No more Ice Cream
 

Gerry Niskern

The first drops of rain started as the moving man dropped the ramp from the truck.  He shouted up the hill, “ We’ll have to carry your furniture up the driveway and stairs.”

High above our challenge sat facing us. The square two-story house on a steep hill had paint chipped from the stucco and sad, empty terraces down to the street where bougainvillea, lantana and Hibiscus would soon be growing.

Later, as the mover place the last item in the kitchen ( the old ice cream freezer) and waited for his check, he announced, “If you folks decide to move again, in another three months, just give us about two weeks notice…so we’ll have time to get out of town!” His company had moved us three months earlier from our home of many years where we had a panoramic view of the entire valley.

We had always lived in the foothills enjoying the grand show everyday of pink and silver dawns over Piestawa Peak, majestic thunderheads marching across turquoise skies during the summer monsoons, and dusty mauve and gold sunsets.

Now, after a short time as “flatlanders”, we had purchased another fixer-upper with a fantastic view of the city. This vagabond life wasn’t how I envisioned spending the retirement years; however, since I had a husband whose favorite television shows were “This Old House” and  “The Woodwright’s shop.” He had plans, enormous plans; pushing out walls, moving bathrooms and adding a large balconey.

Along with the challenge of remodeling various houses over the years, came my nagging thoughts of “Who’s home is this?” Who planted this beautiful, neglected Peace rose?   What little boy watched his dad put up the measuring chart inside this closet in another house, marking the child at three years, three and a half years, four years. Where was that little boy now?

Where was this home’s previous owner? She was a religious woman obviously, her prayer cards were scattered in many drawers. This homemaker was from the “old school.”   She had double laundry tubs, but no hookup for a dryer. The sturdy steel clothesline covered the entire patio, and it was so low you were in danger of decapitating yourself every time you ventured outside.  I guessed she must have been all of 4’5”.

As usual neighbors from both directions greeted us with statements like “We have a key to your house. We always keep it in case you go on vacation: or, don’t you just love the tile in the kitchen? We helped them choose the color.” I wanted to shout, “Not really, this is my house now!”

Later, when the rain stopped and everything was stacked in, we bid our mover’s goodbye, with promises we would positively not be calling them again. The pungent smell of the desert foothills was refreshing with the mingling aromas of the wet mesquite, creosote and sage.

“Bring the lounge chairs up to the balcony,” I called to my husband. “I’ll see if I can find the box with the margarita glasses.”  We stretched out our sore muscles and watched with never ending fascination as the glow of sunset changed to darkness and a black onyx valley below filled with thousands of twinkling lights like precious stones spread out for our pleasure.

Suddenly, we awakened to an incessant ringing of a phone somewhere in the distance. Where was the phone? Maybe it was in the kitchen. Where was the kitchen? As my sore, aching muscles finally reached the phone a tiny, excited voice said, “Hi, Grandma.  Are you home? We’re coming over to see your house.”

“Yes,” I replied, “Yes, honey, I’m home.”

I sold my home this month. I’ve always known that I would have to move to a one story place someday, but I didn’t realize how hard it would be. Over the years when a friend would remark that they were “breaking up housekeeping” and downsizing I didn’t stop to think how difficult it must be for them. I don’t even remember saying, “Oh, that must be hard for you.” Well, know I know. I just took the last load to Saint Vincent de Paul and on top of the stack was the “center” of all the family parties, the  old ice cream freezer.

“April Fool”

By

Gerry Niskern

April Fool!  I remember when Krispy Kreme came to the Valley of the Sun.  Everyone in the valley had been hearing about the unique Krispy Kreme Donuts that were coming to our area. According to the hype these famous donuts were like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.  There were stories in the news media about the opening of the first donut shop in the East Valley. We were promised those of us in the west and north would get ours soon.

Our envy grew as we heard the Krispy Kremes described as delicious, delectable and delightful. Friends from the favored side of town advised, “You have to taste them, you won’t believe how luscious they are.”

