Yard Sales

By

Gerry Niskern

Springs here! It’s the season. Do those of us living here in the valley get to see budding leaves and citrus blossoms? No. As we drive through the neighborhoods we’re treated to dresses and shirts flapping in the breeze, marked 50 cents to couple of dollars.  You’re not going to believe this, but I even discovered, in front of  a million-dollar house, used socks and underwear for sale. Racks with used items are set up on the driveway.  Their children are there too; selling tables full of toys.

I will admit, I was taken by surprise the first time I saw the kiddie business people. Then I read an article in the Financial Education section. The piece was entitled “Yard sales a way to teach children many lessons.”  The writer then proceeded to explain how the kids could display their used toys attractively. There were pricing suggestions and a lesson in how to deal with a customer who wants a discount.  The reader was assured his children would soon be on their way to becoming successful entrepreneurs.

What’s happened to our society? We all know the majority of children in this country are showered with toys on Christmas and birthdays. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t one of the most important virtues we were taught to cultivate within ourselves as children called charity. You remember charity; defined in Webster’s as: “the voluntary giving to those in need.”

Much is being espoused these days about teaching moral values and volumes have been written on virtues. Still, the best way to teach is by example.

My mother had a rule in our home when I was growing up. “You never sell a gift.” When you no longer use it and wish to dispose of it, you look around and give it to someone less fortunate.

Perhaps her policy of giving to those in need came from having been there. . When she was a child there were no toys at Christmas or new dresses at Easter time.  She was determined that her daughter’s would enjoy a more carefree childhood. However, she also saw to it that we were taught to remember people in need.

There has been a movement in the last decade to fault the poor for not “pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps.” The truth is, there are many people having a hard time making ends meet these days. They are unskilled or unlucky. Minimum wage hardly buys necessities, let alone extras.

Have you ever been to a Salvation Army, Goodwill or other discard store? Even better, have you taken your child with you?  Have you seen a family shopping for clothes and household items, even nursery necessities?  The children head straight for the toy shelves. They hug the used and worn toys to their chest, their eyes searching for Mom or Dad.    It goes without saying that an occasional estate or moving sale is necessary, but come on; giving isn’t just for Christmastime. People in need are all around us every day. There are certain periods of life that are more suited to nurturing charitable traits…childhood is one of them. In these days of affluence, let’s teach our children the way of the heart, not the purse.

HAVE YOU BEEN TO A BASEBALL GAME LATELY?

By

GERRY NISKERN

When he first started coming to our house to spend the night the baseball game could start before bedtime. Our living room was Niskern Field. The bases were all the sofa pillows and the Nerf ball and bat were required equipment. He could imitate all the pitchers on the Diamond Backs. And he had the batting stance of the other players down pretty good too.  When the game was finally called for night time,  it was  understood that it would continue bright and early the next morning.

His great-grandpa was the pitcher and I was the catcher, and of course, he was the constant batter. We never even got a turn. These games started when he was around three and have never stopped.

He was signed up for a pee wee team when he was three and his parent’s job was just beginning. They are the ones that drove him to practice and coached in the early years. His dad helped prepare many fields before the games. His mother manned the refrestment stands or brought the team snacks. They spent mega bucks on ball clubs over the years and traveled out of state to many games. He had an opportunity to  play and improve year after year.

His mother used enough bleach to easily fill the Grand Canyon keeping the white uniforms clean and ready for each game. She also had to keep an eye out for the younger sister playing behind the bleachers, except when she wasn’t raining mom’s purse for money for the snack stand.

He’s just finishing up his second year for the Pumas of Paradise Valley College. He is a great hitter, terrific third baseman and relief pitcher. He’ll be going on to a major university or college next year to play for their team.

I’ve probably seen him playing for the last time. It’s a little to hot for me, but we’ve had a great run!

“P. U. H. S. Reunion Picnic”

By

Gerry Niskern

“On Coyotes, on Coyotes,

Fight right through that line,

Run the ball right down the field,

A touch down sure this time!”

Yesterday a large group of coyotes gathered at Sahuaro Park in Glendale as the alumni of P.U.H.S do every year. There were tables laden with fantastic salads, scrumptious pies and cakes. Those girls had become pretty good cooks!

The reunion of former Coyotes from Phoenix Union High School and Phoenix Tech was to celebrate the great school they had all attended.

The school was established in 1895 and the last graduation was in l982. Former students from as early as the class of 1931 were enjoying a day of food, fun and reminiscing.

