“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!

“Mother’s Day, is Every Day”

By

Gerry Niskern

Moms and food go together. With my mother, it was food and family stories with a moral.

One of my first memories is of my mother making cottage cheese. Of course, that brings us to buttermilk; cold, tangy, buttermilk. When I was three, I was allowed to help pump the churn plunger up and down.

Dad worked in town, but mom loved living in the country. She plowed, planted and hoed large gardens; then canned vegetables and fruit every summer. She made deep fried fritters with chunks of peaches, apricots and plums.

I enjoy the ongoing debate of today’s young mothers. Should they work or be a stay-at home mother? With mom, there was no question. She was a working mom; in the barn, kitchen and the garden.

But always, along with the chores was a running monologue of her opinions on democracy, morals and life in general.

In the l930’s, during the dark days of the depression, one or two men came to our back door every day. They asked if they could get a drink from our pump and  could do some work for a bite to eat. Mom never let anyone go away hungry. Occasionally, I was trusted to carry a battered tin pie pan heaped with steaming eggs and generous slices of homemade bread out to the destitute man. Mom followed with a fresh pot of coffee. She never allowed anyone to call them Bums, they were just men looking for work.

When my adult kids are reminiscing about grandma’s cooking, they ask,  “Was the Sunday roast beef, with mashed potatoes and gravy, the “to die for” meatloat, or the fresh green beans, seasoned with bacon , the best? “

Personally, I think the chicken and homemade noodles win, hands down.

On second thought, I forgot to mention Halupkis. Every European country had  their version of cabbage rolls. Each roll, (leaf of cooked cabbage), contained a delicious mixture of ground beef, pork and rice.

I should mention the creamy dill flavored potato soup. Of course, my husband voted for her pies.  She baked two every Saturday up until the day she left us.

In her kitchen, while cooking, Mom taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.

I wonder if many of today’s young mothers who occasionally announce that they are “cooking tonight” will be remembered so well?

“Play Date”

By

Gerry Niskern

I have a play date! I’m going to the Phoenix Theatre to see ‘Sisters in Law.”

I’m reminded of “play dates” that I’ve had years ago with various grandchildren.

The first was around five when she invited three of her little friends from kindergarten to go with us. We picked them up one at a time and headed down Central Ave in my white convertible with gold trim and red leather seats. These little girls from the suburbs were amazed looking up at the tall buildings we passed on our way to the Phoenix Children’s Theatre. At that time, it was located in one of the old Christian churches just south of Margaret Hance Park. The girls had fun running up and down the  wide cement steps that ran across the front entrance. Then after the play,  they raced down those steps to be first to get auto graphs of the actors. Imagine, the Princess or the frog actually talked to them!

I remember listening in on one short conversation when each one stated what their Daddy did. One said hers sold insurance, another worked at a bank and another an electrician. But when my granddaughter said my Daddy works at Cox, they looked puzzled and said,”What’s that?”. “You know!” she replied, “That’s TV!” That was met with a respectful chorus of “ohhhhhhhhh”. She was the president of that club!

When one grandson was four and ready for play going, as everyone was clapping politely at the appropriate times during the performance, he proceeded to pump his fists and shout “Whoo. Whoo. Whoo!”

When it was his rough and tumble younger brother’s turn to start play going, I was hesitant. I wasn’t sure it was his “cup of tea.” He was very quiet during “Beauty and the Beast”. Maybe he’s bored, I thought. But later, when I asked him how he liked it, with big eyes, he replied,”I loved it!”. Even tough guys can be melted.

Later on, we started going to the Valley Youth Theatre. The kids were allowed to sit down front close to the stage. When the baseball player’s little sister came for the first time, she came running back to tell me to “come see the really huge guitar!” She had been looking down into the orchestra pit and spied a bass fiddle. Of all the kids and all the play dates, that last granddaughter was the only one who turned to me after watching her first performance and ask “When can I do that?”

“Let the Hunts Begin”

By

Gerry Niskern

Tell the kids to get out their running shoes and practice their wind sprints. The furry rabbit with the huge ears is coming. Grandmothers all over the valley will be one step ahead of the pack showing the baby where the Easter eggs are hidden, while the older children shout, “No fair!”