Well, our turn came. Krispy Kreme opened up at 83^rd Avenue and Bell road and also at Christown.  While my husband and I stood in line in the gleaming white tile shop, watching the donuts being made, a young woman came down the line offering hot donuts fresh from the fryer. We took a bite and my husband said, “They ARE good.  They’re exactly like the ones we used to buy when we were kids down on 15^th Ave., only they were bigger.  Remember that place just north of Van Buren.  What was the name of those donuts?”

The donut shop, from our childhood, was right on our way home from a long day of swimming at University Park. The smell in the air got to you long before you reached 15^th Ave. The hot, sweet aroma of those sinkers as they fried was more than any hungry kid could resist. It was actually a wholesale bakery for many restaurants around the valley, but if you knocked on their door, they would sell you a few fantastic donuts.

We took some Krispy Kremes by my daughter’s house. She said “Mom, they’re really good. But, what’s the big deal? They’re exactly like the ones the Donut Man used to sell around our neighborhood when we were kids, only the Donut Man’s were bigger.  He had a van like an ice cream man and we begged you to buy some each time. Don’t you remember the name?”

My son-in-law chimed in with the pronouncement; “You guys never had a really good donut unless you had one like I used to sell in west Phoenix when I was a kid. We kids sold them by the dozen. They came in white boxes with cellophane on the top. Believe me, that was a donut that melted in your mouth. The only problem was, it wasn’t too profitable for me because I had a dozen eaten before I covered the first block of customers. I wish I could recall the name of those donuts.”

We made one last stop with the Krispy Kremes at our Grandson’s house. His 21-month-old son enjoyed his donut with sprinkles along with his morning tippee cup of milk. He listened solemnly to our debate of the best donuts we each had eaten in our lifetime. Then he gathered up his milk cup, slipped quietly out of his chair and plucked the last donut out of the box.

I can hear him saying to his grandchildren seventy years from now. “You call these donuts. We had real donuts when I was a kid that were delicious. They were larger too.  My dad used to take me to this donut place; he carried me along the window so I could watch donuts by the hundreds rolling along on the conveyer belts and plopping  into the hot oil. I was fascinated as mysterious arms flipped them over and the other side turned golden brown. A lady came down the line and gave me a warm one in a napkin while we waited.  Now, that was a donut!  What the Sam Hill was the name of that place?”

A couple of weeks ago I was reading an article titled “A guide to weird words your teen uses.” The author Jennifer Jolly, of USA Today, said translating the latest “slanguage” in 2017 is not easy.

For example, did you know that “”fams” refers to their tight inner circle of friends? And “thirsty” might describe a friends eager desire for a romance with another person. And this is interesting. “Throwing Shade” is dissing another individual.

The natural evolution of language, plus the by product of text messaging and social media have had an effect on teen’s speech, but they have always had their own special kind of communication.

Try to think back to some of the words that you routinely used as a teen, and then get a load of the words from my teen years!

“Boy howdy! I’m getting this one,” my best friend used to declare when she liked the sounds of a great new song filling the record booth at the downtown music store. I usually responded urgently. “We need to take this stack back to the clerk. Boy howdy! They get mad if you take too long in here.”  Boy howdy was what every kid from middle to high school here in Phoenix used to say to emphasize a point. You never hear anyone say that anymore. I wonder if it was a local or national teenage trend.  I realized kids had quit saying that sometime between my school days and my daughters.

You see, years later, I was shocked at hearing, “Those are bitch’n shoes” coming out of my sweet, innocent daughter’s mouth. Her dad and I were horrified. Did we just hear what we thought we heard? Our teenage daughter was casually uttering a forbidden word with her friends. She was told to stop saying bitch’n immediately. “But all my friends say that” she had replied. We promptly decided she had to get a new friends. .

Then, just the other day imagine my surprise when I saw my great-granddaughter look at her friend’s new jacket and declare, “That’s sick.”  Now, I’ve learned to wait awhile to learn what a teen’s favorite word actually means. Turn’s out sick is a complimentary term for something you really like. You know, as in, “Boy howdy, that’s bitch’n!

REUNIONS

By

Gerry Niskern

Is your high school graduation class having a reunion this spring?  After all, this is the season.   Everywhere committees have been busy tracking down fellow classmates, working the phones and mailing out invitations for the big bash.