If you haven’t attended your 30^th, 40^th, or 50^th reunion yet, do go. They are the best. The barriers are down; broken by years of living. Who cares in which side of the valley you used to live? Does anyone really remember whether you drove a “hot” car, rode the bus or a bike to school? It was great to see the two guys who had competed fiercely for top grades laughing and reminiscing together.

I suspect more than a few of the women attending were remembering the guys, not as they appeared Sunday, but in “tight jeans and black leather jackets!” The men, of course, were looking for that pretty girl that captured their heart years ago.

Passing by various tables bit of personal history could be heard. We had all had marriages, divorces, more marriages, children, weddings, funerals and grandchildren. Most of the men had chosen professions and then changed careers and changed again. Many of the women who started out as “stay at home moms” discovered later it was great to pursue a profession.

A few of our classmates served in the Korean War; some didn’t return. Some had sons who served in Vietnam and others had grandsons and daughters now serving in the middle East.

We were in on the beginning of the war on drugs. We were the first with the pill, marijuana, and the sexual revolution.

We saw the super stores replace the corner grocery and drugstore, and men and women’s dress shops disappear.

Skirt lengths have gone up and down numerous times and guy’s tight Levis are now relaxed it.  The jean jackets worn by our grandchildren now are not $3.00 anymore.

We saw the Berlin Wall fall and the first man walk on the moon while we tried to see the world too.

We went from our first cars to family station wagons, vans and then SUVs. We’ve accepted credit cards, ATM’s, cell phones and computers as a way of life. We’re

working out, watching our cholesterol and have given up cigarettes.

Life has a way of leveling the playing field, and as the former coyotes made the rounds Saturday, probably more than a few saw that the campus queens and the football heroes are candidates for Extreme Makeover, and the class “Nerd” has become quite successful.

My Irish Iris!

By

Gerry Niskern

A friend of mine asked if I had a good St. Patrick Day’s story for my blog this week. And I had to admit that in all my years of writing columns I had never written a St. Patrick’s Day piece.

It’s easily explained. When I was growing up in West Virginia, out in the country among a lot of farm kids, there was never much said about the Irish Holiday. The farm kids wore whatever was handed down from sister to sister and brother to brother. Nobody had the time or the money to worry about wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day.

But when we moved to Phoenix in l942, I learned about St. Paddy’s Day. I was in fifth grade that year, when girls started paying attention to what others were wearing, especially on St. Patrick’s Day. I came home from school smarting from a few pinches, but also upset about not wearing green that day and not being “Irish”.

My dad laughed when he heard me complain, “I wish I was Irish too.” Hey, he said,  “Don’t you know you are half Irish too.  Craig is an Irish name. As a matter of fact, the president of Ireland right now is named Craig.”

My mother’s family was from Austria, and we had spent much more time with them at family gatherings. My cousins that I played with on those days were from various parents of Italian, Russian,  Polish, American and Austrians, all married into the family. So how was this confused ten year old  supposed  to know she was half Irish?

I have a granddaughter who’s mother is from a strong Irish family and she has no doubt about who she is. But I like to remind her, only half! Remember the our Austrian side too!

Now, I can proudly say, I have a great-great-granddaughter. I’m her only great-great and she’s my first. Her name is Iris, and although she can’t be an “Irish Rose” as the old song goes, she is my “Irish Iris”, on this St. Patrick’s day.

But only half!

“Easter”

By Gerry Niskern

How is your family spending Easter this year? Will you be taking a spring break trip? Will you  have a big family reunion? Or is your family shopping for Easter outfits for Easter church service?

When I think of Easter Sunday different images come to mind. I remember a  particular Sunday at the little country church back east that our family attended when I was a child.

Easter was early that year. Gusts of spring wind pushed the worshippers up the steep hill as we clutched armloads of flowers from our yards and nearby woods. Soon the sanctuary was filled with green and blue canning jars containing iris, tulips, lilacs and daises from the fields.

There were farmers in carefully brushed dark suits. Their wives wore cotton print dresses and sturdy shoes. Little girls in new Easter dresses sewn from the latest calico feed sacks came next. Big boys in clean overalls, wet hair slicked back from sun burned faces shuffled in last.

As I took my place on the front pew with the other children, I prayed that no one would notice the hat. It was my new pink straw sailor hat. Along with a turned up brim it had a large pink wooden bead on the top that secured the ribbon that tied under my chin. No such luck! The finger pointing and grins on the other kids faces told me the hat had been noticed.  It would be putting it mildly to say I hated that hat, but my Mother operated on the premise that “if she didn’t have new Easter outfits when she was a child, by golly, her girls were going to.

