among the smooth, round rocks of the Carefree area, right where the Boulders Resort sprawls over the desert.  Their Easter baskets full of chocolate ducks and jelly beans were forgotten as they scrambled over the round rocks hunting for the mysterious eggs hidden among the boulders.

If it was windy, they flew kits. Led by Grandma, arroyos were explored and unique rocks scrutinized for signs of gold. A feast of ham, potato salad and Grandma’s cream pies topped off the day.

So tell the kids to put on their running shoes and practice their wind sprints. The furry rabbit with the huge ears is coming. Remind the Grandpas it’s not fair to walk ahead of the pack showing the baby where the Easter eggs are hidden.

Just a word of caution, leave real early. You’ll have to drive outside of Phoenix a long, long way to find a pristine desert site for your Easter picnic.