Huber Rides Again!
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you taken an Uber ride lately?
I had rode with Uber in the last few weeks to get to the doctors. A lot has changed since my first experience a few years ago when ridesharing was pretty new. After some surgery, I didn’t feel like driving and I signed up with Uber.
On the first occasion I needed a ride, I was told the doctor could squeeze me in if I could make it by a certain time. I summoned Uber and watched in frustration as the tiny little car wandered all over the mountain above me on the screen as the minutes ticked by. When he finally arrived I got in and started to explain my time problem when suddenly, the very large man behind the wheel pounded his fist on the ceiling and said, “first of all, we are going to need a change of attitude”. I was struck speechless, and little voice in my head that sounded like my mother was saying “never get into a car with a stranger!”
After that terrifying moment, when I could finally speak again, we started down the street. I started to explain my time schedule again when he suddenly slammed on the brakes and declared, “ Do you want me to turn this car around and go back? I will get you there on time if we can just proceed.” And he did. Needless to say, after my medical issues were over I was happy to be driving myself again.
When I quit driving at night I started taking Uber way out to the family holiday celebrations and catching a ride home with one of the younger drivers in the clan. It’s worked out great and I’ve been fascinated meeting my many different drivers over the years.
I like to ride up front and most are happy to accommodate me. A few weren’t. When I explained that I was very claustrophobic one fellow insisted I get in the back. He said that’s silly and he argued that I would have more room in the back. When I insisted on the front he was not happy picking up the trash he had accumulated in the front seat.
I always tip something because I know the customer service business is hard, but I recently learned that around 60% of Uber users do not tip. I was a little surprised, but I could understand the reluctance sometimes. Most guys were happy to engage in friendly conversation but a few were not. They only answered in one word or two.
When I ask how long they have been driving in Phoenix, I find that usually “breaks the ice.” I love it when they declare they have been here for twenty years and that I wouldn’t believe the changes they have seen. I love it even more when I tell them how long I’ve been here and watch their reaction.
Some drivers get out and open the door for you. Other do not. Some help you carry you packages to the door at Christmas. Others do not. In my experience, not always, but as a rule, the older men are more courteous and helpful. The drivers from another country like to talk, tell you about their family and any other work they are doing.
When I need special rides from family members on a medical issue they are always willing, but It’s also great to have uber available and totally improved since my first wild ride.

The Dreaded New Year’s Dumpling
By
Gerry Niskern
What will you be eating on New Year’s Eve?
That last night of the year is coming up and countries around world are preparing a special food that everyone must eat to ensure good luck for the coming year. In Spain people must eat 12 grapes at midnight to represent each month to bring good health and prosperity. Black eyed peas are a must in the United States South. Mexicans eat delicious tamales and, of course, dumplings in numerous shapes and sauces are the traditional midnight fare in many countries.
Somehow, as a young kid I had Christmas and New Years mixed together. My Orthodox Christian Grandmother’s Christmas was celebrated on January 7th. After church, the whole family gathered at her house to celebrate. The kitchen was filled with all kinds of pies, cookies, delicious cabbage rolls, roasted pork in browned sauerkraut, and Grandma’s speciality, her round loaves of bread decorated in flowers and leaves. There were also bowls of stewed prunes and apricots. There were no presents exchanged, just lots of laughter and fun.
Even though my parents had given my sister and me a wonderful Santa Claus day on December 25th, with toys and filled stockings, I looked forward just as much to the Christmas at Grandmas with a house filled with my cousins.
I remember walking up the path to her house every year, our boots crunching on the frozen snow. I couldn’t wait, but then I would remember the tradition that I always dreaded, the dumplings! Along with all the delicious food spread out on the long tables that filled the living room, dining room and hall, were bowls of honey drenched, round dumplings covered generously with black poppy seed. Tradition dictated that you were supposed to swallow one whole in order to have good health, good luck, and much happiness for the entire coming year. “Everyone must eat,” Grandma would command. “Or you won’t have good health in the new year!” She watched to make sure all of her grandchildren followed tradition.
I hated those dumplings! I tried my best and finally gagged down a tiny bite and I was “off the hook” for another year.
Than all the tables would l come down, clearing the big kitchen floor for the polka. Everyone joined in, well, except for my dad and uncle John, the two “Americans”. My Uncle Paul Fama provided the music with his sparkling, blue accordian and we danced in the New Year. Uncle Walter Tribelo lead those willing to try in the high kicks of the Masurka.
Lucky for me, soon that dreaded dumpling was forgotten!