When the church service was over and the Doxology had been sung, the adults gathered in small groups outside to discuss the prospects of a good spring rain. We kids usually played hide and seek among the tombstones in the side yard. When a friend, one of the little farm girls, asked to try my hat on, I willing obliged. Just as she reached out to take it, a strong gust of wind whipped it from my hand. The pink straw went spiraling down the hill. We raced to the wall in time to see it skip under the wheels of a dairy truck passing on RR #2.

When I went to bed that night and knelt to say my prayers, I added something extra. “Thank you, for our good Easter day, and especially for the fine wind!”

Easter Traditions

By

Gerry Niskern

. Expensive spring vacations and pricey brunches are not in the plans for many Arizona families.

Easter egg hunts have been scaled down and new family traditions are in the making. In fact, many of  the new celebrations might resemble the desert picnics our family had when our children and their cousins were growing up here in the valley. The kids thought the Easter bunny hid his eggs out on the desert. That’s because Grandpa had scouted out a pristine site shaded by Palo Verde and Mesquite trees the week before. Then on Easter day he and Grandma hid dozens of dyed eggs among the desert poppies and blue lupine.

Did you know that the tradition of dyeing eggs in bright colors and giving them to family and friends goes back centuries.  The Egyptians and Persians practiced this tradition long before Christ was  born. In the Middle Ages, it was forbidden to eat eggs during the 40 days of Lent. However, no one told the chickens. The hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter Egg tradition was born.

Each baby’s first creative experience was usually at Easter when our family dyed their eggs. The kids typically started out with wax cryons, delicate designs to follow and great expectations. After a few eggs were colored and the first container of red dye hit the kitchen floor, the job became a little rushed and it was all downhill from there.

It didn’t really matter, because the eggs my kids valued most were the ones they found on the desert that the giant Arizona Jackrabbit left among the desert rocks and flowers.

For years our extended family gathered on the desert North of Thunderbird Road in the area where the Moon Valley Country club now stands. When that area filled with houses, we met for our picnic on the land just East of Scottsdale Road and Bell, where the Great Indoors was built.

Finally, we moved our Easter picnic among the smooth, round rocks of the Carefree area. The kid’s baskets full of candy were forgotten as they scrambled over the round rocks hunting for the mysterious eggs hidden among the boulders. And, of course, the Boulders Resort commands that old picnic site now.

So remember. The huge rabbit with the really big ears is coming again. And remind Grandma that it’s not fair to walk ahead of everyone showing the baby where the eggs are hidden.

A word of caution: Leave real early. You’ll have to drive out a long, long way past the houses to find a pristine desert site for your Easter picnic.

THAT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN

When you read about all those tornados that hit the south and Midwest every year aren’t you glad we don’t have tornados in the Phoenix area? Tell the truth. Do you think, a little smugly, “Well, we might have horrific heat in the summer, but at least we don’t have tornados?

Actually, one day in the late l970’s, my # 2 son, a teenager, and I were standing at the kitchen window looking out in amazement. We thought we were just having a super size dust storm, but something different was happening. The house was shaking. At around five-thirty the sky had turned an eerie green. Large sections of shingles were swooping by, followed by huge wood structures hurtling past.   I remember trying to yell above the roar that sounded like a freight train was bearing down us, “I think we should get in an inside doorway. Something weird is happening!” We headed for the inside pantry.

My husband was on his way home when from the West valley when he heard on the car radio that a funnel cloud was moving toward the central Phoenix area. Breaking all speed limits, he reached our neighborhood in time to see the entire roof of my parent’s house under construction, down below our little mountain lying on the other side of the street.

He raced up our steps and burst in the door. “Hurry, hurry” he yelled. “Upstairs!”

We ran up behind him and suddenly, we were looking at bare sky. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I was numb with shock and told myself, “This is not happening. This must be a dream.” We were standing in our bedroom and rain was stinging our faces!

My husband raced back downstairs to go buy plastic tarps to stretch across the rooftop. When he carried up his extension ladder he climbed up on what was left of the roof and started nailing the cover down. My son was still numb with disbelief when his dad yelled down to “get on up on the ladder and grab the ends and nail them down.” He looked at me and yelled, “But, mom, what if the son-of-a bitch comes back?”

