“Not so far apart”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you had your car tires rotated lately? Takes a while, doesn’t it?   Last week, after a long wait, I attempted to chat with another woman.

“There’s fresh coffee over there,” I remarked as I joined her.

“I don’t drink coffee,” was her terse reply.

Fine. I returned to my paper. Later I noticed her examining the carpet under our feet. Soon we were discussing floorcovering. The wear and tear by grandkids. Ah…..Today’s children.  She had twenty grandchildren.  I had three.

It’s not easy for parents or kids these days, we both agreed. Our instant rapport didn’t seem to call for introductions.

“You know, it didn’t take much to entertain us when I was a kid,” she said. “We put on our bathing suits and played in the water when they flooded East Lake Park.”

“I remember splashing through the irrigation water at the state capital,” I chimed in. We realized we both were kids in the 40’s in Phoenix. She went to Booker T. Washington and I attended Jackson and Adams schools. Carver High for African-American kids was her alma mater and mine was Phoenix Union. Her family lived at 16^th Street and Jefferson. My home was on 17^th Avenue and West Madison. Only thirty-three blocks, but worlds apart.

“We rode the streetcar uptown to the movies on Sunday,” I reminisced.                    “So did we,” she laughed, “but only if we had attended church in the morning.”

“Really! My Dad had the same rule”

While we waited for our cars, we discovered we agreed on many things.  The standard of living has changed.  It’s difficult to monitor television after school when both parents have to work to make ends meet.  Back then, when we wanted to go to the movies all our parents had to worry about was if they could afford the dime admission, not what the rating was. Today’s kids are saturated with violence on the tube and at the flicks. They’re becoming hardened to the idea of death.

“The boys all carried pocket knives when I was a girl. The Boy Scout knives were accepted. Parents didn’t give it a second thought,” I reminisced.

“Yes,” she acknowledged, “But many of the kids that are carrying a weapon now days have an intent. It’s not the same.”

“I lost a grandson,” she said suddenly. “He was killed in his neighborhood. I believe if he had stayed with his daddy when his parents were divorced, he would still be alive today. Children need a strong role model, someone special they can look up to!”

“I agree.” I said. “It’s hard for parents to teach them what’s really important.”

“There’s one way that I know,” she volunteered. “We have a family meeting once a month. We discuss anything that’s troubling one of the family, young or old. They need a sounding board and we provide it. If one of the children needs traveling money to participate in a school event, I tell them, I want ten or twenty dollars from each of you. You can spare it. He needs our support.”

“Good idea,” I replied. “My family works hard to maintain family traditions on holidays. We concentrate on those games that involve everyone, from ages five to eighty-five. Generations communicate and it’s good fun competing and laughing together.”

My car was finished first and as I shook hands with my new friend I was thinking, “Sixteenth Street and Seventeenth Avenue wasn’t so far apart after all.”

“Imagine your home surrounded by fire!

By

Gerry Niskern

Every year the firefighters in our valley brace themselves for the Independence Day celebrations. When Fourth of July approaches and the desert grasses bake to a brittle brown, they can count on small wildfires set by firecrackers.

I’ll never forget sight of a raging fire that surrounded our home a few years ago.  Our home wasn’t the only one in danger. Some young adults at our own pool party were the ones who started the blaze. Not on purpose, of course. But then, it never is, is it?

These young fellows all grew up in Arizona and had felt deprived because, at that time, our state legislators had wisely banned the sale of fireworks to the public. They bought rockets out of state.

As the sky grew dark that Fourth of July evening, their first rocket filled the sky with bursts of red, white, then blue stars. From a seemingly safe, sand-filled desert 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 top of the mountain and down the other side. He found the smoldering tiny fire that had started when the defective rocket hit the grassy hillside. He tried to snuff the fire. Then, all at once, an updraft pushed the flames towards him. He stumbled backwards as the fire raced upward, singeing the hair on his legs.