Heading Home
by
Gerry Niskern
Are you planning on flying home for Christmas? Millions of travelers are planning their schedules, checking their flights daily. Everything could change in a minute with the powerful winter storm barreling across the U. S. It’s tough.
I’m reminded of a trip our family made to see both families in West Virginia in December of l946. The war was over and gasoline had been released to the public again. People were overjoyed. They could make the trek home once again to enjoy the love, warmth and share family memories. Air travel wasn’t even considered for most.
The trip from Phoenix to the Ohio River Valley took five days. We were lucky. Dad drove our little four door black Plymouth thru bitter cold states with snow on the ground but no storms. We did break down in Brownsville, Texas, and had to spend the day waiting for the local garage to get the part needed from another town.
I remember singing carols along with the radio to pass the time. “The Old Lamp Lighter” accompanied us towards home. We made it to Moundsville by Christmas.
I also remember my cousins taking me roller skating every evening. There was a rink in every town and we hit them all. “Couples only” was fun and they played “Christmas Island” always for that round.
We walked back to my Grandma’s from the local rink sometimes and spent the evenings listening to the adults recalling family stories while watching the purple, red, yellow and blue flumes sputtering from the coal fire in the grate.
Bad weather was threatening the morning we headed home. Mother nature was getting serious now. A young friend of my sisters was going to ride to Phoenix with us. She was going to begin nurses training at St. Joseph’s Hospital so Dad had extra responsibility heading West.
He took the Southern route, but my vivid memories were of driving thru snow flurries and the radio announcer telling us it was 106* as we drove into Dallas, Texas. Around midnight we were looking for a motel, the vision was bad, and suddenly the blinding light of a train coming around a bend was bearing down on us. Dad stepped on the gas and we shot across the tracks.
The next morning our somber group drove on across the rest of Texas and New Mexico as we saw cars stuck in snow banks everywhere . I have to think that Dad’s experience driving on the icy roads with “hair pin turns” in the West Virginia hills had prepared him for that icy highway home.
The “Old Lamp Lighter” was still with us as we crossed into Arizona and headed into the sunshine of home.

Christmas is a time for families to get together and tell the familiar old stories. Here’s a good one from our family’s beginning.
“Now, That’s a Story!”
By
Gerry Niskern

One of my most memorable nights actually started at eight in the morning.
I woke up suddenly and realized the alarm hadn’t gone off and I was going to be late for work. Starting to turn my head to wake Ken, I was hit with a paralyzing pain. Something was wrong. I couldn’t turn my head or move any part of my body. It hurt too bad.
I called out to him and he came around to my side and tried to help me up, but I was in such pain we stopped. I don’t know why but my scared, young husband decided the best thing for him to do was make me some breakfast. “Stay in bed. I’m going to fix you something to eat.” He made some scrambled eggs, the first and only time he cooked in our marriage. I couldn’t get even a bite down.
I was four months pregnant with our daughter. Ken then calmed down and said, “ We are going over to St. Josephs emergency right now.” He helped me dress and I leaned on him as he half carried me to the car.
The examination indicated the pain was radiating from the appendix area. However, when the blood test came back the blood count was normal. There was no sign of infection. Various doctors, including Dr. Craig, our family doctor, were consulted. They gave me something for the pain and I fell in and out of sleep as the day wore on.
I woke up once and my mother was there. I realized Ken was hold my hand in a tight grip. A hospital doctor came in and said “It’s complicated. Your baby has camped on your right side and won’t move. It is crowding the appendix and causing unusual pressure. We need to remove the appendix.” Then he said, very clearly,” You need to understand that the shock of the anesthetic could cause an abortion. You need to be prepared for that.”
I remember someone saying it was ten o’clock and they were waiting for Dr. Craig. And I was asleep again
Suddenly I was awakened by bright lights. I was in the operating room. My most vivid memory of that exciting night was of me frantically searching the faces above me that were moving in and out of view. I was determined to stay awake and to speak to Dr. Craig. I finally saw him come into view. “ Don’t forget”, I pleaded, “I’m having a baby.” His eyes twinkled above his mask as he replied, ”Yes, dear. I know”.
Then a voice told me to start counting backwards from 100.
Over the years, our kids asked me to tell that amazing story over and over again. “Tell us about the time that Daddy made scrambled eggs!”