The next morning, when assessing the damage, we saw that the funnel cloud had totally lifted the roof structure from my folks house and all the framing inside was swirled like a giant spoon had stirred it. We learned later that the tornado had destroyed a large building on Seven Ave, South of Camelback, swept north and ripped apart  the condos on a little mountain right off Twelfth Street and then slammed into our house on top 14^th street.  It swooped down and destroyed my parent’s construction site and moved on out to Paradise Valley where it uprooted some trees.

Later on, the insurance companies and the weather bureau debated long and hard if it was actually a tornado. Most insurance companies finally reluctantly paid homeowners for damages, still arguing that “the Phoenix area doesn’t have tornados.”

“Save the Green”

By

Gerry Niskern

Take a good look around the next time you are driving anywhere in the valley. Do you notice anything missing? Wasn’t there a stand of Tamarisk trees on that corner just yesterday? What happened to that stately old Cottonwood out on Northern?

Development has rapidly cut a wide swath in all directions in our valley and too many of our living treasures have fallen in the name of growth. Groups of Tamarisk windbreaks grew everywhere at one time. The gray-green trees made great climbing trees for kids. High in the secluded branches, children shared their space with starlings, doves and an occasional baby lizard. The majority of kids today have to exercise their climbing skills on man made play equipment.

Sunlight ricocheting off branches of green leaves marked the old Cottonwood trees. The giant landmarks grew along the canals and irrigation ditches from the beginning of settlement here. Kids climbed the crevices etched into the ancient trunks and dropped into the cool water of irrigation ditches in the summertime.  Most of those old friends have been cut down. Streets were widened to accommodate more cars. At one time residents here were told the cottonwoods had to go because they used too much water from the canals. Yeah, sure they did!

Today we build entire communities and golf courses around a series of man-made lakes. We also zone land for high-tech manufacturing facilities that take millions of gallons of water a day.

Do you remember the sweet smell of citrus blossoms in the springtime on your way home from work? Have you ever picked a peachy red pomegranate. The sweet tart fruit-covered seeds are great for snacking. At one time Pomegranate hedges lined streets and railroad tracks around Phoenix. Streets turned into expressways to help move the expanding population and the hedge rows disappeared from our valley.

Condos stand on the land in the west valley that our kids thought would be “strawberry fields forever”. At the end of berry season, the Japanese farmers opened their fields to the public for picking. Parents and kids usually ate more of the luscious fruit than they brought home as they worked their way up and down the rows. How long since you have had a strawberry that was actually allowed to ripen on the plant before picking?

Many stately old elms originally surrounded the Arizona State capitol building. S Most of the trees and lawn too was sacrificed to make room for more state buildings. Again, making room for Arizona’s growth.

Date groves were prolific here. Christmas wasn’t complete without dates stuffed with creamy homemade fondant. One large date farm was out on Lafayette Boulevard. It is just one of many gone to make room for more homes and condos.

Here in the valley we have always welcomed newcomers. It wouldn’t be realistic to think we could stop the growth, but we must see that our community leaders and city planners make provisions for more parks as we grow. We also need to be diligent about the perimeters of our existing oasis, large and small. Green areas valley wide for the young and old to replenish themselves spiritually should be mandatory for developers.

Some of our earliest residents planted trees and watered them with water they carted in barrels from the Salt River. You and I both know, with our modern facilities, we can do much better in this fast changing world. We need to replant and nurture our green oasis. That would be genuine growth.

“What does America mean to you?”

By

Gerry Niskern

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:

I will lift my lamp beside the golden door.

We all, as children, learned the words on the plaque at the feet of the famous lady standing in New York Harbor welcoming immigrants to America.

When I actually saw the Statue of Liberty, I confess I looked up with a huge lump in my throat and tears in my eyes as our ferry drew close. It was overwhelming. I wondered what my grandparents thought when they arrived from Austria many years ago and were welcomed by her.

I also remember thinking,  “What if my grandparents hadn’t come to America? Would I even exist? Where would I be?”

It’s always interesting to hear someone declare, “My ancestors came through Ellis Island. They worked hard and became citizens! They had no help!” Actually, there were no limits on immigrant laborers back then. THAT was the help.

And about their citizenship status, unless you’ve seen their records, don’t be too sure. Thousands of immigrants, who fled Europe during the 1800s, didn’t pursue citizenship.

Grandpa was recruited to work in the West Virginia coal mines, just as thousands of Hispanics have been recruited to work in U. S. industries today.

My grandparents sacrificed by leaving a year old daughter behind in the care of a grandmother because as with many immigrants, they planned to work, save and return to buy more land for the family farm.  I honestly don’t know if they ever became citizens.

