“Choices”

By

Gerry Niskern

A few years ago I attended a memorial service in a train station for a member of our family.   Days later I watched mourners spread ashes on a mountaintop of another state.  Guitars played the deceased woman’s favorite songs. Last week, more laughter than tears flowed in church during a slide show.  A man’s widow honored him by showing images of their family outings.

When we lose someone close and know life will never be the same, we are immediately faced with decisions about a memorial service.

There’s no question that there are more choices of locations and rituals today than ever before.  Of course, the many ethnic groups in our country have strict traditional practices and the various branches of our armed forces perform customary procedures to honor the war dead; but Middle America is changing rapidly.

Advertising is bringing the subject of death out of taboo and into the mainstream. Cremation is becoming common place. It’s advertised on the obituary page. Today you can pull up a web site selling caskets at bargain prices.

Today the traditional funeral bill runs around seven thousand dollars. No doubt, a real hardship for some families. If a family doesn’t choose to follow the old rituals, it’s not mandatory. It’s been said the traditional funeral needlessly prolongs the grieving, but others disagree, insisting that the familiar rituals give comfort and closure.

Over time, it seems we’ve gone from home to commercial mortuary and back again to familiar settings. When I was a child, in our little town, the deceased was usually kept at home in the living room. If the family decided to use the parlor of the local funeral home, some of my Aunts could always be heard whispering,” She doesn’t think enough of him to have the ‘laying-out” at home; afraid all the people tracking in will get the house dirty.”

There are other changes taking place. At memorials today you will see childhood, graduation and wedding pictures.   Reminders of the loved one’s profession and hobbies are on display and they help paint a warm personal picture.

It has also become routine for the person leading the service to ask if anyone would like to say a few words about the deceased.  Sometimes many stand up and speak. At other times, the friends and family remain silent. You can feel the tension because you know there are a million fond memories the survivors would like to share, but something holds them back. It’s very hard and because they are afraid they might break down, they remain silent.  Mourners often choose silence because they are seeking an understanding of their loss.  They’re thinking,  “How can anyone sum up this person in a few sentences? Impossible!”

The silence doesn’t last long. Back home, while they share a meal together, they share stories. Their words tumble over each others, recalling the old family tales. Favorite escapades of the deceased bring laughter as well as tears.

The memorial in the old train station- turned- restaurant I mentioned earlier was a tribute to my brother-in-law who was a train buff. He built narrow gauge train models as a child. Most of his adult career was spent designing toy trains for the Cox Toy Company.  His wife spoke to us as the trains passed silently behind her. She told us that her husband had two great loves in his life, her and trains. She confided, “I’m just not sure who came first.”

As it becomes common for families to take charge and participate in the memorial for their loved ones, it will become easier. It’s heart warming to see children participating more and more because then we know that generations to come will carry on the new tradition, the tradition of choices.

“Memorials are part of everyday life”

By

Gerry Niskern

Memorial Day has many meanings for each of us. Kids think of a fun-filled break from school and adults look forward to a long weekend; perhaps they plan a barbecue or out of town trip.   They might see a few spots on TV reminding the public of special ceremonies planned around the valley to honor the American soldiers killed in war.  Unless their family has been directly affected by war, the significance is lost.

How many children are given any quiet time with their parents to discuss the meaning of and ask questions about Memorial Day? Have you considered taking your family to a service at one of the many memorials held to honor the fallen soldiers from our past wars on the state capitol grounds?

Of course, adults realize it is not just the war heroes that are honored on Memorial Day. When I was growing up, it was called Decoration Day and it honored all that had passed away. There are also ceremonies by family members spending time and placing flowers on graves of mom, dads and siblings who are no longer with them.  If the children are included it is a wonderful opportunity to relate some stories about the kind of life the departed once lived.  In other words, it’s a day to remember.

Be prepared, you will probably get a flood of questions. Most kids are waiting for someone to start the dialogue. When you spend time remembering the ones who have passed this way ahead of us, important lessons between right and wrong will emerge. The children will begin to realize who is respected in the family and why. They will understand the consequence of choices made in the past.

It occurs to me that there are other ways we honor departed members of our family. Some lucky offspring have inherited useful, everyday objects from their parents and continue to use them in the daily routine of their everyday lives.  Family stories usually go along with them. Children learn to cherish the intrinsic value of family tools.

I used to visit an elderly friend who still utilized a kitchen table her father built. It was an honor to share lunch there on that labor of love. Many great stories went along with those lunches.

One of the most important possessions of every homemaker used to be the button box.  All buttons were saved and used to match up with others on newly sewn garments. On rainy days when boredom set in, it was a special privilege to be allowed to play with the button box. Family stories went along with each button.

Quilting has become a big craze in the last few years, but lucky is the family who has a totally handmade quilt passed down through generations. “That blue was scraps from Mary’s graduation dress” or “There is Johnny’s red shirt from his first day at school”. History continued from one generation to the next in simple patterns that formed a loving continuity.

If someone offers you a family possession that doesn’t fit in with your décor, take it, cherish it and put it away for now.  You’ll find a place for it eventually, or someday one of your children will treasure and love it After all, the word that unites all families is, “Remember!”