Years ago, our kids and their cousins thought the Easter Bunny only left his eggs on the desert. Thanks to grandma and grandpa, prior to our annual picnic, the eggs were hidden early on Easter morning among the rocks at Carefree.  Needless to say, there were no houses or resorts to intrude on the quest for eggs among the huge boulders.

The simple egg is perhaps the oldest and most universal symbol of rebirth and new life. The decorations and celebrations of the holiday may change with new generations, but the tradition of dyeing eggs in spring colors and giving them to family and friends goes way back. The Egyptians and Persians practiced this tradition long before Christ was born.

How did the egg come to Easter? In the Middle Ages it was forbidden to eat eggs during the 40 days of Lent. However, the hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter egg tradition was born. The European countries, especially the Ukrainians, developed beautiful egg patterns, called the pysanky method. Ukrainian egg kits can even be ordered online.

Easter’s place on the calendar was not actually fixed to the Sunday after the first full moon of spring until 325 AD by Roman Emperor Constantine. He may also get credit for starting the traditional Easter Parade. The Emperor ordered every citizen to wear his best clothing to observe the Holy Day.

Different cultures have developed their own unique ways of decorating Easter eggs. The typical young Easter egg artist starts out with wax crayons, delicate designs to follow and great anticipation. If they’re like our family, after the first few eggs are colored and cups of dye spilled, the job becomes a little rushed.

Actually, there is something for everyone. In the computer world, you don’t have to wait for Easter for that egg hunt. Easter eggs can be found in computer hardware, software and DVD’s any time of the year. Computer Easter eggs are harmless “goodies” found by word of mouth or accident. Click the right spot, edit the right file, or type in the secret sequence and you will find the name of the programmer who created the product or sometimes even a game you can play. Programmers started writing Easter eggs for several reasons; mostly as a way to leave their signature on a program that the company actually gets credit for.

These eggs have recently been added, especially to DVDs with the blessing of the manufacturer to create some excitement for the product. A number of Web sites catalog Easter eggs for easy finding.

I guess I’d have to say one of the funniest Easter stories I remember was told by a young friend of mine. Seems she was always warning her hubby too watch his “salty” language around the baby. On Easter morning their little two- year- old started with her basket to find eggs.  With every egg she spotted, imagine her mother’s shock to hear, “There’s a !!#@#!** Egg!” Instead of daddy being chagrined, he kept inviting neighbors over to “listen to my daughter find Easter eggs.”

So as I said, there’s something for everyone.

By

Gerry Niskern

“April fool!” Can you remember hearing those words as a kid after one of your friends pulled a really good April Fool joke on you?

When most of us were children the best April Fool jokes were ones that we could pull were the simple ones we thought of our self. There were no props involved. Just our creative minds conjuring up an outrageous fact that surprisingly was believable; at least to our most gullible friends.

There are all kinds of props advertised online to use for April Fool jokes. Those are fine, but a little creativity is the most satisfying.

No one knows exactly where or when April Fools day started and why, but since the 1700’s, it seems every country has an April Fools day. Sometimes it is called All Fools Day.  So watch out Monday. Nothing you hear is credible. Check everything out. There is always a predictable internet hoax by some corporations to fool their customers.

I remember one April Fool’s Day during unusually hot weather, a radio host in Phoenix, told his audience about a misting system planned by the city. It would be strung high above all the sidewalks. The system would use reconstituted water from the sewers and would cost the city virtually nothing in water bills. Surprisingly, a large segment of his listeners believed it and flooded the city’s phone lines with indignant protests.

Of course, I have to tell you one of my best April Fool’s Day jokes. We were having a terrible storm for April. Cold wind and rain that turned into “unheard of” ;light snow briefly here in Phoenix. We lived on the top of a little mountain at the end of 14^th street, with a long, steep driveway. I called my grandson, aged eleven, and told him the neighborhood kids were having a blast skiing down our driveway. He begged him mom to drive him over and it took her a while to convince him I was “April Fooling” him.

“On This Corner” # 4

By

Gerry Niskern

A gray granite building stands on the southeast corner of Central Ave and Monroe. Back in the l940’s, if your mother took you to the doctor or dentist, chances are his office was in that multi-storied Professional building that was the pride of valley residents.

When I was growing up in Phoenix the lobby of the Valley National Bank occupied that corner space.

