When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!

By

Gerry Niskern

That old saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” I can sure relate to that.

I recently moved from our home of 25 years on the side of the North Phoenix Mountains where we commanded a view of the whole Valley of the Sun. I always had the happy feeling of going on vacation when I pulled up the drive and went inside.

I loved seeing the beautiful, pastel and silvery sunrises bursting over Piestawa Peak at dawn. In the evening I cherished the  fantastic golden, pink Arizona sunset many days at dusk.  We didn’t have to watch the weather forecast. We knew when Glendale was getting rain, and could seethe giant rolling dust storms coming from the Southeast and covering the downtown skyline before being warned by the TV weather lady.

We reveled in  the twinkling city lites every evening and on the Fourth of July we marveled at  Fireworks from a dozen towns and venues from our balcony. I admit it. We felt a little superior with out “window to the world.”

But then a few months ago, I moved to a darling little house on the same street, just around the corner. Sadly,  instead of being on the mountain, I was facing the mountain. No more sunrises and sunsets. My view from the backyard was cut off from Mother Nature’s colorful sky paintings by a two story house and lots of trees.

While they were lifting and carrying, The movers spotted a road runner in the new back yard. “It’s the largest one I’ve ever seen,” they said. Try as I might, over the months,  I’ve never seen him, but many other people have caught a glimpse and exclaimed at his siz

Any morning that I look out back I see a little bunny or two. Seems like there is a steady crop of tiny bunnies. They  always find a  tasty clumps of grass to nibble on. They don’t like little carrots. They hop right past them. Maybe the Momma rabbit warned them about processed food!

When I step out the front door and look up at the mountain I see tiny little hikers running around on the very top. They seem to be celebrating reaching the summit. It’s like a miniature puppet show. But before I can take a step, there, running across in front of me is a family of Quail. Papa, Mama, and dozen little chicks in a line scurrying to catch  up. They didn’t hesitate to take the right – of- way. My front yard seems to be their ancient trail.

I have to admit I’ve lived here on the desert since I was a kid, but I never really paid a lot of attention to the desert flora and fauna. I’ve been fascinated watching the giant Sauraurara in the front yard forming its crown of white flowers in the spring. The Organ Pipe cactus also grows red fruit in the spring. The birds love the fruit, but they have to sit on the fruit while pecking at it for their meal. It’s quite a balancing act and fun to watch them sometimes lose their balance.

Best of all, the back yard had a very old Lemon tree. It produces tons of lemons the size of small grapefruit. I’ve made gallons of lemonade and I’ve given dozens of bags away. I’ve had the chance to meet neighbors who asked to pick some as they had always done in the past.

So, if you are in the neighborhood, stop by for a glass of lemonade.

Who knows? We might spot that “huge” Roadrunner!

The Cooler Supply Company

By

Gerry Niskern

It used to be that this time of the summer, with temperatures around 106, the debate in many homes would be, “Is it time to turn off the Evap Cooler and turn on the AC? Always when the humidity  was starting to climb and the cooler wasn’t doing much good.

. Of course, it wasn’t that many years ago that the first warm spring days sent the dads in the households to pick up some fresh evaporative cooler pads. Today, the lucky residents in the valley are the ones that have both AC and evaporative coolers.

In years past Phoenix residents had all kinds of ways to keep cool in the summer. When I was growing up here, many neighborhoods slept out in the back yard on cots at night. Sometimes, when a sudden summer rainstorm came through, you could see the neighbor’s nightgown flapping in the wind as she scurried into the house to get out of the rain.

Other lucky homeowners had screened sleeping porches. Some of the hotels even advised guests to wrap themselves in wet sheets and let the fans waft cool air over them.

The evaporative cooler in one form or another has been around more than 2,000 years when the ingenious Egyptians discovered that a hot breeze became cooler when it blew over a damp mat. They began hanging wet mats in doorways to cool their homes. Hence the evaporative cooler: water+electric fan= cool air.

