History Keeps Repeating
By
Gerry Niskern
I can remember one day when I was six sitting in my mom’s kitchen and watching her making cottage cheese. She was listening to the radio and crying. The year was l939 and Hitler was starting his devastating march across Europe. I remember being distressed and asking her why she was crying. “It’s because of what’s happening in Europe, honey; those poor people.”
That was my first knowledge of war. Of course, as time went on, kids in the United states were personally involved in the war in many different ways. We learned about war every day at school and home. Many lost fathers, brothers, as our country entered the conflict but we felt safe because we were here, in America. When we went to the movies we saw the News Reels before the show and I felt sadness watching the little children in England kissing their tearful parents goodbye as they boarded buses and trains to leave the larger cities most likely to be bombed. Many of those kids went to Ireland, but they also were welcomed in Canada, Australia, New Zealand and even South Africa.

Over the last two weeks we’ve all watched courageous women with their beautiful children leaving the large cities in Ukraine to find safety in other welcoming countries. The heartbreaking scenes we’ve seen on television reminded me of those English kids all those many years ago.
World War Two, started when I was six, ended when I was 13. Everyone thought there would never be another. But there always was; the Korean war, Vietnam, Iraq. And always the same images of women and children fleeing the country. But nothing on the scale of WW11 that is threatening today. We have to trust our leaders to walk a fine line in helping the Ukrainian government without triggering a larger, unthinkable conflict. Because, where would we send the children than?

A Good Guy by Any Other Name
By
Gerry Niskern
Our hearts go out to the Ukrainians as they fight to defend their country. Their heroic resistance is an example to the outside world. Just the idea of the mothers taking the children to safety and having to say goodbye to husbands, lovers, fathers, and brothers is heartbreaking.
Wars are fought on many fronts. One is propaganda taught to citizens about the people of the other country. At one time we learned to “hate” the Japs, Germans and Italians. Later it was the North Koreans and then the North Vietnamese. Now we are supposed to loathe the “Russkies”.
Of course, it is easy to teach kids, and adults too, by de-humanizing people of an opposing country. But the people of the warring country are not who you should despise. It is always their leadership that should receive the scorching hatred for unprovoked wars of aggression. People everywhere only want to live in peace. Just as the Ukrainians wanted to be remain a free democratic society so do the Russian people who do not want this war with their neighbor.
You see, I have known a Russian. A kind, generous and fun loving man. My uncle, Walter Tribelo.
Uncle Walter left Russia in the early 1900’s during a regional war in Georgia. His father put him on a horse with a note pinned to his coat, ”Please help this boy get to the coast.” He was twelve years old.
He made his way to America. He worked in the West Virginia coal mines and married my Aunt Anne, a young widow. He lovingly helped raise her two little girls and was adored by all the cousins in our big family. He entertained everyone at our Christmas celebrations with his resounding Cossack folk dance as another uncle from Italy played the traditional Russian music.
He loved to roam the forest searching for special roots and plants that were known to cure many minor ailments and always had something on hand for you to try. Uncle Walter also was a strong swimmer and couldn’t resist showing off at family picnics down on the banks of the Ohio River by swimming clear across and back while by Aunt Annie paced the bank yelling, “ Don’t try to swim across, you damn fool!” But he always did.
He worked in the coal mine into his sixties until a cave-in caused an electric drill to take out one of his eyes. That Russian man helped me learn about Russian people.

Did Your Dad Carry a Knife?
By
Gerry Niskern

When I say knife, I mean a penknife. The kind that boys used to carry. My resident historian carried a penknife that he said he had owned since he was a boy. In those days, no self-respecting kid would be caught without one. He bought his when he was about eight or nine, with money from odd jobs. It was a kind of “rite of passage” for a boy.
The knife was not for show. It carried a sense of responsibility. To own it required competence and good judgement.
His penknife was about three inches of stainless steel with a walnut covering. The blade opened with a smooth click and our kids thought that he could fix almost anything with it. The knife served as a screwdriver when one wasn’t available. It also sharpened pencils, sliced an apple for sharing, and cut the stubborn ribbon on a birthday present. Many a splinter was removed with that useful tool, sterilizing first of course.
The knife was used to break down twigs and branches for kindling for the campfire. Sharpening the point of a stick for stabbing your hot dog while camping calls for a penknife. And those sharpened points for the marshmallows can only get done with dad’s penknife. If someone forgot the can opener, no problem, the penknife could easily open the can of beans.
I understand with increased security at airports and other buildings, penknives have been disappearing from men’s pockets. I guess it’s a good thing Ken was traveling before things got so restricted. He had many trips for work to other states and some Asian countries and he always had his trusty penknife in his pocket. Whether he was wearing business suit and tie or Levi 501s, when he emptied those pockets at night, the penknife, rested among the money clip and coins.
Years of use had darkened the decorative wood inlay on the side. The important purchase of a young boy years ago had served its owner well.

