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!

“Try being a Maxim Mom”

By

Gerry Niskern

There\ is a lot of lamenting out there about how hard it is to be a parent.

Do you parents out there want to know how to raise good kids? Try being a Maxim Mom or Dad. When your kids argue over control of the remote, tell them to “Just be big about it!” If Junior balks at attending his sister’s dance recital, remind him that the family always supports each other because “blood is thicker than water.”

My mother had a maxim for every occasion. I always thought she made them up as she went along, but then I found out they had been around for decades and will still be here for each generation of mothers to use.

When I was a kid my mother sent me to the grocery store for bread with a dime and no penny for tax. She said, you just tell them “It’s a sin to tax the daily bread”.

When I was a teenager and my boyfriend and I reached the front porch after a date, the door lights blazed on. I was sure she thought smugly, “I nipped that in the bud!”

On the day she learned that I had ditched classes at Phoenix Union, she declared,

That she was “Mad as a wet hen” and if I thought I had gotten away with it, I had “another thought coming.” She went on, you have “cooked your own goose” and your dad is going to “land on you like a ton of bricks!”

Years later, she started every Monday morning with samples of a new recipe that “melted in your mouth”, for the young women that worked in my parents small manufacturing business. She helped them at their work tables while dispensing liberal doses of her views on good morals. She advised them to break it off with abusive boyfriends because “a leopard can’t change his spots,” especially if he is “four sheets to the wind.”

            If a new employee was having a hard time, I would get a call to bring some clothes from my own kids because a young mother was having a rough time and was “between the devil and the deep blue sea!” Along with the clothes, she gave them a cash advance on their first paycheck when my dad wasn’t looking.

Later, when I told my petulant daughter, who wanted permission to start dating,  to “stop those crocodile tears,” young lady, “You are skating on thin ice”, I knew I had finally turned into my mother!

! HERE’S  AN “OLDIE BUT GOODIE” FROM ONE OF MY ARIZONA REPUBLIC COLUMNS.

“There are no Strangers”

By

Gerry Niskern

The toddler reached a frightening height in the tunnel. Slowly he inched his chubby knees upward, higher and higher. His parents gasped as he turned a corner and suddenly slid down, collapsing in a heap of giggles on the cork floor. I had just witnessed one of the many activities small children engage in every day at the numerous meetings of the mini United Nations across our valley.  Mac Donald’s has only one requirement for a junior emissary to take part: You must take off your shoes!

The munchkin with me raced ahead to join the kids in the play area. I slid into a bench and placed our burgers on the table. Glancing around, I smiled at two or three groups of adults and received fleeting nods in return. My glance fell on the rack where the kids stashed their shoes.

Little hiking boots, black patent tap shoes, moccasins, Birkenstocks, Hi-lites, ballet slippers, and cowboy boots spilled out of the cubbyholes in the Sneaker Keeper. It would be interesting to know if their choice of footwear now was an indication of their future life.

Looking up, I waved at my little charge as she rounded a corner in the maize of tunnels above our heads. Measured in a child’s eyes, those tunnels must seem a thousand feet high and ten miles long. The bright colored tubes and rectangular forms connect to form a wonderland of play. The delegates at these multi-cultural gatherings have a ball crawling through the tunnels, negotiating with their fellow climber’s crowded curves and angles. Close behind her a Middle Eastern boy, in long baggy shorts (he owned the Hi-Lites) willingly took a detour to let a timid little Asian boy scoot past.

The sky- diver I saw earlier ran over to greet a little blond ballerina in a purple leotard, and grab a quick hug. She quickly stashed her ballet slippers in the shoe rack and headed for the pool of bright colored balls. Soon she was teaching a couple of Latino girls how to do a back flip into the ocean of balls. Meanwhile, a fussy future homemaker was busy gathering the stray balls that bounced out and tossing them back into the kaleidoscope of color.

