“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.

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.