The cooler entered the American popular culture right here in Phoenix, Arizona. The first aspen pad cooler was demonstrated in downtown Phoenix on June 20, 1916. The three-sided box had a two inch shredded aspen pad enclosed in chicken wire nailed to the sides. Water dripped down through the pads, wetting them and the electric fan inside blew the cool air out.

Soon Goettle Brothers began manufacturing metal evaporative coolers. By l939, most homes and businesses were using some form of drip coolers.

This brings us to the story of my parents, Chester and Eva Craig and their evaporative cooler supply business. Our family arrived in Phoenix from West Virginia with two young daughters in August, l942. My parents both had severe health problems and needed the dry climate of Phoenix.  My dad, an industrial engineer, worked at Goodyear during the war. But, of course after the World War Two ended he found there weren’t many calls for industrial engineers in a town the size of Phoenix.

He worked for Palmer Manufacturing and learned the evaporative cooler business. Then in l950,  my parents started the Cooler Supply Company, located in a dark blue building on the corner of 16^th Street and Palm Lane. They sold new coolers, parts and supplies  and most importantly, began manufacturing the best hand made cooler pads in the Southwest.

Nothing smells as good as freshly shredded aspen wood. After wetting down and shaking out the excelsior, you lift armfuls and spread it evenly into various sized trays lined with cheesecloth, tucking the cloth in and stapling it all around the edges. Then you grab the foot long needle threaded with string and take long criss-cross stitches and tie it off with a flourish; two minutes tops. This was accomplished by strictly following dad’s timed, motion studied techniques.

The whole family learned to make pads and daughters also worked the office. Grandkids could count on summer jobs,  but his regular crew of eight or ten employees produced thousands of pads each season. They supplied cooler pads to the school districts, numerous warehouses and local stores. Many hardware stores had one of his metal racks outside on the sidewalk stacked high with plump pads.

When hot, tired customers came into the Cooler Supply for fresh pads each spring, heaven help the homeowner who asked for supplies for his swamp cooler.  My parents gave them all the help they could, but first corrected the errant customer that they were called evaporative, not swamp coolers. They showed them how to scrape the alkali from the louvered panels that holds the pads and then patch any holes in the bottom pan with a thick adhesive.

They sold them new recirculating pumps and clean plastic arms that distributed the water over the pads to insure even flow of water down through the fresh pads.  They usually encouraged them to attach a garden hose to the drain in the bottom of the cooler and let the water run off help water their lawn.

They patiently instructed all newcomers just as the neighbor men had helped my dad on an August day in l942 when we moved into our first house in Phoenix. When dad finished changing the pads in our side draft cooler and refreshing air filled our new home, Mom and we girls decided that maybe we could stay in Arizona, after all.

Just as my dad planned the layout and process of making pads, my mother managed the supervision of the personnel. She insisted on making fresh coffee for the crew’s A. M. and P. M. breaks, not standard procedure in those days.

On Mondays, she always brought samples of a new recipe she had tried the weekend before, along with cuttings from her flower garden to share. As she helped the young women at their worktables, they were given liberal doses of her views on good morals. She advised them to” take the bull by the horns” and break it off with boyfriends that were not treating them respectfully. After all, she would say, “everyone knows that a leopard can’t change his spots”.

When a new girl came to work that was having a hard time financially my sister and I would get a phone call “I have a new girl who is “between the devil and the deep blue sea. Clean out your kids closets and bring down some clothes for the woman’s children.” Those were usually accompanied by a cash advance on her first paycheck.

In the 60s my dad traded his first old green delivery truck for a new blue Ford Econoline. If you lived here in the valley then you might remember the little truck stacked eight feet high with plump, handmade evaporative cooler pads scurrying from store to store around Phoenix. The rumble of the straight six engine bouncing off the pavement could be heard blocks away. Dad supplied the best pads available in the valley, but also gave credit to his vendors. He delivered to Mike Barras in Sunnyslope, Smiths Hardware in Scottsdale and L. L. Smith in the West valley.  He even had outlets in Apache Junction and Flagstaff. Everyone stocked up early in the spring and paid him at the end of the season.