Where are the Ukrainian Children?
By
Gerry Niskern
We’ve all heard stories about the Russians taking Ukrainian children during the fighting in Ukraine. According to a recent column by Kris Kristoff the Ukrainian government count at least 11,000 kids known by name taken in the Russian controlled territories. They estimate there are thousands more not identified, with less detail.
Sometimes the parents were told they were just taking them to a safer place and they would be returned. Many were removed from boarding schools and hospitals without the parents knowledge. The parents have tried unsuccessfully to get their children back. But the Russian authorities have demanded paper work impossible to provide as homes and records have been destroyed. Some have already been adopted into Russian families.
When I read these accounts I am reminded of stories I heard years ago during WWII when I was around twelve or so, Mom’s kid brother, Uncle Harry was an electrician on a tanker In the U. S. Navy. Tankers were giant floating fuel stations that serviced all the ships in the U. S. Navy. One German U-boat torpedo and the whole ship could go up in flames. When Uncle Harry was discharged he came to stay with our family before going home to W.VA. He told us about the many places he had seen during the Atlantic campaign and then the Pacific. When asked about the navel battles, he would just drop his head and shrug.
Normally I wasn’t paying much attention, but one day something caught my attention. He was pretty emotional when he told the story.
You see, his ship was the first ship to enter Russian waters after the war was declared over. They sailed into the harbor at Vladivostok in Siberia. Harry was designated the ship’s interpreter and was the liaison officer between the Russian officials and his ship’s captain. He had more freedom to look around and the sight that distressed him so much was the unloading of shipload after shipload of young children, alone without any parents. He cried as he talked about the hundreds of children herded off Russian ships. They had been picked up in Europe and brought around to Siberia. When they disembarked they were marched inland immediately. They were probably used for slave labor. I’m sure they never saw their homeland again.
So yes, Russia does kidnap children.
Stealing another country’s children is a war crime.

Hard times thanksgiving
By
Gerry Niskern
The best word to describe my earliest memory of Thanksgiving is tension, lots of tension.
Standing with our faces pressed against the cold glass of the dining room window, all Mom and I saw was a lacy curtain of swirling snowflakes. She twisted her apron round and round into a knot as she muttered to herself.
A few days earlier my Dad came home and announced he had invited his boss, who was going to be in town during Thanksgiving week, to our turkey dinner. I don’t remember their conversation, but I imagine it went something like this: “Why on earth did you do that? You know I’ve never cooked a turkey dinner!” Mom declared.
“Honey, I couldn’t get out of it. And he said he was bringing his rifle because he’s hoping we can get in a little hunting before dinner.”
“You can’t go. Your leg can’t take that right now. You know the doctor said to stay off of it as much as possible.”
“ I had no choice. I had to extend the invitation and if he still wants to go hunting, I’ll just have to take him. I’ll be careful.”
Dad suffered from a serious accident in his teenage years and had to stand on crutches doing his work as an industrial engineer. He didn’t want to let on to his supervisor and also mentor, on the new project, that he wasn’t in condition to do his job. It was the Depression and if you had a good job, you guarded it fiercely.
My mother had no experience with cooking turkey dinners because her family didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving when she was growing up. I remember the story she told us about rushing home to tell my Austrian grandma about the wonderful American holiday called Thanksgiving she learned of in school that day. “We have to celebrate Thanksgiving. You have to cook a turkey, and lots of good pies too!” she informed grandma. “ That’s how we give thanks for our many blessings in this country.”
Grandma agreed to cook a special big dinner, “but I no buy turkey. We have chickens.” She declared. “And you no give thanks for your blessings on one day, you always give thanks every day.”
So on that day of my earliest memory of Thanksgiving I helped my mother set the table with her best table cloth and brand new set of Fiesta Ware. The bright green, blue, yellow and orange plates waited patiently on the dining table to receive the turkey that was already getting cold, gravy too thick from simmering forever, and the mashed potatoes that had lost their fluff long ago.
As Mom and I stood at the window and strained to see through that West Virginia “white out” I remember vividly the tears in her eyes as she was saying, over and over, “If he’s got himself lost in this blizzard, I’ll kill him!”’

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.”