High above, a doctor to be, neatly combed hair and immaculate clothes, turned a corner and comes face to face with black eyes, bronze skin and high cheek bones. The Native American doesn’t move an inch. Doc moves to the right, the future tribal leader blocks the way. Suddenly, a female, with red curls and blue eyes scoots around the corner and can’t get through. Tears start and the chief and surgeon hastily draw aside to let Miss American slide by.

Meanwhile, down on the floor, a blonde toddler hurries over and gently rocks the cradle carrier containing a fussy African American infant. The baby’s big sister is helping another child tie his shoes.

It doesn’t seem to matter whether their new playmates wear clothes that are new or ragged, clean or dirty. The color of their skin is not important. I couldn’t help thinking that sooner or later, most of these kids will experience discrimination, rejection, bigotry, fear, and maybe even violence. Would this brief interlude of play frozen in childhood ever be theirs again?

If someone arrived on earth from another planet, we would have a difficult time explaining why the little people mingle, but the big ones do not. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the adults had to introduce themselves before they could pick up their lunch and escort their kids to the play yard?

Better yet, at the next summit meeting of our world leaders, I suggest the entrance to the conference be located at a giant tunnel maze.  The presidents, prime ministers and kings could brush up on their negotiating skills before tackling the problems of the world.

I think our neighborhood kids would give them just one word of advice: Don’t forget to wear clean socks!

Off sick today, but here is a favorite blog post of mine. I hope you enjoy it again.

“The Stir Stick”

By

Gerry Niskern

There used to be a running joke in our family about who will inherit the “stir stick”. Which offspring will be deemed worthy of the old pine stick that my grandmother, my dad’s mother,  used to stir her clothes in the big tubs hold the laundry rinse water?   That piece of pine was bleached white and worn smooth as satin as she stirred the clothes round and round the old tubs till they were rinsed clean. She raised six children all alone by taking in boarders and laundry, with the help of that one small stir stick.

My own mother inherited the stick from her mother-in-law and used it many years. However, somewhere along the way the stick was retired, pushed to the back of a cupboard.  That probably happened when she purchased her first automatic washer.

She didn’t get a dryer though. Mom insisted on having the fresh breath of wind and sun on her towels and sheets. Actually, she didn’t take quickly to any new gadgets for the home. I wonder what she would have thought about the new cooking parties that the young homemakers are giving?

I can imagine Mom’s running commentary on the latest cooking tools.

As the hostess carefully demonstrates how the new colanders can be used to drain not only pasta, but also canned peaches; I can just hear Mom saying, “What’s wrong with using the can lid like always?”

The innovative measuring cups have a cup on either end, so if one’s messy, you can use the other end. Mom’s comment would be “Ever hear of measuring the dry first, then the wet?”

The new baking stones are touted to bake every cookie perfectly even. “But what if you have one kid like his cookies real soft, while another wants his dark and crisp. And then there’s dad who likes the date bars cut from the edge of the pan because they’re crunchier?”

The exhibition of the special onion chopper and handy tomato slicer would have brought the retort,  “use a knife.” When the hostess explains that the new garlic press can be used in a real emergency to crush bullion cubs.  Mom would say, “Make your own chicken broth, it’s better for you.”

Don’t even mention the improved spatulas that sell for thirteen dollars!  “Nonsense. Cake batter tastes just as good licked off a ninety-eight cent spoon.”

Something tells me those women, like Mom, of years ago who melted down their soap pieces on Sunday evening to get ready for Monday’s wash and saved their potato water to make gravy, wouldn’t be good ones to invite to today’s cooking parties.

But actually, if you look closely, some of  the old customs are new again.  Nostalgia is back in a big way. Young couples are snapping up the old Victorian homes. They’re hanging lace curtains and searching for handmade quilts.  Spinning wheels and butter churns are sought after items to place in the entry hall and Grandpa’s wicker rocking chair is sought for the front porch.