“Call the fire department,” he screamed. “It’s spreading fast” He turned on the neighbor’s garden hose on top the mountain, and a pitiful stream of water tricked out. There is not a lot of water pressure when you live on top. Panic was beginning to set in, but soon everyone was grabbing beach towels, soaking them in the pool and racing back up the mountain to beat out the flames.

The firemen arrived and but couldn’t get their fire truck up the steep drive. They finally hiked on up with portable equipment on their back.  The slippery shale formation on the steep mountain made it difficult to keep their 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 dry leaves, bone dry twigs and dead branches.  The fire sped towards the houses that ringed the bottom of the mountain as those homeowners worked desperately with their more abundant water supply.

“We sure want to thank you folks for helping us put out the fire tonight,” one fireman said when it was over. He pushed his helmet back from a face etched with grimy patterns of exhaustion. “ I’ve never seen a group pitch in and work so furiously, especially all you young people.” he continued. Our (fireworks committee) couldn’t look him in the eye.

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

“Scents of Summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you planning a trip back home this summer? Are you going to visit family and friends, or is your trip really about capturing the memories of “the good old summertime?”

While walking past a newly moved lawn the other day, it occurred to me that the charisma of summertime is all in the smell. Think about it. Does that fragrance of freshly cut lawn remind you of rolling down grassy banks with your cousins amid peals of laughter? Or perhaps the aroma of grass was mingled with the scent of the dust freshly watered down for the first pitch in your baseball game. You can smell it now, can’t you?

After the game nothing was better than the tangy citrus scent of cold lemonade unless it was the first icy gulp after a hot game.

If you grew up here in the valley, surely you remember the aroma

the cantaloupe sheds out on Grand Ave as you drove past this time of year. How long since  cantaloupes in the supermarket smelled like that?

Speaking of melons there used to a family on West Jefferson, around llth Avenue, that sold the best watermelons in the valley. They kept them cold in large soda pop coolers. After much thumping and checking for sugar spots, your mother selected her melon.  They always plugged it for her. No need. They were all winners. Everyone gathered around the table at home. When she slid the knife into the dark rind, the melon split apart with a loud crack releasing the familiar sweet aroma.  It was heaven.

The fragrance of honey suckle and roses mingled with the ripe figs in our neighborhood. When the temperature hovered at 115, the smell of hot tar in the asphalt while we were bike riding was even stronger than the pungent odor of the Tamarisk trees as we relaxed on a wide limb while cooling off in the shade of the branches.

Summertime always sent older sisters out into the back yard seeking a tan. Soon the exotic smell of coconut oil rose from warm bodies. Inside the house the fresh, clean cooler pads made from shredded aspen wood meant summer was here.

Saturday brought the scorch of hot iron on the damp cloth as mom pressed dad’s pants for Sunday church. If you were allowed to go downtown on Saturday, the candy counters at Newberrys or Woolworth on Washington beckoned with chocolate aroma. And if that didn’t take your quarter, then the Carmel corn shop on Monroe tried.

The odor of cigars wrinkled your nostrils if you stepped into the lobby of the Adams hotel, just for a peek, of course. A trip past the Chinese Green Dragon that emitted the wonderful aroma of onions and spices on East Jefferson wasn’t on the way to anything, but the giant green neon dragon was fascinating to watch.

If the movie theatre was your destination, the smell of freshly popped corn beckoned.

Sunday afternoon meant family picnic time at Riverside Park down on South Central Avenue. The swimming pool was great. Then again, wading through the footbath that reeked with the smell of heavy chlorine you were required to walk through before entering the pool was gross. After a cool swim, the sputtering and popping of roasting hot dogs mingled with the vinagery smell of Mom’s potato salad. We washed it all down with a bottle of Barq’s, root beer, orange or strawberry.

The summer week was complete.

REMEMBERING ONE FATHER

By

Gerry Niskern

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.

Monday’s Child, started out by 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?