When your summons arrives you are usually informed that they want a short bio and pictures. PICTURES! Calling Dr. Atkins in the Zone on South Beach!

Then there’s the question of what do you wear to a reunion party? Anything you want. At our big reunion I saw casual slacks and Hawaiian shirts, suits, shorts, white gauze pajamas with sandals; and that was just on the men! The women wore sexy “little black” dresses, long cotton patio dresses, suits and “Sunday go to meetin’ ” outfits.

It seemed to be confession time for the women talking to my resident historian that evening.  “I was in love with you all through high school” and “You didn’t know it, but I had a crush on you”, were a few of the remarks I heard. “Those tight jeans and that black leather jacket!” laughed one. I was beginning to think I was attending that reunion with “The Fonz”.

If you haven’t attended your 30^th, 40^th or 50^th reunion yet, just wait. They’re 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 rode a bike to school? It was great to see the two guys who had competed fiercely for top grades laughing and reminiscing together.

As for the short bio that our invitation requested, let’s just say our class had all been busy. We’d had marriages, divorces, more marriages, children, weddings, 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.

Some of our classmates served in the Korean War. Some didn’t return.  A few had sons who served in Vietnam. And now there were grandsons deployed to the Middle East.

We were in on the beginning of the war on drugs.  We ran straight into the sexual revolution, marijuana, the Pill and The Rolling Stones.

While we were busy experiencing life, the super stores replaced the corner grocery. The old drugstore with the soda fountain and home delivery disappeared too.

The women’s hair styles changed from the pageboy to the beehive and then to curly and back to straight again.   Skirts have gone up and down several times and the guy’s tight Levis are now relaxed fit. The jean jackets we wore are being worn by our grandchildren, but they 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 station wagons, vans, SUVs, and back to “cool” cars.  We’ve embraced credit cards, ATMs, cell phones and computers. We’re working out, watching our cholesterol and have given up cigarettes.

So, If your reunion invitation arrives this spring, be sure to go. Life has a way of leveling the playing field.  I promise you, out on the dance floor you’ll see that the Campus Queen and the football hero are candidates for Extreme Makeover; and surprise, the class “dork” has become quite a dancer.

So go, and have a ball!

What’s Your Valentine Song?

By

Gerry Niskern

When I was a little girl back in West Virginia my sister and I used to lie in bed at night and listen to WWVA. That was the radio station that played hillbilly music and featured the champion yodelers. I tried my best to imitate them.

Later, when we moved to Arizona and lived a block from the State Capitol building, I used to sneak up the winding stairs of the rotunda to the third level. There, with the help of its wonderful echo, I continued practicing my yodeling until I was chased out. That always happened pretty quickly.

Later on, in Junior Hi, my boyfriend (and future husband) had the only portable record player that he brought to all the neighborhood dances, along with his collection of the latest records. We could have danced all night to Perry Como crooning a song called, “Till the End of Time”.

Of course, a lot of the girls in High School were swooning to any song Sinatra sang. For some reason, I passed on Frankie and leaned towards who I really loved the most, an Irish Singer, Dennis Day. I still love anything Irish, especially “Danny Boy” and “I’ll take you Home Again, Kathleen”. I took a lot of kidding for that.

But as a newlyweds, we discovered Elvis, and of course, our favorite song, “Love Me Tender.” We saw him once in Las Vegas and he had the world’s sweetest voice.

Later on,   when our kids were in high school and the phone rang I could always hear them explaining quickly, “Oh, no. I wasn’t listening to THAT! That’s my mom’s record”. Anything coming from their bedrooms was either The Rolling Stones or The Grateful Dead. You see, by then, I had become hooked on Country Western and loved hearing Roy Clark singing “Come Live with me” or Marty Robbins with “Come Back to Me”.  Of course, I loved anything by John Denver; especially “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” My kids were thoroughly embarrassed by them all.

But the funny thing was, I really enjoyed some of their Beatle songs too; especially “Yesterday” and “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. And I loved Janis Joplin singing “Bobby McGee” and still have it in my CD player in the car.