“Some day I wanna”
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you made your “bucket list?” Everyone does, sooner or later. Sometimes it is well planned out in detail and voiced to everyone, and others keep their list to themselves. Actually, bucket list turns off some and they prefer the title “life list” or dream list.
According to the Mac Millian dictionary (Bucket List: a list of things you want to do before you reach a certain age or before you die.) Some think they are goals you work towards and that you should write them down. Others think it should be left to Serendipity.
Some lists are extreme; like one adventurous friend who wants to climb the world’s tallest mountain. Another would like to take a long journey on the Orient Express. One would just like to fly first class someday. At this point, my list is simple. I’d like to hold a young baby, or sit all day listening to a mountain stream or take a bike ride through my childhood neighborhood.
One man I know took his mother (a retired very successful realtor) in a wheelchair to tour the State Farm Stadium when it was complete because it was on her bucket list and by the time it was completed she wasn’t able to go on her own.
I guess another form of a bucket list is the people who dream of winning the lottery and what they would do with the money. My resident historian always said, “If I ever win the lottery I’m going to fill my pickup over and over with baby strollers and drive around giving them to the poor Latino mothers I see carrying one baby and tugging along another.”
I had an elderly friend who was an art instructor. She had no family but tons of close friends who were all former students. Her dream wish was to charter a cruise ship and take all those friends on a trip around the world.
Some lists are big and some are small, but the ultimate goal is to appreciate both the big and small moments that could make life special.
Serendipity isn’t a bad way to go.

The Tiniest Sweethearts
By
Gerry Niskern

America’s tiniest sweethearts need help!
There is a growing trend among new parents today to immediately decorate their newborn baby girls with a headband containing a bow. An elastic headband is placed on their precious little heads. Why? I guess to announce to the world that they are a girl, and not be mistaken for a boy. Maybe it’s to dress them up and make them “pretty”? Thousands of photos are posted online every day of tiny baby girls, sometimes even all swaddled for the night, with those pesky headbands around their heads. Do the parents ever wonder what the baby thinks?
Have you seen those headbands? Some have gradually evolved into turbans with huge bows. I’m sure it’s turning quite a profit for the baby wear industry. Why do parents think it’s necessary to adorn their daughters from day one, but not the boys? You don’t see little boys having to wear tiny elasticized baseball caps clamped on their tender heads. Maybe some designer hasn’t thought of it yet and convinced new parents that it’s a must have?
There are hundreds of “how to “ books out there on how to raise a baby. They all claim to know the best way to go about it. Of course, nobody really knows what a baby thinks. To begin with, thanks to the phenomenon that Sigmund Freud called “infantile amnesia”, nobody can remember what it was like to be a baby. Wouldn’t it be interesting to know what they are thinking about what’s happening to them on their new journey?
In my opinion, and it’s probably just mine, those sweet little baby girls are all beautiful just as they are. There is plenty of time, when they get old enough to make their desires known, to dress them up. If they want to wear huge hair bows and have enough hair to support them, then fine. Little girls need to grow up with a feeling of confidence in themselves. They should hear validation of their worth as a person just because they exist. That solid foundation of her special personality should be established without any hint that she needs to be adorned with anything!
A lot has been written about teenage girl’s lack of confidence causing serious mental health problems. Of course there is no simple solution, but a good start would be for parents to give their little daughters the knowledge that they are a worthy human being just because they ARE! Parents must make every effort early to curb the idea that their girls need to be adorned to be loved.
Celebrate Valentines day by taking those pesky elastic headbands off those little Sweethearts!

“Let me call you Sweetheart”

By

Gerry Niskern

Though the ancients were not aware that the heart was responsible for pumping blood through the circulatory system, they knew one thing for sure. The heart was the center of all feelings. This belief has lasted through the ages. From the early cave dweller’s drawings to today’s text messaging, sweethearts have declared their love for each other.
Most women remember valentine’s day as an enchanting time in school. A lot of thought went into selecting just the right words for homemade cards. It helped to have a big sack of those little candy hearts with the “love messages” to copy from.
In school, you rushed to get your lessons done so you could help decorate the valentine box. If you were extra good, the teacher chose you to pass out the valentines on the day of the big party.