REMEMBERING ONE FATHER

By

Gerry Niskern

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.

Monday’s Child, started out by 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?

Instant Genealogy

By

Gerry Niskern

It’s that time of the year again; the holidays. Families will be criss crossing the country, going back home.

The truth is, there is something everyone will look forward to more than Grandma’s cooking.  That’s the sharing of family stories.

I recall as a toddler, standing around my Austrian grandma’s kitchen and listening to her chuckles and chatter with cousins visiting from Europe. They were having a good time reminiscing.  I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, except for my grandma’s one and only  English phrase,  “Damn right!”

Years later, I was a teenager when relatives visited my parents out here in Arizona. My first reaction was, “I don’t have time for these people. I don’t really know them anyway.” But before I knew it, I was hanging around the dining room table late into the evening 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 years old…and he couldn’t tell his mother what he’d done because he still couldn’t talk.  After all, my aunt explained, “he was the baby of our family and he didn’t have to talk.”

Years later, after my husband’s parents were gone,  some cousins stopped at our house to visit. Our kids learned a thing or two about their dad’s childhood.  They couldn’t believe that when their daddy was about five years old he was allowed to go badger hunting with his older cousins and their pack of greyhounds in west Texas. According to the story, “he was talked into sitting on top of one badger hole and another little cousin was told to sit on another hole. That strategy was supposed to slow the badger down when it came out, and the older boys could shoot it. There was one problem. The badger just about scratched the gullible five year old to pieces trying to get away.”

Our nephews, who were always being lectured by their dad about the dangers of smoking, loved the story about their daddy caught sitting behind a chair puffing on his uncle’s cigar every chance he got, when he was only two years old

As the years go by, everyone, if we’re lucky, will have more and more of these family interludes in our life.  All these stories affirm that we are indeed a family connected and the laughter is the catalyst that holds the clan together. The kids take it all in and come to realize that when they were growing up, mom and dad weren’t perfect, in fact, even a little naughty sometimes. That’s good for everyone. It kind of levels the playing field a little, doesn’t it?

“8^th grade graduation debate”

By

Gerry Niskern

“Adams we sing to thee,

School that we love,

Let our voices ring out clearly.

To the skies above”

            Those were the words we sang as my 8^th grade graduation class marched into the auditorium at Adams School one morning in May of l946.

Much has changed since then.  As those students went on to high school, college, marriage and raised families, many of our social trends changed too.

The more rapidly our society became affluent, the ways in which we honored our 8^th grade graduates grew more elaborate. Parents gradually went overboard.

The ceremonies became more elaborate in most schools with expensive suits for the boys. The girls tottered across the stage in high heels matching $200 dresses.  There were limos ordered to transport the graduates to their parties in many areas.

I’ll be the first to admit, years later , as the parent of a middle school graduate, I was as guilty of succumbing to neighborhood peer pressure as anyone else. When our first child graduated from middle school, we were living in an affluent California neighborhood. My daughter and I spent hours shopping for the perfect dress and then, of course,  she had to have her hair done. Next we found out that “everyone’s parents were taking the graduates out to a special dinner before the ceremony”. Needless to say, our budget did not match the norm at that school!

That’s how it starts. Everyone’s doing it.

Later there was a move by the Arizona state lawmakers to prevent school districts from issuing certificates of 8^th grade graduation. There was concern that with the elaborate celebrations the kids will get the idea that their education is finished.  The lawmakers also felt that immigrant families need to be reminded that education is not complete at 8^th grade. They need to pursue higher education.

Perhaps the legislators will also reconsider the law they passed this year ruling that “Dreamers”, no matter how many years they attended school here or regardless of scholastic achievements, had to pay “out of state” tuition at our universities? How encouraging is that?

Let’s not lose sight of one fact that graduating from 8^th grade has always been a sense of accomplishment; 8 years of classes, homework and test were completed!