Somewhere, over time, my sweetheart turned his attention to classical music and we attended a lot of symphony concerts, especially featuring violists.

There were many singers and songs over the years that my Valentine and I both loved. We had a running debate over who had the best voice, Elvis (my choice) or Dean Martin (his choice). And it would be hard to choose one, but we totally agreed on Roger Whitaker singing “The Farewell Song”, day or night.

“An Arizona Valentine”

By

Gerry Niskern

This Valentine’s Day, February 14, is Arizona’s Inauguration Day.

Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you hadn’t ended up in Arizona? I do. I’ll always be thankful that my parents brought my sister and me here in the summer of `42.

I would have grown up in a limited little coal mining town back East with black soot on everything. I remember going to Grandma’s wearing a Sunday school dress and being admonished, “Don’t touch anything, and don’t lean either!”

My ten-year-old horizon was expanded as we drove across the U. S. in dad’s l940 Plymouth. He always picked up soldiers and sailors hitch-hiking to get home on leave during the war. Riding in the back seat with my sister and me hanging on their every word, they told their stories of the war and also of the home states they were trying to get back to for a quick visit. We were getting a liberal education.

Driving down from Globe, Miami and Superior on route 60, we were all a little shaken up. Was Phoenix going to be like these dusty little towns? Instead, Phoenix was bright and clean.  My dad said “it was like someone washed your eyeballs!” Best of all, there was grass and palm trees everywhere.

My education was just beginning. Every kid in school was from somewhere else as people poured into the valley for war work and airmen from nearby bases filled the streets.  My best friend was from California and another was from Mexico. The lady down the street was from England and the next door neighbor was from Nova Scotia. A Pima Indian family lived across the street. The dad worked for the railroad and the mother had graduated from an Eastern college. Their son was in the Arizona Bushmasters fighting in the Pacific. We were fascinated by their stories.

My parents embraced Arizona. My dad carpooled to save gas ration stamps to take us to every remote part of our beautiful new state.  We traveled north to the Canyon, Painted Desert and South to Nogales, and everywhere in between.

We were there for the first day of trout fishing on Oak Creek in the spring and back again for the apple harvest in the fall. My dad hiked every trail of South Mountains.

I enjoyed diving into the cool water of University pool, carrying home armloads of books from the Carnegie Library on W. Washington and canoeing with my sister on Encanto Lagoon.

My memories of this sweetheart state are endless and there is a story in every one

“Getting to Know You”

There was a party in our neighborhood a few weeks ago. The day before, two preteen girls from this new family went door to door and asked if it was all right if they had music until ten o’clock at their party.

Let me just say, for the record, that we’ve never had anyone any place we’ve lived come ask our permission first to have loud music in the evening.

Cars and pickups began arriving on Sunday afternoon; bringing Mamas in their Sunday best, carrying covered dishes and Daddies toting babies in their car seats. Little girls in frilly pastel dresses and brothers in long pants marched proudly into the house.

We couldn’t see the dancing in the garage.  However, I suspected from the strobe lights and music that they were having a better party then we were.

Actually, the sound of foreign language and music at the house across our street every weekend reminds me of my Grandma’s house back east many years ago on Sunday afternoons. Polka music pouring forth from my uncle’s accordion filled the air. I’m sure our parent’s voices carried across the backyards and were just as confusing to their American neighbors.

My cousins and I played hide and seek; chasing and shouting like the little Latino kids do now across from my house.

Those cousins grew up. They married into various ethnic families and scattered across the United States.  My grandparent’s offspring learned American ways and taught some of their ways to others. The extended family boasts computer programmers, major league ballplayers, and engineers on some of the first manned craft our country launched. There are artists and writers; many women own their own businesses.

. They played football in school, golf with business clients and tennis any time they had a chance.

In other words, they assimilated, just as the families that visit across the street will also.