From 1870 to 1920, approximately 25 million immigrants came to the U. S.  It was the first large wave of immigrants that settled and populated this country. Political instability, restrictive religious laws and deteriorating economic conditions started the largest mass human migration in the history of the world. The United States needed cheap labor and welcomed them.

My mother didn’t know English when she started school. Each evening she and my grandfather went over the day’s reading lesson. She helped him read the newspaper. He was very interested in learning about his new government and how it worked. They learned the language together.

My grandpa and grandma worked hard, raised a large Catholic family and paid taxes. None of the children in that second generation had more than two children each. In other words, they assimilated, just as the Hispanics working in the United States will also do in time.

Even though most work two minimum wage jobs to make ends meet, some of my Hispanic neighbors have the prettiest yards in our area. And my guess would be that many a school child is helping dad learn English in the evening, while mom is at work.

The income gap between the U. S. and Mexico is the largest between any two contiguous countries in the world. This disparity is producing massive demand in the U. S. and massive supply from Mexico and Central America. Yes, we need to tighten security and regulate the future flow of immigrants.  But we also have to include expansion of the legal immigrant labor pool. But most important of all, we need to treat the existing population of illegal immigrants with practicality and decency.

What we don’t need is to beat-up on an entire racial group. That’s not the America I know and it’s not the America of the Lady in the harbor.

JOSE’S VALENTINES

By

Gerry Niskern

Everywhere I look in the supermarket there are valentine hearts. Pink ones, gold ones, even a pair of red foil covered chocolate lips inviting the sweethearts to choose some declaration of love on Valentine’s day. No where in the world do they celebrate Valentine’s day as passionately as they do here in the United States.

The little boy with dark hair who came up behind  me in the checkout line hugged a package of valentines proudly to his chest.  He nodded yes, his brown eyes lighting up, when I asked, “Are those for your school friends?”

“Jose`, andale!” his father in line called.

The child hurried forward to place his package on the counter along with his family’s groceries. His father, in sweat stained shirt and muddy boots covered with bits of grass, pushed him forward. The boy’s mother, wearing a white utility uniform, carried a little girl.

“Jose`, of course, I should have guessed,” I thought, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if the little sister’s name was Maria.” A couple of weeks ago when I read in the paper that the name chosen for most baby boys in California and Texas, (and I’ll wager Arizona isn’t far behind) was Jose`, I wasn’t surprised. Someday we’ll probably hear that Maria is the most popular name for  infant girls.

Jose`s’ parents reminded me of my grandparents, Joseph and Mary, who came to the United States of America from Austria, sometime in the 1880’s.  Many of those immigrant families named their children for that Joseph and Mary of long ago.

My grandfather was recruited to work in the coal mines of this country. Men in Europe were sought to work in the mines, steel mills and numerous menial jobs to fuel our countries’ growth.

My grandfather learned that hanging onto his name was a little more difficult than acquiring the job. Many times he told his children the story of how he tried to correct the paymaster at the mine. It seems that each week, on payday, the man called out Gunto.  My grandpa would once again patiently explain that it was pronounced Gunta`, with an A. The next week, the cocky fellow would again call out Gun –“Toe.”  That always brought him a laugh or two. You didn’t argue with the paymaster. Grandpa finally gave up and started answering to Gunto, and that was how the family name was changed.

My grandparent’s first son was named Joseph. That Joe served as a gunner on a destroyer in World War II. After the Atlantic campaign, his ship was diverted to the battles in the Pacific. His first born was also named Joseph and he too served our country in the navy.

My grandpa expected his son Joe to bring his beginners reader home each night from school. Every evening after supper, the two of them went over the words the boy learned in school that day. Then they would spread the daily newspaper on the kitchen table and together sound out the words that gave the news of America. My grandfather wanted to learn everything about his new government.

It was a big decision for my grandparents to come to a new country and start over. Many of our grandparents made their decision, worked hard, and did their best to fit into a nation that was and still is, growing and changing.  We all make decisions, big ones and small ones, although many not as momentous as moving half way around the world.

Just coming to Arizona was a huge decision for many of our parents.  Sometimes it takes years to know if it was the right thing to do, but many of us today are benefiting from those decisions.

I think a lot of little boys named Jose` will be helping their daddies learn English and something about the history of their new country. And I imagine twenty years from now, Jose` will be the most common name of our young men in the armed services.

So happy Valentines Day to all the little boys named Jose`, and remember, always make sure they spell your last name correctly!