“Ask Mom”

By

Gerry Niskern

While sitting at a sidewalk cafe recently, I overheard two Middle Eastern boys explaining to another boy how to pronounce their Arabic word for bread.   One said, “Wait, I’ll ask my mother” but the other laughed, “No, I’ll ask my mom”.   How easy, just ask mom.

Moms know about everything. At least we thought she did when we were little.

Of course, when we became teenagers, mom didn’t have a clue; it was a wonder the woman didn’t need a keeper.

However, when 2,000 miles away at college it’s seems perfectly logical to kids to call mom and ask, “What do I use on my whites at the Laundromat?”

As we married and started families it was mom who we called to ask about a recipe or a petulant child. Or to try to help us understand men! Or women!

I asked several people whose mothers are gone this question: “Is there something you wish you had asked your mother when you could?”

Several said they would ask,  “What was your childhood like? Where did you and dad meet? What attracted you to him?

Another wants to know her grandmother’s stories about growing up in Germany; what her feelings were when she left? Who did she work for when she got here?

One friend who’s parents marriage was “arranged” in Iran would ask her mother what her true feelings were at her wedding.

A friend from the Philippines told me she grieved that there were no baby pictures taken of her and she wants to know why.

Several wondered what kind of day it was when they were born?

One would ask, “What happened to my baby brother; what did he die from?”

I would ask my own grandmother about the sadness of leaving her infant in Europe when she immigrated to America.

My mother, an avid storyteller, loved our family and tradition. I would ask her thoughts the situation of our family today.

The mothers we see on greeting cards with the saintly smiles are perfect, but are they really mom? It’s through mom’s sheltering arms and the comfort of home that we learn to trust others and life itself. Mother is the twine that holds the family together.  And yet, she is a mysterious set of contradictions. It’s hard to sort out your feelings for her: frustration, anger, companionship, apprehension, love.

Speaking of questions, I ran across a suggested list of soul-searching questions for everyone to ask himself on Mother’s day.  I hope I fulfilled some of them when I had the chance. It read: When was the last time you visited your mom? What are the things that make your mom happy or sad? How many minutes do you spend in quality talk with your mom in a week? When was the last time you cooked for your mom? How much do you know about your mom’s mother? How well do you actually know your mother?

We can honor and show respect by trying to learn about the real person who we call mom. Have you asked your mother what she really wanted to do with her life, besides being your mom? What was her dream while growing up?  Did she achieve her life goals?  In other words, who was she, really?

I think one friend answered my question best. She said, “Well, the question wouldn’t really matter. Calling her would give me what I wanted: to hear the love in her voice, because more than anything, I miss her love.

So on this Mother’s Day, go ahead, ask mom now!

Mother’s day. Those were the days!

By

Gerry Niskern

I drove by Good Samaritan Hospital the other day and automatically looked up expecting to see the old front steps. Of course, they weren’t there, haven’t been for years. But I’ll bet any woman in the valley who gave birth at Good Sam before the remodeling recalls climbing five thousand steps to admitting.  I remember thinking, “No way, those steps weren’t part of this baby deal.”

Of course, you could only hike a few at a time between contractions. And why was it always at 3 A. M.?

Back then, with baby # 1, when I announced that my labor was starting and we really should get to the hospital, my young husband, who had seen too many Hollywood versions of impending childbirth said, “But, honey, you don’t look like you’re in pain.” Why did he think I was standing in a puddle?

I was in no mood to argue. I’d been living on two quarts of milk a day for the past month, on doctor’s orders.   Forget the baby, I was finally going to get food!

Actually, my reservations were for the old St Joseph’s, on Fifth Street, but when we arrived the maternity ward was full. They casually suggested we try Good Sam or  Memorial.

Now I realize why experts started having the daddy coach Mom-to-be on her correct breathing and also timing the contractions. It gives him something to do.

My hubby didn’t mind the extra drive time. He spent it badgering me into using the name he liked if this first child was a girl. I finally pleaded, “Honey, couldn’t we just wait and meet it first? I’m a little busy right now, HAVING A BABY!

Back then, the medical profession hadn’t decided that males could stand the rigors of the delivery room, but were letting fathers-to-be into the labor rooms. Every bed was taken, so I was shown to a cot in the Doctor’s lounge and Daddy didn’t get to stay after all.

In the delivery room the doctor asked me if I wanted a boy or a girl? I answered, “Yes.” Soon a baby girl was lying on top my chest, all sticky and mucky, warm and wet, looking just like her dad.

Two years later, we climbed those 5,000 steps at 3 A. M. again for baby # 2 (Doctors recommended babies be two years apart back then. Of course, most doctors were men.)

Daddy was allowed into the labor room this time, but the maternity floor was expanding. The jackhammers on the other side of the wall were so loud we couldn’t hear what each  other was saying. Daddy had chosen this baby boy’s name long ago and, of course, he looked like him too.

I was getting a little put out; who was doing all the work here?

All our friends told us baby # 3 would be “duck soup.” They assured us everything would be quick and easy, so later when Daddy was ushered into the labor room he asked, “Did you have it already?”  HELLO.

Fourteen hours later I was still stuck in idle.

The “duck soup” baby was a forceps delivery. I never trusted friends again.

He looked just like the little boy I played with on the teeter-totter in first grade. I named the rosy cheeked, blue eyed boy, with a tuft of blond hair on top, the next day before his dad could get back to the hospital

Baby # 4 was not negotiable. I wasn’t climbing those steps again!