When someone elderly came into the shop we were instructed not to charge them sales tax. My dad always said, “It’s not right to tax old people”. He made it up himself.

After running the small manufacturing plant for over thirty years, my parents sold the business in the early eighties. Chester and Eva Craig and the Cooler Supply Company were an important part of Phoenix commerce during the last half of the 20^th century. In part, because of them, residents here in the valley were better able to endure the scorching, hot summers.

Consider yourself lucky if you have both an AC and an evaporative cooler on your home.

Some of you have heard this Fourth of July story before, but I think it is worth repeating and is new to many other readers.

Let me tell you a story of a little fireworks fun that went out of control in the “flash of an eye” or shall we say “of a rocket?” I’ll never forget the sight of that raging fire that surrounded our home. Many other homes were in danger on that hot night on the fourth of July.

A few young married men in our extended family had pooled their hard-earned money and sent away to other states for fireworks before they became legal in Arizona. After all, what could it hurt? They were going to be real careful.

When the sky grew dark that evening, their first rocket filled the sky with bursts of red, white and then blue stars. From what they thought was a safe sand-filled wash down below our house, the second rocket rose majestically. The third lifted off with the usual speed then, suddenly plummeted straight down the other side of the mountain!

One of the guys raced up the road to the house at the top of the mountain and down the other side. He found the tiny, smoldering fire that had started when the defective rocket hit the dry grass on the mountainside. He tried to snuff it out with his shoes. All at once, an updraft pushed the flames towards him. He stumbled backwards as the fire raced upward, singing the hair on his legs.

“Call the fire department,” he screamed down the mountain. “It’s spreading fast.” He turned on the neighbor’s garden hose and a pitiful stream of water trickled out. There’s not a lot of water pressure when you live on top.

Some of the fellows doing the rocket launching, fearing for the consequences of their activity, jumped into a car and drove off the dispose of the evidence. They threw their expensive fireworks in a dumpster and stayed away several hours. There was a lot of guilt and not too much Fourth of July fun.

Panic was beginning to set in, but cooler heads prevailed and soon everyone was grabbing beach towels, soaking them in the pool and racing back up the mountain to try to beat out the flames.

The fire truck arrived, but the driver couldn’t get the truck up the steep drive. The firemen finally hiked on up with portable equipment on their back. The slippery shale formation on the steep North Mountain slope made it difficult to keep they’re footing as they worked to put out the flames skittering through the brush tops.

The waves of heat were overwhelming. Wind gusts stoked the tinder provided by bone-dry leaves, twigs and dead branches. The fire sped towards the houses that ringed the bottom of the mountain and the homeowners worked desperately with their more abundant water supply.

“We sure want to thank you folks for helping us put out this fire tonight.” One fireman said when it was over. He pushed his helmet back from a face etched with grimy patterns of exhaustion. “Especially all you young people. I’ve never seen a group pitch in and work so furiously,” he continued.

Eyes were kept downcast as the young males in our extended family tried their best not to look guilty. “By the way,” the sweat-drenched fireman continued, “Does anyone know how it started?”

“Sure don’t”, our generous neighbor quickly answered. His home, on top of this mountain, had survived flames lapping at its foundation, minutes before.

The next morning, the black remains of mature Paloverde trees stood in mute testimony of the near disaster on the scorched desert mountain. It was three or four years before enough green foliage allowed the small desert animals to return and the sound of morning doves were heard again.

“Summer Melt Down”

By

Gerry Niskern

Summer in Phoenix and the Valley of the sun means only one thing. How to keep cool!  There are all kinds of ways to chill. There are our swimming pools, water parks and air conditioning everywhere, but at the end of the day; everyone is looking for an ice cream shop.

Back a few years, we had Woods Candy Kitchen, downtown on West Washington. Their fudge was heavenly, but their ice cream was even better especially after a Saturday morning movie.