The best feeling of all was opening an envelope and finding a big red heart from someone special. Everyone knows “there is no love like the first love!”
It seems that the ladies have the pleasant memories of valentine’s day, but in contrast, most of the guys do not. Several fellows told me it was a day of humiliation and dread. “What if they didn’t get even one card? What if a little girl that you really hated declared her undying love? And worse of all, what if the object of your affection didn’t give you a card at all?”
One fellow in our family recalls saving his money in first grade and buying a tiny box of Whitmans for a sweetie with beautiful long brown hair. When she came to school on Valentine’s day her hair had been cut into a short pixie. He just couldn’t bring himself to give her the candy.
This same Lothario, in third grade, bought a St. Christopher’s medal for a little girl, as was the fad then, to declare his love. The problem was, the next day she had to give it back. Her Jewish parents were not happy.
He agreed that his younger brother probably had the right idea. The little brother always voiced his dislike for girls and declared he would never get married. One day when he was four he saw a little sports car with a button down cover for the back that extended around to cover the passenger side and he told his dad, “That’s the kind of car I want when I’m big, so no lady can ride with me!”
Over the years, the old valentines’ boxes morphed into personal folders for receptacles for valentine giving in school, but that didn’t solve the popularity problem. The practice now in most classrooms is for the teacher to send home a list of everyone in the class. The parents are expected to see that a card is addressed to everyone in the class. Actually the only benefit with that is it gives the student’s a chance to practice their handwriting.
Of course, it’s much easier to declare affection in today’s cyberspace world. There are hundreds of web sites for Valentines. You can send your sweetie a message instantly across the street, the country or the continents. Web sites are available to provide numerous sentiments; talking animated characters will speak the words and music of your choice. If he needs it, a young man can find a guide on line to help him write a love letter. And then again, if time is short, there’s always text messaging.
Sadly, it’s just not the same!

I wrote this for the Republic a few years ago, and I haven’t changed my mind. What do you think?
“Hug, Anyone?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Is it just me, or has anyone else been wondering about all the hugging going on these days? It has definitely evolved into a form of greeting and goodbyes too. And don’t even get me started on all the politicians hugging everyone on the podium before a speech.
One evening a couple of years ago, I was sounding off, as I’m prone to do occasionally, about all the social hugging; and I’m afraid I hurt a good friend’s feelings. He was a dedicated hugger. When I got my foot out of my mouth I tried to explain that I didn’t mean among family and old friends. You see, our friendship dates way back to grade school here in Phoenix. The sandy haired kid that I remember was the class cut-up. I’m indebted to him for providing many a laugh on long boring afternoons at Adams School.
I learned a little about the modern hug after consulting Miss Manners. She tells us that the hug has become a new form of social inter-action. However, she does not approve of acquaintances trying to skip the preliminaries of becoming close friends before starting the hugging. So, when did all this hugging start?
I grew up in an era when men shook hands and women hugged a little, sometimes. Parents hugged their children and maybe an aunt or uncle slipped in a hug or two, but not often. I confess I was born with that anti-hugging gene. My mother loved to tell how I, as the first baby around in years, would deftly dodge the out stretched arms of loving relatives as I made my independent way around the house.
When I worked at the Valley National Bank the vice-president demanded a hug and kiss from each girl as he passed around our checks. Suffice to say that he learned quickly to just give me my check on payday; no preliminaries.
I do realize that hugging is considered very important and one of the most pressing needs of elders for social interaction. My strong objection to the “social” hug is that it devalues the age-old meaning of the hug. The little social half-hearted hugs that I see as people part seem contrived and uncomfortable.
I ‘ve learned a lot about hugging and thinking before I speak!
I don’t know if my old friend from childhood ever forgave me for voicing my displeasure of too much insincere hugging, but I know one thing. If he were here today, I would sure give him a great big hug!!