When he came here in the 1880’s, my Grandpa worked in the coal mines in West Virginia.  He and the other immigrant men that came to America to earn money and yes, send some of it back to their homeland, took the hardest jobs and were paid the least wages for them. He worked beside Irish, Polish, Russians, and many others. This country needed their labor in its industries just as immigrants are needed now to drive the economy.  The United States grew and prospered with their help.

The immigrant families came with the same basic aspirations and needs as the residents of their new land. The newcomers and the long established transformed each other through a blend of mutual cooperation, competition and yes, sometimes conflict.

Some fought side by side with fellow Americans in WWI; and in later years, along with their neighbors, said heart- wrenching good-byes to their own sons to fight in yet more of our country’s wars.

The cultural and ethnic fusion was slow; but our diversity in color, culture and thought is what makes this country great.

“Reading Rage”

By

Gerry Niskern

There has been a lot written lately about the fine art of reading. Everyone agrees that reading enriches lives; but the big question is how do you instill that desire to absorb the written word into today’s children?

Let me ask you something. Do you have kids or grandkids, nieces or nephews? Be honest. How many electronic games have you bought them on gift giving occasions? How many children’s books did you purchase?

Kids are no different now than in years past. They respond to what they are offered. When toddlers, if they receive only toys with computer chips inside that allow the user to push a button to see it light up, talk or move, when they get older they will gravitate to electronic games instead of reading in leisure time.

.          I don’t know if you have noticed, but the toy stores have a very limited amount of books these days. We all know each child is unique, and some will actually choose a book over a toy if given the opportunity. Consider alternating a trip to the bookstore between trips to the toy store. Children’s imagination and curiosity needs to be constantly encouraged. What better way than a new book that requires visualizing the setting and characters in endless ways?

All infants need to be read to. There is no thrill to equal the sound of your first baby pointing to “ball, bird, or baby” in a book and saying the words out loud. As they grow up reading provides a quiet respite in hectic young lives. They need to get away from their frantic world, turn real pages and let their imagination flow.

When my family moved to Phoenix years ago, I discovered a wonderful building, the Phoenix Carnegie Library. I left that building loaded down with an armful of books every week. Every child should experience that feeling of elation and possibilities when he staggers out the door of the neighborhood library with an armload of books. A trip to your local library for even an hour once a week can be the cornerstone of a lifetime of enjoyable reading.

During this election, as in years past, we hear endless politician’s declarations of why children can’t read. Teachers are blamed. Parents are blamed. When you stop to think about it, there are many reasons, lots of blame to go around. In many families there is no money for storybooks or time for trips to the library when both parents are working two jobs to provide necessities like food and shelter.

A simple gesture like Governor Neapolitan of Arizona’s plan a few years ago,  to give every child in first and fourth grade a book of their own was a beginning. Those privately paid for books provided kids with a volume to read and dream over again and again, because it was theirs to keep! Who knows what ripple effect those precious books had in young lives by providing that spark of enthusiasm that is the key to all those doors of life?

Those of us who can provide books for the little ones should do so and often. Everyone agrees that if toddlers are read to every day, they will learn to read easier. But will they become avid readers? Who knows? Hopefully, the majority will, if given early exposure to books.

The rewards are endless. Who knows? When those kids are adults, they might even call you up and say, “Hey, I’m reading this great book. Do you want it when I’m finished”.

Moving

By

Gerry Niskern

He was the first neighbor we met when we moved into our home on the North Phoenix Mountains.  Pacing back and forth along a wall on long, thin legs, he slowed and gave us a piercing look with bright cobalt eyes. Then he turned his back and hurried up the driveway.

Later that day, when I was on the rear patio, he darted across the top of the retaining wall above. The large roadrunner looked a little defiant, as if to say, “You can move in and live here, but this is really my house.” He appeared again at lunchtime. My son offered him some French fries. After picking one up daintily, the large bird proceeded to slam it vigorously back and forth against the ground. After he was satisfied that it was dead, he ate it.

I thought about the rude roadrunner, my first acquaintance in this area, when I read recently about the 75,000 people expected to relocate to our valley in the next year. Moving is always a tough job whether it is across the valley or across the country. It’s more gratifying to be greeted with a friendly wave and smile.