That class of mine that marched into the auditorium of Adams School years ago singing the school song was accompanied on two pianos by two girls from our class. We girls wore dresses we had labored over in Home EC class. Identical pattern, but  a choice of pastel eyelet material.  The boys wore dress pants and good shirts.

When the ceremony was over, a group of us, boys and girls, trooped several blocks west to our primary school, Jackson, to say hello to our former teachers. We stopped by one fellow’s house and his mom took snapshots. At the next stop, My mother threw together  some sandwiches for my  unexpected crowd. Then off we went downtown to the movies.

In other words, we made our own celebration, the best kind.

“A Memorial Day for Everyone”

By

Gerry Niskern

What does Memorial Day mean to you? Nearly everyone thinks of it as a fun filled break from the work or school; perhaps a family get-together or a trip out of town.

Memorial Day has always been a day to remember; a time to think of the loved ones in the family who have passed on. It is only in recent years that the total emphasis was placed on honoring the war dead.

When I was a kid May 30^th was called Decoration Day. Our family had fun on that special day too, but first we started the day by decorating the graves of loved ones, including the soldiers in the family.

We kids pulled weeds while our parents clipped overgrown grass around the family plots. Then we placed jars of spring wildflowers picked earlier that morning, by the headstones.

After our work was finished, we walked with Mom among the headstones in the cemetery. She gave us a running commentary about grandparents, aunts and uncles who had passed on.  We learned who had been honest, hardworking, law abiding and who hadn’t. Her stories conveyed clearly who was respected and why.

Today the majority of children are not taken to memorial services of family members. It’s a bit ironic that most kids are allowed to play video games that include violence and death routinely yet are sheltered from real deaths.

Here’s an idea. Why not consider a family session on this Memorial Day to remember and honor the dead. Is there someone’s grave you need to visit? Take the kids with you. If you haven’t been here in the valley long and don’t have a place to visit, get out the family photo albums. Tell your kids what kind of a man Grandpa was. Was he in the service? Where did he work?  How did Grandma dress when she was dating? Did she have a profession? When she married, was it hard raising a family back then?   Be ready for a flood of questions and a valuable interlude spent with your child.

As you use your time to connect with the past and include death as part of the reality of life, you’ll be observing Memorial Day as it was always intended.

The fallen soldiers should be honored, of course, but let’s put the emphasis back on making it a Memorial Day for everyone.

“Songs My Mother Sang to Me”

By

Gerry Niskern

Today’s young mothers sing to their baby while it is still in the womb as a way of bonding with the infant. I  have a feeling my mother was way ahead of her time. My mother sang to me, when I toddled after her down the rows of bean stalks as she picked a “mess” for dinner.

She sang while she peddled her treadle sewing machine mending our dresses. “Daisy, Daisy” and “Ka Ka Katy” were a couple that I remember. But the songs I remember best were the ones she sang in the car. When my dad’s flailing hand was trying to connect in the back seat with an unruly child, Mom would quickly say, “Let’s all sing.”

When we tired of harmonizing, we begged her to sing our favorite,. “Sing Redwing” I would plead. She always started… “There once was an Indian maid, a shy little village maid….as the song of unrequited love spilled from my mother’s lips, we were spellbound.

My grandson’s wife always sang lullabies to her first baby, a baby boy, when they were at a late baseball game of his brothers. He listened spellbound, brown eyes solemn and wide, as he went to sleep.

He had books that played tunes when you open them or touch a spot on the page.

His pushcart played melodies as he trudged behind it. The videos he watched were full of music. Nothing comforted him, hushed him or soothed like his mother’s voice when she started singing softly to him.

Mothers are remembered for many things; their cooking, wiping away tears and cuddling. But the one thing my great-grandson and I both can say is  “My mother sang to me”.

“Grandmothers are Mothers Too!”

By

Gerry Niskern

I was reminded by a grandchild one day that “Grandmothers are mothers too!”