The latest trend is to knit your own afghans; some women’s magazines are now carrying complete instructions.  The sewing pattern industry is reporting a big comeback as stay- at- home Mom’s are buying sewing machines.

Cooking is back.  On kitchen stoves the size of small Volkswagens, today’s homemakers are simmering Thai stews and soups with Eastern-European flavors as they celebrate their ethnic backgrounds.

Everyone is embracing the “rootedness” of the home. They’re very keen on traditions. Parents desire a way of life they can pass on to their children.

The other day I saw some antique, hand decorated wash tubs hanging on a back patio. Since I’ve been hanging on to that old piece of bleached pine, I’ve been wondering, is it possible that we might see the return of the “stir stick?”

Nah.

“To Move or Not to Move”

by

Gerry Niskern

It startles, even when you are expecting to see it. Graffiti. Large, bright symbols blaring across a pristine white fence.

A fence that for years embraced a yard full of kids; jumping into the pool, playing hide and seek, dribbling a basketball.

“Look at it,” our friend, the owner of the fence, demanded. “We’d like to paint over it, but our kids say, wait a while, otherwise they’ll just be back to mark their territory again.”

Of course, he should paint over it immediately, that’s a given. But that’s just the beginning. There are more repercussions, what I call the rippling effect.   Our harried friend said, “Our kids want us to move.  They’re worried something worse might happen.”

I’ve heard this statement many times over the past few years. Friends who bought their homes as newlyweds.  They expected to raise  their families in those modest, middle class homes and then live out their lives there.

They kept their yards neat and trimmed. Painting and repairs were done when necessary. They looked out for each others’ kids. Now they look out for each other, check if something seems amiss. The mail is brought in and trash cans put out when someone goes on vacation.

Then one day they see wrought iron bars being installed on windows down the street. Someone mentions a house has been robbed. Then another…more bars, security system signs go up and then….for sale signs.

That’s the easiest answer. Get out of there.

Their adult children, out of concern for their safety, of course, start telling them to move. “Go to one of those safe gated communities”  After a while, they  get tired of arguing and give in.

Others stay put.  The defiant. The brave.

“Courage has nothing to do with it,” one of my friends chuckled. “We can’t afford to move. Where would we go? One of those $4 or 5,000  a month retirement places. We can’t pay those fees! Our home is paid for. It’s finally fixed up the way we wanted it to be, and I’ll be darned if we’re leaving now!”

He and his wife are staying put. They’re just like my eighty-five year old friend who has recently purchased  a walker to help her get around her large yard and get her trimming done.

One fellow I know has been slowly acquiring wood working tools. He’s been looking forward to spending his retirement years building wooden porch swings to sell to supplement his social security income. Sorry, retirement apartments don’t come with spacious garages for aspiring entrepreneurs.

Another woman I know has a magnificent back yard garden on a huge wedge shaped back yard. After the kids no longer needed it for play, she spent the last twenty years creating a bountiful wonderland. She and her husband aren’t about to give it up….despite many  crimes in the surrounding area last year.

My hat goes off to them, and to another couple who live at the end of Central Avenue. Every evening, from their porch, they watch as the glow of sunset changes to darkness and a black onyx valley below fills with thousands of twinkling lights like precious stones spread out for their pleasure.

No one’s chasing them out of the area and believe it or not, their ancient neighborhood is gradually changing back from neglected rentals to charming, well kept  bungalows. The trend is reversing. Young couples who buy in the area are remodeling, painting and landscaping.

Kudos to the stalwarts who don’t give up. They are staying put in their homes they worked hard to buy and cared for so diligently. Now they are enjoying the mature trees, gardens, and friendships they   nurtured all those years.

Don’t leave it to them….they don’t deserve it!

“Have you made your New Year’s Resolutions?”

