Family of Man
By
Gerry Niskern

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but we are losing something unique in our country.
I realized this change was happening last week when I was being challenged by the “woke police” during ordinary conversations. Yes. You read that right. Me. In my opinion, the most liberal, democratic person on earth was reprimanded for some innocent remarks.
No offense, all you activists, but since when is it forbidden to acknowledge someone’s ethnicity? We are a nation of immigrants and as Americans we have always celebrated our differences. I came from a family that was a mini United Nations. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Austria. As their family grew, Russians, Italians, Americans, Irish and Jews married into the family. As we celebrated holidays each one brought something of their culture to the gathering. We were a living example of the American Melting Pot.
Ken, on the other hand, came from a dusty little town in West Texas. He had no exposure to other nationalities, but in later years he loved meeting people from other countries, in school, church and later in his career. During our marriage we enjoyed many good times with friends from other countries.
Hey guys, there is a fine line that separates normal conversation and vindictiveness, but it is an strong one , not to be confused. We should be bringing everyone together; stop trying to prove how “correct” you are by correcting others.
Here’s an idea. Let’s all get off the “woke patrol”. We need to agree not to search for a reason to challenge everyone’s utterances for no good reason. It is impossible to imagine what America would be like without all the different races woven into the fabric of American life. Mentioning someone’s ethnic background in conversation is not a “slur”, it’s conversation. Let’s not lose the unique ability in our country to mix and share differences.
Remember, we are all the family of man.

“Do You Vote Like your Daddy?”

By

Gerry Niskern

This column ran in the Arizona Republic a few elections ago, but it bears repeating more than once! Most voters never change, but this year women voters matter!

I remember when I entered politics. I was three and FDR was running for his second term. I gave my first stump speech while standing on one of my Grandma’s kitchen chairs. My mother’s younger brothers, all strong UMWA members had coached me well. When my dad, a staunch Republican, came to pick me up after a day at Grandmas I greeted him with a rousing, “Vote for Roosevelt!”. It was all in good fun, but my dad was a guy that believed his politics were his private affair. My mother, of course, was a registered Republican too.
Back then, most women were expected to register with the political party of their fathers or husbands, with no discussions about the issues. Of course, there were exceptions. Some were influenced by studies in college. Later on their employment affected their choices and sometimes marriage did too.
Mom used to laugh when she told about the first time she voted in Arizona. Back in 1942 when my family moved here, it was a blue state. Yes. You read that right, blue. The Democrats had dominated from the inception of Arizona’s government. The state had nine Democratic and three Republicans governors from l912 to l950.
Our neighborhood polling place was at the state capitol. The tables were set up in the rotunda. After my mother gave her name to the election official, the fellow waved her ballot high and yelled down the line of tables “Hey guys, here’s a Republican.” That drew a raucous chorus of hoots and hollers.
Red faced, she took the ballot and quickly retreated to the niche to vote. What the room full of Democratic workers didn’t know was that she probably voted right along their party line. You see, she might have been married to a Republican, but that coal miner’s daughter from a strong union family was a Democrat at heart.
Today women have access to 24 hour news programs, the internet; all the sources to help them keep informed on both sides of the issues. They are free to make wise decisions that will impact their own future and the future of their daughters.
Women have taken charge of their lives. How about you?
Do you vote like your Daddy?

Anything Goes!
By
Gerry Niskern
A good question was posed online the other day. What should the cut off age be for kids trick or treating?
Some say it should be twelve or fourteen; and even then the tricksters should be in costume, in the spirit of the holiday. No one appreciates having the door bell ring at ten o’clock to find a group of teens, not even wearing a mask, holding out pillowcases to be filled.
In West Virginia where I grew up Halloween parties for school age kids in private homes were the order of the day. The most important aspect of the party was to be the last one who’s identity was guessed. Everyone went to great lengths to masquerade, arrive separately from the siblings, anything to fool the party-goers.
Back then, the older teenage boys took the “ trick” part seriously on Halloween. I can remember one late evening when our family arrived home to find all our porch furniture up high in our big oak tree. Another year the older farm boys actually dug up the pieces of cement that formed our walkway to the house. After our lights were out for the evening they proceeded to drop the large chunks onto the front porch. It sounded like a bomb and our little frame house shook violently. On other years they would throw handfuls of dry corn at the windows after dark. “That’s nothing” my mom used to say. “When I was a kid the older boys used to roam the town turning over out-houses!”
So actually, if the teens don’t want to go with the little kids and are not invited to the elaborate adult parties, where does that leave them? Back to a crazy tee shirt and a pillowcase. They better go trick or treating earlier because due to the Pandemic and supply chains interruptions, there is a shortage of candy this year. Candy companies are struggling to meet their customers demands.
I couldn’t even find my favorite, candy corn. Everyone was sold out!