Of course, there were several Upton’s Ice Cream Shops around the valley. One was at Five Points intersection, right next door to the town skating rink. Nothing like a thick chocolate shake to cool down after a warm evening of roller-skating. They used to make it in a large metal blender, pour your glass full and leave the can. The charge for this shake was one whole dime!

Donofrios served sodas with a large scoop balanced on the rim of the glass  at their restaurant on Washington and later on too, when they moved  to the West side of Central between Van Buren and Monroe.

On date night, the only place to take your girl friend for an ice cream treat after the movie was the Polar Bar Drive In. The teenager’s cars cruising Central ended up at the Polar Bar that featured all kinds of ice cram concoctions, but their specialties were their 50 cent Sissies and dollar Zombies; no one could finish one of the Zombies, but some guys sure tried.

I think the forerunner of the Dairy Queens was a little shop on l7th Ave and Jefferson, across from the State Capitol that had the first soft serve ice cream in Phoenix. It was a creamy delight.

Of course, the ideal pleasure for our palates in earlier times in Phoenix was homemade ice cream. Every family in our clan owned a large hand turning freezer, at least a 6-quart. They gathered at our house, first making a stop at the icehouse up on 19^th Ave and about McKinley.  The large blocks of ice they bought were wrapped in burlap.

Later on, Crystal Ice had big yellow dispensing boxes on many corners. It was coin operated and you could have your choice of a ten-pound block or a great labor saving bag of crushed.

Before we moved to Arizona, back in West Virginia, someone always made fresh peach. The creamy peach flavor had golden pink gems with bits of nectar throughout. The strawberry ice cream was tart, tasty and loaded with sweet berries. Raspberry, black or red was my favorite as a kid. It was easy then because we had a small farm with all kinds of fruit trees and berry patches.

Fresh banana was heavenly but for the purists in the family, there was always mixed vanilla with fresh milk, rich cream and loving care.

While the women were combining the luscious blends, the men worked furiously with their ice picks on the blocks of ice in the yard. Chips of ice flew through the air, and if a large sliver landed on the grass, it quickly found its way into a kid’s mouth. The teenagers disappeared when the cranking started, but could be counted on to show up when the cans were ready to be opened and the paddles with icy chunks clinging to the blades lifted out.

One year, Uncle John, who always drove the latest model Oldsmobile, showed up with a surprise. He carried a large box into the yard and lifted out a miraculous new freezer. Instead of a handle to turn the ice cream, there was a motor on top. Imagine not having to hand crank the cream for an hour!

My dad and the other men gathered around and watched enviously as he layered rock salt and ice into the bucket around the shiny new can and plugged it in. Uncle John strutted around chewing on his cigar and razzing the other men as they sweated over their freezers. After 20 minutes, just as written on the instructions, the motor on the new freezer stopped.

We all gathered around for our first taste of ice cream made the modern way. As we drifted away and began to eat, we realized something was wrong. At first we thought we were imaging it, but no, it was salty. Real Salty!

Gradually, one by one, we slipped behind the garage and dumped our bowls and went to fill them from one of the other freezers. No one had the heart to say anything about the salty taste from the wonder new electric freezer.

At the end of the day, when the women were washing up their freezer cans to take home, Aunt Sophie, Uncle John’s wife, held hers under the facet in the yard to rinse it. Sever streams of water spouted from the seams along the side of the can. The salty ice cream mystery was solved!

The tradition of homemade ice cream in the hot Phoenix summers has lingered on in our family. A while ago, I was getting a little concerned about our frozen pleasures. You see, our old freezer gave out and I went shopping for a new one. After trying several department stores and being told they only carry one-quart frozen yogurt makers, I was frustrated. However, I wasn’t nearly as bewildered as the young clerks who answered my questions as I continued my search by phone.

Most of the people I talked to didn’t have a clue of what I was talking about when I asked, “Do you carry ice cream freezers?” I could tell by their vague replies that they thought ice cream came in paper cartons from the local supermarket.