I loved to make the trip uptown on the streetcar with mom when she deposited my dad’s paycheck. Together we pushed open the massive beveled glass and brass doors to the bank lobby. Polished marble covered the floor and walls of the elegant room with breathtaking high ceilings.

I don’t know why, but everyone spoke in hushed tones. While she waited in line for a teller, I clicked my heels across the marble floor to my favorite spot. I stood in front of a large wall mounted relief map of Arizona. I studied the mountains and valleys of our state with fascination because each town was designated by a gemstone. I longed to reach out and touch the red, blue and green stones and remember stealing furtive glances at the white haired bank guard who always stood beside the map. I thought his job was to guard those stones in the map!

The personnel offices for the bank were on one of the upper floors. I applied for my first job there. The Valley National Bank turned out to be a great place to work in the early l950’s.  There were only a couple of drawbacks. During Rodeo time when the vigilante for the Jaycees came up to “arrest” any of the girls who were not in western wear during rodeo week. They didn’t hesitate to drag out the girls who were hiding in the restroom.  Also, the vice-president requested a kiss from each of the girls in the office when he passed out their paychecks twice a month. Needless to say, the MeTooMovement hadn’t been heard of back then!

Years later,  my little toddler and I pushed open the heavy glass doors together.  I carried a heavy paper sack full of pennies from her piggy bank into the lobby. We were there to open her first savings account. But this time, I stood in line while she wandered over to look at the brilliant map. I was happy to see the same white-haired guard was still there guarding my precious stones!

I wrote this several years ago when the sculpture was first installed. Soon after ASU opened a  downtown campus and students could be seen relaxing and enjoying the grassy spot below “Her name is patience”. Now, I’ve just learned my great-granddaughter will be attending classes at the ASU Nursing School. I’m sure she will be enjoying the beautiful and unique sculpture too.!

“The Sky is Blooming!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you seen it? The sky is blooming in downtown Phoenix. The city workers just installed the floating sculpture, by Janet Echelman, over the new Civic Space that’s North of Van Buren between 1^st Avenue and Central.

“Sky Bloom”, as we’ve grown accustomed to calling the art piece that is 100 feet wide, stands about 100 feet in the air.  It’s official name is “Her secret is patience,” from an Emerson poem.

Turns out the title is appropriate since the installation was delayed a few times. The first attempt to install the 600 pounds of flexible netting was aborted when it was discovered it didn’t fit the two steel rings to which it would be attached. It was sent back for refitting.

Then this morning, the day before Easter, as the crew gathered, heavy rain started. Later the sun came thru and caught the variegated colors of blue as the wind moved and shaped the ever changing sculpture as it was installed by daring young men in buckets on very long booms!

My resident historian and I drove down and watched. Of course, there was some grumbling from my partner on the way. “It will never go over with the public. They better sew an address tag on it.  The  state that it blows to will know where to send it back”

We’ve all heard the numerous complaints from the naysayers. “The city should have just put up a shade screen over the park!” and “It’s going to rot in the sun; won’t last ten years and it will have to be replaced!”

I had heard the same kind of complaining at home when the city announced the Light Rail project.  “They’re just streetcars. We had them before and never should have gotten rid of them”. The grumbling continued. “The sculpture money should have been spent on other things”. Of course, he really knows that the money was not part of the General Fund and was set aside for the Arts and had to be used for that.

Phoenix joins many cities around the world who have commissioned Echelman to create large, fabric sculptures to enhance their public spaces.  Google her, if you haven’t already, and learn about the other cities and see the other iconic pieces she has created.

Light from the sun and synthetic light by night casts line drawings on those underneath and passersby, making them an active part of the piece. And as one young man was heard to pronounce, “At least it’s not another statue of a dead guy”.

No matter where you live in the valley, come to downtown Phoenix and see our “sky in bloom”.

Take the streetcar.

“My Mother, the Investment  Banker”

by

Gerry Niskern

Have you been to your bank lately? Do you even know where your bank is located this week? Whether you live in Paradise Valley or Peoria, It’s hard to keep track of your money when the name of your bank changes as often as Arizona’s spring weather.

My mother, like the mothers in most families, controlled the purse strings. When I was a child I loved to accompany her to the Valley National  Bank at the corner of Central Avenue and Monroe in downtown Phoenix. There were no handy branch banks anywhere in the valley nor had anyone heard of  “drive-in banking.”