THAT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN

The heavy wind storm and tornado that affected part of Arizona last Monday reminded me of a “tornado that wasn’t” several years ago in Phoenix when the insurance companies insisted that they didn’t happen here.

When you read about all those tornados that hit the south and Midwest every year aren’t you glad we don’t have tornados in the Phoenix area? Tell the truth. Do you think, a little smugly, “Well, we might have horrific heat in the summer, but at least we don’t have tornados?

Actually, one day in the late l970’s, my # 2 son, a teenager, and I were standing at the kitchen window looking out in amazement. We thought we were just having a super size dust storm, but something different was happening. The house was shaking. At around five-thirty the sky had turned an eerie green. Large sections of shingles were swooping by, followed by huge wood structures hurtling past. I remember trying to yell above the roar that sounded like a freight train was bearing down us, “I think we should get in an inside doorway. Something weird is happening!” We headed for the inside pantry.

My husband was on his way home when from the West valley when he heard on the car radio that a funnel cloud was moving toward the central Phoenix area. Breaking all speed limits, he reached our neighborhood in time to see the entire roof of my parent’s house under construction, down below our little mountain, lying on the other side of the street.

He raced up our steps and burst in the door. “Hurry, hurry” he yelled. “Upstairs!”
We ran up behind him and suddenly, we were looking at bare sky. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I was numb with shock and told myself, “This is not happening. This must be a dream.” We were standing in our bedroom and rain was stinging our faces!

My husband raced back downstairs to go purchase large plastic tarps to stretch across the rooftop. He carried up his extension ladder and climbed up on what was left of the roof and started nailing the cover down. My son was still numb with disbelief when his dad yelled down to him, “get on up on the ladder and grab the ends and nail them down.” He looked at me and yelled, “But, mom, what if the son-of-a bitch comes back?”

The next morning, when assessing the damage, we saw that the funnel cloud had totally lifted the roof structure from my folks house and all the framing inside was swirled like a giant spoon had stirred it. We learned later that the tornado had destroyed a large building on Seven Ave, South of Camelback, swept north and ripped apart the condos on a little mountain right off Twelfth Street and then slammed into our house on top 14th street. It swooped down and destroyed my parent’s construction site and moved on out to Paradise Valley where it uprooted some trees.

Later on, the insurance companies and the weather bureau debated long and hard if it was actually a tornado. Most insurance companies finally reluctantly paid homeowners for damages, still arguing that “the Phoenix area doesn’t have tornados.”

Home Sweet Home, Not!
By
Gerry Niskern
Do you know a young couple or family new to this country who would like to buy a home, a simple starter home?
Buying a starter home in 2022 is almost impossible. Thinkng back and comparing the ease of buying our first home in 1954 to the herculean task for first time buyers in today’s world is shocking; and it is so unfair.
Back when “the dinasours” ruled the earth, as our grandkids like to say, we bought our first, brand new, three bedroom, two bath home for nothing down, and $375 closing costs! We had one child and another on the way. The wage owner’s monthly salary had to be $300 a month or higher. Ken asked his boss to fudge on the numbers on the application, but he refused. Instead he raised him up to $300!
I know, in today’s world, those numbers are laughable. Our new home cost $4,500 and our payments were $45 per month, in cluding taxes. Our builder, in Phoenix, also built a grade school for the sub-division and a community swimming pool. It was a modest Public pool, but a welcome addition to the area.
While we waited for our new home to be completed, Ken worked many side jobs to save up for our appliances which did not come with the house; while I sewed pleated draw drapes for the windows.
We were the first ones to have grass and with a ton of effort, Ken dug up and replanted two mature orange trees in our front yard, from a orchard closing down.
He fenced the back yard and soon added a ranch style porch across the front. Then we paved the carport and driveway.
Our little house came with dark brown tile throughout. Ken covered it with new carpet as jobs permitted. When we moved in we had a card table and chairs in the kitchen, a hand-me-down couch and two lawn chairs in the living room, our brand new box springs and mattress in the master bedroom and our toddlers crib in her room.
How’s that for a “starter home”? It wasn’t easy, but it was exciting and fun too. Millions of young people would like the same chance to own a home today, but the opportunity is not there.
As recently as the l990’s modest three bedroom houses were selling for $99,000 to $l25,000. Our grandson bought their first home for $89,000 in 1994, but no one’s building those today. The economics of the housing market and all the local rules have squeezed out starter homes. Communities passed laws that ensured builders couldn’t construct smaller, more affordable homes. Also the cost of land, building materials and government fees are to blame.
Communities need to allow the building of more starter homes. The supply has been slashed by more than half over the last five years. There is construction for the rich and the poor, but nothing in between.
Cheaper older starter homes are nearly as hard to find. Families who desperately need them are edged out by investors who buy them to rent them out. Sooner or later the laws and regulations on corporations owning huge amounts of small hommes will have to change.
Sadly, those starter homes are now occupied by renters who cannot afford to buy them.