The Fourth of July is coming up Try bringing back the tradition of summer family gatherings featuring homemade ice cream. You can choose electric, but hand turners are still available. The kids will love helping turn the handle and the sweat equity they put into it will make their first bowl, whether its strawberry, peach, or vanilla, taste delicious!

Try an old fashioned freezer celebration (they still make and sell them) for a fantastic summer meltdown!

“Future Father”

By

Gerry Niskern

My adult kids have read this remembrance before. I hope when they see it posted this Father’s Day, they will read it again as a way of remembering  “Dad”!

When I was ten years old I saw a boy walking past our new Arizona home. He was whistling a catchy tune. He had black wavy hair and wore a funny hat covered with button pins, Years later that young man became the father of my children.

I asked my husband what he had taught his kids.  “Nothing, that I can think of,” he replied. His offspring beg to differ!

Monday’s Child, grew up taking anything apart that had nuts and bolts and threads. Sooner or later his dad had to teach him how to put things back together. “Right-tighty” and “Lefty-Lucy” was the motto.  They shared the love of building and mechanics. Dad taught him to start a nail straight. “He also taught me at Bob’s Big Boy that Thousand Island dressing goes great on hamburgers”

Thursday’s Child remembers dad teaching her how to ride her first bike. She got the blue Schwin  for Christmas when she was six.  He ran along beside it , ready to grab because her feet couldn’t touch the ground.

“Dad taught me how to play jacks. He was really good at it. And best of all, he took us shopping at Christmas time for mom’s gift. One present in particular was a matching silk turquoise gown and robe with gold embroidered trim. Great shopping impressed me!”

Tuesday’s Child says “Dad taught us how to play poker. He also gave me a respect for the beauty of nature even though I used to hate it when dad tied up the TV with nature shows. He also taught me how to walk through life without prejudice and a natural sense of equality between the sexes.”

They all remember the whole family playing hide and seek in the house and dad putting them up in the linen closet where mom didn’t look. In those days they got piggyback rides to bed. If they talked him into playing his accordion, bedtime was later.

I’m guessing that the things most people remember their dad teaching them are similar. Not how to make a million dollars or discover a cure for a disease, just the everyday little things that kids need to know.

It turns out that that kid with the funny hat covered with pins was pretty knowledgeable about a lot of subjects. Who knew?

SUMMER VACATIONS

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you a transplant headed home this summer?

Is home where you can find Mama’s luscious lasagna or Aunt Edna’s peach pie with tender crust that rests under a scoop of homemade ice cream?

Perhaps where your clan gathers the tomatoes are big enough to cover a slice of bread and taste like a tomato should. Maybe you’ll have a glass of cold buttermilk out on the porch of the old farmhouse or pancakes with fresh blue berries.

But the truth is, when headed home, everyone is really looking for something more than food when the family gathers. That’s the sharing of family stories.

When we went “back home”  when I was a teen, my first reaction was, ‘I don’t know these people. Why do we have to visit them?’ But soon I found my self hanging around the dining table laughing at the stories being recalled. I was amazed to learn that my very proper daddy had burned down the family garage when he was four

He couldn’t tell his mother it was on fire because he still couldn’t talk very well. “After all”, my aunt explained, “he was the baby in our family and didn’t have to talk”.

Years later, at a family reunion our own  kids heard about how their “safety first” dad went badger hunting with his older gun toting cousins and their pack of Greyhounds in Texas when he was only  five years old.  He was told to sit on top of the Badger hole and another little cousin made to sit on the other hole. The strategy was that they would slow the Badger down when he came out and the older boys could shoot it. However, there was one problem. The Badger just about scratched the five year old to pieces on the way out!

Our nephews who endured their dads lectures on the dangers of smoking, loved hearing about how their daddy was caught many times sitting behind a chair puffing on his uncle’s cigar when he was only two years old.

Everyone, if we are lucky, will have many of these family interludes. The old stories and laughter are the catalyst that holds the clan together. The kids take it all in and realize that when they were growing up, mom and dad were a little naughty sometimes. It kind of levels the playing field, doesn’t it?

“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!