We all knew, each cousin squeezed around my grandma’s big kitchen table back when I was a kid, that when we came to her house, she would give us coffee. The brew, the latte of our childhood, consisted of about one quarter cup coffee, a half cup of milk and heaping teaspoons of sugar. Our spoons clicked happily against our enamel mugs as we sloshed and stirred.

Raising her brown spotted hands, and putting her finger to her lips, she cautioned, “Shh…don’t tell Mommy I give you coffee.”

Our guilty giggles joined her chuckles as a grin deepened the wrinkles across her face. Her laughter revealed two teeth, one on the upper right and one on the lower left. We knew she had another one because many times she had tilted her head and let us peek at the gold molar in the back.

“What happened to all your teeth,” one of us would ask.

“You always lose tooth with every baby,” was her reply.

During the days of the coal mine’s  quack “company doctors” she was left crippled after the birth of her last baby. She stepped out with her right foot and dragged her left forward, creating a kind of bobbing gait as she shuffled between the kitchen table crowded with adoring grandchildren and the icebox. Grandma had iron gray hair pulled straight back into a tight bun.  A long straight apron covered her print dress and reached the edge of her high-topped black shoes.

She brought sour cream and apple butter to spread on our thick slices of home baked bread. We had already turned down her favorite, soda crackers. To our grandma, they represented a treat she didn’t have in the old country. She shook her head in disbelief at her ignorant grandchildren who didn’t recognize  something special when they saw it.

My grandmother was one of the many immigrants who, along with her young husband, braved harsh conditions and uncertainty on board ship to come to America in the late 1880’s.   As a young mother, she made an unbelievable sacrifice. Although it broke her heart, she agreed to leave her baby girl in the old country in the care of the grandmother until they were settled in America and could afford to send for her.

If she saw one of us grandkids accidentally drop our bread crusts, she admonished us “No, no. It’s a sin to drop the bread. “

In the small Austrian village where she grew up, the peasants worked very hard for their daily bread. They raised wheat and ground their own flour for baking.

By choosing to come to America my courageous grandmother gave our generation a future full of opportunity in America. She taught us to respect God’s gift of our daily bread.  She also gave us the thrill of a secret from our parents…she gave us coffee!

Who can really describe their Mother?

By

Gerry Niskern

My mother was the sixth daughter of Austrian immigrants. The family then added four boys. Back then in large families, the burden of helping out at home fell to the youngest girl. She scrubbed clothes on the washboard, gathered loose coal in a gunny sack along the railroad track every day for the stove and often carried a fussy baby brother around on her hip.

As soon as mom was big enough she dragged the large wash tub into the kitchen and helped fill it with steaming water when she saw her dad come trudging up the street from the mine. She then stood by to wash his back, black with coal dust.

In between chores, she earned spending money by scrubbing floors for a neighbor lady and caddying at the local country club.

This mother of mine, who never had an Easter dress or a Christmas toy, was determined that her two daughters have it all. We had the hair ribbons and pretty dresses. We had the cute shoes and music lessons. We had the dolls and toys that she never had.  We had the birthday and Halloween  parties and ample time to play with friends.

Best of all, she had time to play with us. We played Rummy and Monopoly, hide and seek and croquet. She went sled riding and had snow ball fights with us in the winter.

And when her grandchildren came along, even while helping to run a business, she played harder. She took them hiking in the Arizona desert and strawberry picking at Glendale farms in the spring. At rodeo time Mom made sure she had little chairs lined up along Central Ave for the start of each parade, along with cocoa and donuts if it was a cold day.

When each grandkid turned four they received a pack of bubble gum with the announcement, “Now you are old enough to learn to blow bubbles.” And she insisted they could learn to whistle at four too.

But along with all the fun came ample doses of common sense and civility. The one cardinal rule from her parents was,”Be kind to old people and those who are less fortunate than you.” A rule she always practiced in her dealings with the young Mexican women who worked in my parent’s small manufacturing shop.

That’s how I remember my mother, this daughter of immigrants.