“Who is that masked stranger?”

by

Gerry Niskern

I woke to the sound of something running overhead. How could that be? Was it mice in the attic? If so, they were a new species weighing at least 50 pounds each. I convinced myself the sounds were probably a cat on the roof and I drifted back to sleep.
we’d purchased a home in the North Phoenix foothills. Every morning in the silver-pink light of dawn we delighted in watching the abundant wildlife. We could see rabbits nibbling on the dewy clumps of desert grass. In the middle of the day orange and black chuckawallas were usually “catching a few rays” on the gray shale rocks above the house. More exciting was the occasional bronze king snake curled up inside our garden hose. In the evening, as the safety of twilight settled over the mountains a fox, coyote or raccoon, followed by two smaller ones, might be seen traveling quickly and quietly down our street and disappearing into the darkness.
We loved entertaining our friends with stories of finding raccoons in our swimming pool area. We watched them slapping at the water in the Jacuzzi; obviously thinking there were fish at the bottom when they saw the movement of the self-cleaning spouts popping up.
We were often awakened at night when our wrought iron gate clanged as they squeezed their fat bodies through. If that didn’t wake us, the sounds of the squeaky voice of the mama communicating to the young that “they had five more minutes and then out of the pool and dry off”. If my husband went down to shoo them away, they just raised up from the deck and stared at him.
Later we learned It’s that direct look right at you with the cute mask of black around the eyes that convinces people raccoons are friendly, adorable creatures. Wrong! The delightful sight of a raccoon stopping two feet away and gazing steadily at you is not a friendly gesture.It is an act of aggression; they want you to back down. An adult racoon can do great harm to a human. I also learned that their droppings carry a type of leukemia devastating to humans.
One day at noon I saw one of the furry invaders peering intently at me from our roof top. I realized something was wrong. Raccoons are nocturnal and wouldn’t be out at noon unless…of course…..the footsteps at night…. They were living in the attic of our house!
I immediately embarked on a futile search for a city, county or state agency to come and get rid of them. There are all kinds of organizations who deal with wildlife, but none is interested in catching an adult raccoon for a homeowner. If there is a litter of kits they will come for them, but if it’s older raccoons, you’re on your own, always with the stern instructions, “don’t harm them.”
After days on the phone I finally reached a state biologist who assured me that I probably had a mama raccoon returning to her place of birth to drop her kits. That is their custom. She explained how they reach through the large vents on the end of your attic and rip the protective screen off with their human-like paws. They only need six inches to shove their head between the vents and then squeeze their chubby bodies into your home, soon to be theirs. No qualifying and nothing down.
I soon developed a close friendship with the State biologist as we tried her daily suggestions on how to rid our home of these squatters. We baited a cat trap with tuna tied in a bag in the cage. We papered over the vents so we would know if they left. We spread flour on the roof below to check for footprints every day. Each morning I tapped on the ceiling of the corner of each room to see if they were still up there. To my dismay, I’d hear the shifting bodies as I disturbed their sleep under the rafters.
After tiring of uninvited revelers partying in our attic every night, my husband decided pay a visit to the guest quarters. Armed with his weapon of choice, a large can of insect repellent, he crawled on his stomach as far back towards their cozy nest as he could and emptied the can. A large raccoon ran toward him. He threw up his arm, yelled and it veered off and away.
After a few days of checking the trap and vents, we covered the vents with hardware screen. It became obvious the raccoon and her relatives had moved out of our penthouse apartment.
Several evenings later, while watching TV in another room, I heard the screen door to the balcony rattle. Checking, I found it slid open about five inches. I saw a very pregnant mama raccoon and two young ones scurry away. The mama then stopped and stared at me. Later she opened the screen door again.
My husband went outside and gave her a surprise soaking with the hose. She seemed to accept the fact that she was not going to drop her kits inside our house this time and waddled laboriously down the steps.
We still saw her and her little ones at dusk from time to time; and later that year we heard that the next neighbor down the street was having terrible time with raccoons.