Together, we pushed the ten-foot high polished brass door open. The entire inside bank lobby was shining marble. I was allowed to wander around, heels clicking on the slick floor, while the adults conducted their business in hushed tones. I invariably headed straight for the large copper topographic map of Arizona mounted on one wall. A different precious gem marked each town.   Just as I was getting up the nerve to reach out and touch one of the beautiful stones, Mom was ready to leave.

She meticulously counted out her bills and never failed to remind me that her mother, my grandmother, had always kept her money pinned in a handkerchief to her apron pocket. It was handy to pay the insurance man when he came to collect on her nickel life insurance policies each week. Also, Grandma could easily slip a few dollars to a newly married son who had been laid off at work.

Distrust of banks seemed to run in her family. My grandma and grandpa both had long suspected the other of hoarding secret savings. Try as they might, neither could find the other’s loot. One morning before dawn, the smell of smoke filled the neighborhood. Seeing the haystack on fire, Grandma, nightgown flapping behind, set a new record for the hundred-yard dash. She grabbed a pitchfork and rescued her cache of bills hidden deep in the hay. After that she had to find a new hiding place.

As the years went by and I left home, the task of banking for the small family business was my mother’s.  One day, at my urging, she decided to try the new drive-thru window. She had her deposit slip all filled out. She pulled in and reached for the shiny new cylinder. She turned it this way and that way. She twisted the top…looked for a slot in the side. Finally, in frustration, she told us later, she put the can back in its’ place, backed her car out and went home.

Mom was willing to try anything once. When the new ATM machines were installed in front of the bank she gave it a whirl. She inserted her card and withdrew twenty dollars. When the twenty came forward in the slot she decided to be very efficient and record it in her checkbook first. Then, as she reached for the twenty, it was just disappearing back into the slot. The pushed to withdraw twenty dollars again. This time she got her money, but the receipt read twenty dollars overdrawn!

A few years later on cold, blustery day Mom decided it would be a convenient time to give the drive through window another chance. The transaction went well. When her cylinder came back with the cash from her check, she inadvertently grabbed it by the catch and dropped it. Bills flew off in the wind and coins rolled everywhere. She pulled forward in order to get out of the car and then crawled on her hands and knees to retrievthe cash. She placed the forlorn cylinder, totally flat after being crushed by her rear tire, back on the stand and drove off midst the blare of car horns.

After that incident, she was heard to remark, “Maybe keeping your money pinned in your apron pocket wasn’t such a bad idea after all!”

As told to me

By

Gerry Niskern

During the time that we were remodeling our house, he always wanted to know exactly how each section was done.When he was five he demanded that his Grandpa tell him exactly what electricity looked like. He alwaysarrived with a book in hand and brought a carry on full of books when invited him on a trip to the beach.

Therefore, I wasn’t surprised when great-grandson # 1 wanted to tell me about an opportunity and moving experience. He is finishing up his third year of medical school and doing his Ob/Gyn rotation.

“ It was an unplanned delivery. The Mom had eclampsia which means her blood pressure was dangerously high. They rushed her over to the hospital from her office visit. She was almost full term so it wasn’t too early.

Doctor let me do more this time than he did the last C-section. I helped tear the abdominal muscles apart so we had access to the uterus. Once we had the amniotic sac in view he let me break the water. The sac was like a giant malleable water balloon and the membrane was soft and jellylike. It broke very easily. Probably could have just done it by pinching it. It was very memorable because when you break it warm slippery fluid gushes forth and covers everything including my hands. We wear big water proof booties for protection that go up to the knees.

The most surreal part is that the mom is awake during the whole thing…just chatting away with the anesthesiologist at the head of the table while we’re rooting around in her abdomen. Jammed down on her upper abdomen to help push the baby out.

Doc quickly handed it to me once he had it out, and jokingly said to me. “Don’t drop the baby!” I took it over to the baby station while it cried. I was very careful. The baby just felt warm. Not slippery or wiggly. It just felt alive!

Spent the next hour sewing all the layers back up. Everything went well and everyone is healthy. At the end the Mom was doped up on drugs while we cleaned her up. She told me I’ll be a good doctor. Haha.”

I think she’s right.