What did you learn during the Pandemic?
By
Gerry Niskern
During the first wave of Covid the shelves in the grocery stores were often empty of some items. But even with that problem many families learned to gather in the kitchen together and cook. They were isolating, not going to restaurants and staying away from fast food places. Most learned that food unites families as even some first time cooks laughed and joked while working together in the kitchen.
Of course, everyone learned what we have always known; that true happiness starts in the kitchen. I remember if I happened to be at my grandma’s house early in the morning there was nothing as heavenly as the smell of her bread in the oven. She baked every day and on holidays she decorated the round loaves with flowers and leaves made of the dough.
I sat and watched one Aunt make around six pies one time. She just grabbed handfuls of flour, chunks of shortening, a little salt, and drops of water and worked it into the perfect dough for six pies, no measuring required!
So now, it’s back to the kitchen. This new strain of the virus playing havoc on the food industry, there are no employees to prepare the food and no one willing to deliver it either. There is one young career couple in my neighborhood that had GrubHub bring dinner every night. I wonder sometimes how they are eating this time. Maybe they learned how handy that kitchen was!
I think all the practice cooking together during isolation the first time around is “coming into vogue” again. My daughter-in-law started making a wonderful pizza with dough from scratch and topped with her homegrown veggies. She bakes them on her outdoor grill. Yummy.
My # 1 son has been perfecting his version of quiche. Every time he makes it, it just gets more delicious!
Now, the thing is, even when everything gets back to “normal” and the food industry is functioning better, everyone will now have some specialties to enjoy that ambitious members of their family have perfected during the Pandemic.

“MOM’S CEDAR CHEST’

By

Gerry Niskern

It was a deep, burnished walnut with round, pedestal legs. There were roses and leaves in muted pinks and greens carved along the front. When I was a child, I loved it. But what I really loved was all the treasures I imagined it contained. Then one day I was allowed to discover some of them.
When my sister and I unlocked mom’s cedar chest, along with the heavenly aroma of the cedar wood, memories came tumbling out. On top were two small bathing suits, circa l930’s. We wore the scratchy, wool one piece suits when the mom’s whole family of aunts, uncles and cousins had Sunday picnics down on the Ohio River.
Back then, we complained about having to hold back the vines as my dad helped one of our elderly aunts slowly down the steep, overgrown path to the river bank. We wanted to race ahead and join our cousins in the water. “Always help an old person,” our mother admonished. “Their life is hard!”
The high light of the day was when Uncle Walter, our strong uncle from Russia, swam across the wide Ohio, as his wife, Aunt Annie, ran up and down the rocky bank screaming, “Don’t swim all the way across, you damn fool. You’re just showing off!”
Mom did manage to mention quietly on the way home that. “Of course, it was great fun to watch, but Uncle Walter should respect his family and not worry them.”
Another item we pulled out of the cedar chest was our worn out softball, with stitching half gone. We always protested about trying to catch Sam’s hard balls in our neighborhood game. Unfortunately, Sam was a husky teenager with a toddler’s mind who always forgot which base to run to. When we complained, mom explained “Sam’s your friend. He deserves a chance to play ball too.”
The pale, longing face of a little girl with severe Asthma was always framed in a neighbor’s window watching our fun, winter or summer. There was not much help for Asthma back then. But she had playmates because at least once a week mom would say “go play with Dorothy. She needs friends too.”
There was a message from mom linked to most items we pulled out of the old chest; “Treat everyone with the dignity they deserve as human beings.”
Turns out I was right. Mom’s cedar chest really did contain treasures; word’s to live by all of our lives!

Cultural Fusion Will Continue with All Our Help
By
Gerry Niskern
We’ve all been reading about the Afghanistan refugees coming to our country. They are just a continuation of the many immigrants who have found refuge in the United States over the years of the existence of our democracy. Many worry about how we can handle the new residents and how they will fit in. I’m reminded of a party that took place in my old neighborhood a few years back.
Cars and pickups began arriving on a Sunday afternoon. They brought ladies in their Sunday best, carrying covered dishes. The daddies toted babies in their car carriers. Later, that evening, we couldn’t see the dancing in the garage, but judging from the strobe lights, music and laughing, they were having a good time.
Actually, the sound of a foreign language and the music reminded me of my Grandma’s house back East as I was growing up. On any Sunday afternoon polka music from my Italian uncle’s accordian filled the air. And I’m sure the language carried across back yards was just as confusing to the neighbors. And my cousins and I played hide and seek, chasing and shouting like the little Latino kids.
Those cousins of mine grew up. They married into various ethnic families and scattered across the United States. My grandparent’s offspring learned American ways and taught some of their ways to others. The extended family boasted computer programmers, major league ballplayers and engineers working on the first manned spacecraft our country launched. They played football in high school, golf with business clients and tennis anytime they had a chance.
In other words, they assimilated, just as the families coming here now will also. They have fought side by side with fellow Americans in our country’s wars. This country needed their labor in its industries just as the immigrants are needed now to drive the economy.
The cultural and ethnic fusion has been slow, but steady. But our diversity in color, culture and thought is what made this country great. Our democracy has long been called “the great melting pot”. Let’s stir that melting pot with friendship once again in 2022!