Two Princesses
By
Gerry Niskern

When I heard on Thursday that Queen Elizabeth had passed away one thing popped into my mind……Paper Dolls!
Many years ago my sister and I shared a wonderful big book of paper dolls (look it up) of the two little English princesses. We were in seventh heaven. Imagine! Two little princesses who were sisters and best of all, they were almost our ages. Elizabeth was two years older then my sister and Margaret Rose was two years older than me.
We punched out their cardboard figures and carefully cut out each wonderful outfit they were to wear. Our imaginations took over as we played with the dolls. Many scenarios took place as we imagined their lives and acted them out. Coronations, Royal Weddings, Baptisms; we did it all.
Just one thing though; I never got to be Elizabeth, the future Queen, because as my sister told me repeatedly, “She’s my age, the oldest, so I am Elizabeth and you have to be the little sister, Margaret Rose.” Big sisters have to make tough calls, I guess. We played dress up and pretended, dreamed of being a princess ourselves some day. We heard bits and pieces about the English princesses lives during WWII on the radio, in news reels at the movies, and in anything we could get our hands on to read. We learned that as a toddler Elizabeth had some reins attached to her crib so she could sit and pretend she was riding her pony anytime she wanted. We also learned that her nanny of many years was instructed to always wear brown or grey so she wouldn’t detract from the sisters costumes in public.
We knew that the girls stayed at Windsor, just outside of London during the bombing. Their parents stayed at Buckingham Palace. We heard the broadcast by Elizabeth to the many English children who were sent away for safety by their parents.
Later, we read all about Elizabeth and Phillip’s wedding and then when she became Queen we watched her Coronation on television. At last we could see her life in real time. We watched it all as we were growing up and became mothers just as she did. As the years went by, we were aware of her children’s marriages, divorceses and the heartbreaking rifts that occurred in her family as they do in the lives of all little girls who dream of being princesses and grow up to become mothers too.
Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, lived their life in public view. Elizabeth served her time as Monarch with propriety and steadfastness and had to make some tough calls. She didn’t allow her younger sister to marry the man she loved, Peter Townsend. He was a divorced man and as the Queen she couldn’t allow it according to the church. She took a ton of flak for that call. When England recently celebrated her Platinum Jubilee and the Royal family appeared on the balcony of Buckingham Palace she didn’t allow Prince Andrew, Prince Harry and Megan to appear there with the other “working Royals”. Another tough call by the older sister.
Margret Rose’s big sister died this year and my sister did too

“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.
At that time, 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, the first of many Mexican women who worked there. No one cared if they were illegal, had green cards, or were born here.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 down if 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 only 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 Black 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

Come on, Take the Quiz
By
Gerry Niskern

We all run into the “Do You Remember?” quizzes from time to time. Usually they’re fun and you end up feeling really smart, or very old!
I decided to make up one of my own. My quiz is a little different because some items have a little story too.
l. Do you remember salesmen coming to your house hoping to sell your mom some “Jewel Tea or Coffee”. Or do you remember men coming around every so often offering their sharpening services for your household’s knives or scissors. I do.
Did the doctor come to your house when someone was sick? Yes, the family doctor actually did come! And by the way, do you remember the metal braces they recommended to put on the elbow of a toddler who wanted to continue sucking his thumb. The brace kept the poor baby from bending his arm to put his thumb into his mouth, until he broke the habit……… Supposedly.
Did your house have plenty of ash trays, in case the doctor wanted to put out his cigarette? And did your coffee table have a cigarette box, full of cigarettes, for guests?