By

Gerry Niskern

January has always been the month for resolutions. But now it seems the tradition of New Year’s resolutions have gone out of style. Everyone is too busy or too cool to do a little personal assessment of where improvements might be in order. People used to make a resolution to lose twenty pounds in the coming year. Or perhaps they vowed to join a gym, spend more time volunteering, buckle down at work or improve their manners. Oops! How did that one get in there?

I guess because we all have someone we would like to hear make a resolution to improve their manners. Hey, maybe their mama really didn’t teach them. But now, someone has to. A simple gesture like holding the door for someone to a simple thank you from the person entering would be a good start.

When I first started writing columns on social commentary for the Arizona Republic, the advice was, “be careful not to lecture!” I’ve always followed that mantra, but today I’m going to ignore that rule and suggest some New Year’s resolutions for the following:

R.S.V.P CLOWNS: Always give the hostess a definite answer. None of this, ‘maybe’ business is acceptable. If you want to wait for a better offer, then take your chances. Come on. Have you ever planned food and drink for a party? Resolve to answer promptly when invited to a gathering. Don’t assume if you don’t call, they will know you are not coming. And, if you would like to bring a guest, ask first.

DIET BOMBSHELLS: If you have a dietary requirement, please mention it when responding. If you are in the new “gluten free” crowd, offer to bring your own dish. And please don’t wait until the main course before announcing, ‘Oh, I can’t eat that!’ Also, do not pointedly pick items out of your plate. Quietly push them to the side.

CELL PHONE “RUDIES”

If you have to take a call at a meal, excuse yourself and step away. Otherwise, keep the cell phone in your pocket. Basic rules for cell phone manners hasn’t been totally established, but we’re getting there!

BIRTHDAY PARTY POOPERS: Adults have plenty of problems with rude guests that don’t respond to an invitation, but please, don’t do this to little kids. Everyone remembers how important birthday’s are. I keep hearing from mother’s who send out invitations to all or most of the birthday kid’s class and never hear a word in response. It’s frustrating for the hostess, but heart breaking to the child involved.

Try these for good resolutions for the coming year; or maybe just a little civility!

What was your favorite Christmas present?

By

Gerry Niskern

Can you think of the favorite Christmas present that you received in your whole lifetime?

Of course, all of Santa’s surprises were wonderful when you were a kid. I remember rushing down on Christmas morning and finding toys under the tree. Nothing was wrapped. They were just there, right where Santa dropped them!

Then as I got older I became more aware of the true spirit of giving gifts to loved ones at Christmas. In my teens I couldn’t wait  to exchange gifts with my girl/boy friends. Then it happened. That special boy gave me a small beautifully wrapped package. Inside was heart shaped locket made of gold and embellished with rose gold. It opened, and inside on either side was a space for two tiny photos.

Years later, at Christmas, my new groom, the Locket Guy, brought a large box home. He shut the bedroom door and tried to quietly wrap the contents of the box. When I heard something clanging and banging on the hardwood floor, I immediately thought, “If he bought me a vacuum cleaner, like some HOUSEWIFE, I’ll kill him!”

On Christmas morning, when  I opened his gift to me I  found a tiny FeatherWeight sewing machine. I loved it.

Other totally surprising and thoughtful gifts come to mind. : a beautiful silver coffee/tea set for my ladies group meetings, a luxurious Aqua blue gown and robe that he let the kids pick out on their own, Best of all, right after baby number three was born he brought home the latest kitchen item, a portable dishwasher. This tired young mother felt like she had a maid!

Years later, when they first came out, he surprised me with a microwave. I was not happy! I had read too many stories by all the skeptics that they were dangerous and could cause all kinds of health problems. Now, think about it.  What would we do without our Microwaves?

Finally, he settled into the tradition of a generous gift card from Barnes and Noble that warmed the heart of this “Book Worm” wife.

So, what was your favorite Christmas gift that you ever received? If I had to choose, I know that I will always treasure the gold heart locket with our tiny  photos inside, but I think  the portable dishwasher wins, hands down!