“P. U. H. S. Reunion Picnic”

By

Gerry Niskern

“On Coyotes, on Coyotes,

Fight right through that line,

Run the ball right down the field,

A touch down sure this time!”

Yesterday a large group of coyotes gathered at Sahuaro Park in Glendale as the alumni of P.U.H.S do every year. There were tables laden with fantastic salads, scrumptious pies and cakes. Those girls had become pretty good cooks!

The reunion of former Coyotes from Phoenix Union High School and Phoenix Tech was to celebrate the great school they had all attended.

The school was established in 1895 and the last graduation was in l982. Former students from as early as the class of 1931 were enjoying a day of food, fun and reminiscing.

If you haven’t attended your 30^th, 40^th, or 50^th reunion yet, do go. They are the best. The barriers are down; broken by years of living. Who cares in which side of the valley you used to live? Does anyone really remember whether you drove a “hot” car, rode the bus or a bike to school? It was great to see the two guys who had competed fiercely for top grades laughing and reminiscing together.

I suspect more than a few of the women attending were remembering the guys, not as they appeared Sunday, but in “tight jeans and black leather jackets!” The men, of course, were looking for that pretty girl that captured their heart years ago.

Passing by various tables bit of personal history could be heard. We had all had marriages, divorces, more marriages, children, weddings, funerals and grandchildren. Most of the men had chosen professions and then changed careers and changed again. Many of the women who started out as “stay at home moms” discovered later it was great to pursue a profession.

A few of our classmates served in the Korean War; some didn’t return. Some had sons who served in Vietnam and others had grandsons and daughters now serving in the middle East.

We were in on the beginning of the war on drugs. We were the first with the pill, marijuana, and the sexual revolution.

We saw the super stores replace the corner grocery and drugstore, and men and women’s dress shops disappear.

Skirt lengths have gone up and down numerous times and guy’s tight Levis are now relaxed it.  The jean jackets worn by our grandchildren now are not $3.00 anymore.

We saw the Berlin Wall fall and the first man walk on the moon while we tried to see the world too.

We went from our first cars to family station wagons, vans and then SUVs. We’ve accepted credit cards, ATM’s, cell phones and computers as a way of life. We’re

working out, watching our cholesterol and have given up cigarettes.

Life has a way of leveling the playing field, and as the former coyotes made the rounds Saturday, probably more than a few saw that the campus queens and the football heroes are candidates for Extreme Makeover, and the class “Nerd” has become quite successful.

My Irish Iris!

By

Gerry Niskern

A friend of mine asked if I had a good St. Patrick Day’s story for my blog this week. And I had to admit that in all my years of writing columns I had never written a St. Patrick’s Day piece.

It’s easily explained. When I was growing up in West Virginia, out in the country among a lot of farm kids, there was never much said about the Irish Holiday. The farm kids wore whatever was handed down from sister to sister and brother to brother. Nobody had the time or the money to worry about wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day.

But when we moved to Phoenix in l942, I learned about St. Paddy’s Day. I was in fifth grade that year, when girls started paying attention to what others were wearing, especially on St. Patrick’s Day. I came home from school smarting from a few pinches, but also upset about not wearing green that day and not being “Irish”.

My dad laughed when he heard me complain, “I wish I was Irish too.” Hey, he said,  “Don’t you know you are half Irish too.  Craig is an Irish name. As a matter of fact, the president of Ireland right now is named Craig.”

My mother’s family was from Austria, and we had spent much more time with them at family gatherings. My cousins that I played with on those days were from various parents of Italian, Russian,  Polish, American and Austrians, all married into the family. So how was this confused ten year old  supposed  to know she was half Irish?

I have a granddaughter who’s mother is from a strong Irish family and she has no doubt about who she is. But I like to remind her, only half! Remember the our Austrian side too!

Now, I can proudly say, I have a great-great-granddaughter. I’m her only great-great and she’s my first. Her name is Iris, and although she can’t be an “Irish Rose” as the old song goes, she is my “Irish Iris”, on this St. Patrick’s day.

But only half!

“Easter”

By Gerry Niskern

How is your family spending Easter this year? Will you be taking a spring break trip? Will you  have a big family reunion? Or is your family shopping for Easter outfits for Easter church service?

When I think of Easter Sunday different images come to mind. I remember a  particular Sunday at the little country church back east that our family attended when I was a child.

Easter was early that year. Gusts of spring wind pushed the worshippers up the steep hill as we clutched armloads of flowers from our yards and nearby woods. Soon the sanctuary was filled with green and blue canning jars containing iris, tulips, lilacs and daises from the fields.

There were farmers in carefully brushed dark suits. Their wives wore cotton print dresses and sturdy shoes. Little girls in new Easter dresses sewn from the latest calico feed sacks came next. Big boys in clean overalls, wet hair slicked back from sun burned faces shuffled in last.

As I took my place on the front pew with the other children, I prayed that no one would notice the hat. It was my new pink straw sailor hat. Along with a turned up brim it had a large pink wooden bead on the top that secured the ribbon that tied under my chin. No such luck! The finger pointing and grins on the other kids faces told me the hat had been noticed.  It would be putting it mildly to say I hated that hat, but my Mother operated on the premise that “if she didn’t have new Easter outfits when she was a child, by golly, her girls were going to.

When the church service was over and the Doxology had been sung, the adults gathered in small groups outside to discuss the prospects of a good spring rain. We kids usually played hide and seek among the tombstones in the side yard. When a friend, one of the little farm girls, asked to try my hat on, I willing obliged. Just as she reached out to take it, a strong gust of wind whipped it from my hand. The pink straw went spiraling down the hill. We raced to the wall in time to see it skip under the wheels of a dairy truck passing on RR #2.

When I went to bed that night and knelt to say my prayers, I added something extra. “Thank you, for our good Easter day, and especially for the fine wind!”

Easter Traditions

By

Gerry Niskern

. Expensive spring vacations and pricey brunches are not in the plans for many Arizona families.

Easter egg hunts have been scaled down and new family traditions are in the making. In fact, many of  the new celebrations might resemble the desert picnics our family had when our children and their cousins were growing up here in the valley. The kids thought the Easter bunny hid his eggs out on the desert. That’s because Grandpa had scouted out a pristine site shaded by Palo Verde and Mesquite trees the week before. Then on Easter day he and Grandma hid dozens of dyed eggs among the desert poppies and blue lupine.

Did you know that 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, no one told the chickens. The hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter Egg tradition was born.

Each baby’s first creative experience was usually at Easter when our family dyed their eggs. The kids typically started out with wax cryons, delicate designs to follow and great expectations. After a few eggs were colored and the first container of red dye hit the kitchen floor, the job became a little rushed and it was all downhill from there.

It didn’t really 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 rocks and flowers.

For years our extended family gathered on the desert North of Thunderbird Road in the area where the Moon Valley Country club now stands. When that area filled with houses, we met for our picnic on the land just East of Scottsdale Road and Bell, where the Great Indoors was built.

Finally, we moved our Easter picnic among the smooth, round rocks of the Carefree area. The kid’s baskets full of candy were forgotten as they scrambled over the round rocks hunting for the mysterious eggs hidden among the boulders. And, of course, the Boulders Resort commands that old picnic site now.

So remember. The huge rabbit with the really big ears is coming again. And remind Grandma that it’s not fair to walk ahead of everyone showing the baby where the eggs are hidden.

A word of caution: Leave real early. You’ll have to drive out a long, long way past the houses to find a pristine desert site for your Easter picnic.