And speaking of coming to your home, do you remember the Vegetable Man who drove his truck down the alley behind your house with fresh veggies and fruit for sale every couple of days?
2. Did you or your sister have a Hope Chest? Years ago, almost every young girl wanted a hope chest to start saving linens and other items for the day she was married. They were about the size of a large trunk, made of beautiful wood, and Cedar lined.
3. Do you remember your mom whitening the summer shoes with the little bottle of white liquid with the sponge on top, usually on Saturday night , for Sunday church.?
4. Do you remember standing on the large floor vent from the furnace on a cold winter night? And do you remember cleaning the wallpaper every year with the large wad of spongy cleaner ( it resembled Pla-do). It was pink and came in a can. When it got too dirty, you grabbed another wad.
5. Do you remember the Spittoons? They were a large, round receptacle, placed on the floor, usually made of Brass. The spittoons were about eight or ten inches across the opening. Men who used chewing or dipping tobacco used to spit into them, sometimes from some distance away. My grandma had one in the corner of her large kitchen for my grandpa and uncles. Gross!
6. Do you also remember when men carried large handkerchiefs and women carried dainty, embroidered “hankies”? They all had to be washed and ironed every week. Thank your lucky stars for Kleenex.
7. Popping corn over the coals in the living room fireplace was easy with the long handled wire basket was fun. Do you remember doing that?
8. Did you make some serious decisions in front of the large glass “Penny “ candy counter at the grocery store? You might only have three pennies, but if some items were “two for” or “three for”, you could come away with quite a bag full.
And remember when your dad bought ice cream? The clerk had to pack the ice cream into quart size boxes ( similar to the carons Chinese food comes in) and if he was a good guy he would leave the flaps up and pack it to the top of them?
And best of all, do you remember the Eskimo Pies? Chocolate covered ice cream on a stick with a gimmick. Every once in a while when you finished licking the wooden stick, the word free would appear. That meant you could march right back in and get another one!
Do you have memories of any of these things? …………Of course you don’t.

“Charlie’s Last Stand”
By
Gerry Niskern
Charlie’s dad carried the kicking, crying six year old back into the first grade room. He jammed him firmly into the seat of the wooden school desk and before he could turn to leave, the little overall clad boy was out the door in front of him. Earlier that morning Charlie came on the bus that first day of school with his brothers, but later, when his dad was driving to work along Rural Route # 1, he saw Charlie running down the highway headed home. As a first grader too, I watched dumb founded as Charlie’s dad brought him back and he escaped, again and again and again. The teacher of that classroom, consisting of two rows of first grade and two rows of second grade, was Mary Jane Crowe. Miss Crowe, fresh out of college, was speechless.
I guess I’d have to say that scenario is my vivid memory of the first day of school. I remember looking forward to starting first grade with my Big Chief table and brand new pencil; I also had a new orange, metal lunch bucket that my dad had scratched out “Gerry” on the lid. I couldn’t understand why Charlie didn’t want to stay. Homesickness hit me later when the long day became too long. I caught the bus (mothers didn’t take you on first day) at eight in the morning and back home again at four in the afternoon as there was only one bus and two runs per day; all ages together.
Today most kids have been to nursery or pre-school and are used to being away from home, but that wasn’t the case years ago. Stepping out of the comfort of home into a new and unknown world was scary. For some it was a day they will never forget and some would really like to.
My mother often told us about starting school in the little mining town where she lived. She remembered sitting there in her scratchy, starched best dress and trying her best to understand what the teacher was saying and trying not to cry. She and the others kids couldn’t understand a word! There were German, Italian, Austrian, Greek, Hungarian, and many other ethnic groups, none of whom spoke English. The practice of immigrant families was to keep the little ones close to home. The teacher was a kind and sweet lady, and her job was to have them speaking and reading English by the end of the year. And she did!
The second part of her story was about she and a new little girlfriend spying an apple orchard next to the school yard. One day after school they climbed the fence and were enjoying some of the big, red apples when their teacher saw them. She gave them a lecture about not touching other people’s property and the “kind and sweet” lady proceeded to turn each one across her knee and spank them!
My Resident Historian used to tell me about his first day of school in the dusty, little town of Muleshoe, Texas. His class was in line and the front door to the school was locked. He went over to peck on a window to let someone know and his teacher grabbed him, and in his words, “beat the hell out of me!”. He didn’t understand what he had sone wrong, but to “add insult to injury” on that day, it was announced that Texas was starting Kindergarten and all the six- year- olds had to go back and take Kindergarten first. Then he always shrugged and said , “Hey, it was Texas. What do you expect?”
Lots of readers have memories of the first day. # one son remembers the wild ride on the school bus with a grumpy driver that didn’t worry about jostling the kids around in their seats. He watched the driver graze a pole and take off a side mirror of the bus. Another friend remembers dragging her son, kicking and crying, out of the car and into the school room where the teacher grabbed hold and dragged him on in for the whole first week. Then the wise older teacher suggested that he might like to walk to school “like a big boy” with his brother and his friends. That did the trick.
One little beginner, an old friend of mine, laughs about his first day. He and another boy slipped out a side door and hid all day under some bushes until it was time to go home. After a couple of days of hiding and no lunch, they both decided maybe school wouldn’t be so bad.
School has changed for the better. Don’t you agree?