Looking back,  I remember when our family moved to Arizona when I was a kid; there was a war on. The carefully laid plans of having our furniture loaded by Allied Van and expecting it be in Phoenix a week later when we arrived didn’t work out. Our household goods were off loaded in Dallas for three weeks. Moving the  possessions of the Army officers’ families had priority in those days.

We moved into a big, empty three-bedroom house on West Madison Street near the State Capitol with nothing but our suitcases. The neighbors pitched in to help.  First they offered food, and then they brought mattresses for us to sleep on. One came with a hot plate for cooking. An electric roaster. Dishes. Towels. They offered the use of their washing machine when needed.

One fellow taught my Dad how to service our evaporative cooler that was in the living room window. With his help, our family adjusted to the 110 degree August temperature. The kids directed my sister and me to University swimming pool where we kept our cool.

The neighborhood ladies provided my mother with covered dishes for our dinner, a coffee pot for breakfast and most important of all, friendship and sympathy for my young Mother three thousand miles away from her ten brothers and sisters for the first time.

A couple of months ago a young couple in our family moved into their new home. The neighbors, in this subdivision still under construction, brought a huge pan of goulash that lasted through the weekend, garlic bread and a platter of brownies. One fellow even pitched in and helped unload their pickups.

Other young friends, on the opposite side of our valley, told an entirely different story. The people who did happen to be out in their yards looked the other way as they settled in. My friends are very discouraged to see their neighbors speed by, raise their garage doors by remote, slip in, and the next sound was the thud of the garage doors closing, as if to say, “I can’t be bothered with anyone new.”

I know, it’s tempting to say, “I’m just too busy. I have enough to think about without adding another person to my list.” But then again, you could ask yourself, when you see a moving van on your street, “Why don’t I take five minutes, step over and welcome them to the neighborhood.”

I will admit that our first acquaintance, the roadrunner, did have an attitude.

During the first few weeks here, we could count on seeing him below the house in the early morning chasing insects.  Once a flock of black birds landed in the  yard. He hunched down low to the ground, shot across the terrace like a blazing rocket and knocked one of the intruders end over end. Another bird met the same fate when they came back. Needless to say, they decided it wasn’t much fun at this guy’s house!

If he wasn’t looking for food, he could be found looking at his reflection in our glass door. He seemed to be admiring his brilliant blue eyes and brown and white stripped coat of feathers as he preened himself. “Maybe,” I thought, “he’s courting that bird in the door when he spreads his wings and ruffles his feathers from the top of his head to his extra long tail?”

Then one day, just as we were getting used to sharing our new property with a co-owner, he was gone. We haven’t seen him for many years. Maybe he knew the first mortgage payment was due.

“New Years, 2017 Style”

By

Gerry Niskern

I heard an amazing comment the other day.  A member of my fanily who has to hop a plane frequently, tells me they have noticed a change in manners of fellow passengers. Even though everyone has to arrive two hours before their flight time and submit to random security checks of their full luggage, “People are overall more considerate.”

I know this is hard to believe…airline passengers becoming more courteous to fellow travelers. They went on to say, “ I actually saw a Generation X fellow offer to lift an older woman’s carry-on to the over head rack before stashing his own bag.”

Do you realize this trend could have a domino effect?

Imagine, for instance, if another passenger, after observing this display of courtesy, decides not to take his customary nap by laying his seat back full throttle into the lap of the passenger behind him. That passenger, in turn, is so grateful that he isn’t paralyzed from being pinned in his seat for the entire flight  that he deplanes in great spirits. While pulling out of the airport area, he decides to let another driver out into traffic ahead of him And what if that fellow gave him one of those curtsey “thank you” waves drivers used to give. Yet another driver who observed that scene might be inspired to let cars metered on the freeway actually get on, instead of speeding up so they can’t.

This manner thing might be carried to the extreme. Men might start opening doors for women again, and women might say a gracious “thank you” for the thoughtful gesture. Seeing this phenomenon, boys and girls might stand back and let their mother go first through the shopping center entrance.

Who knows where all this civility could lead?  Dinner out with children might return to being a treat. Caps could be removed while eating.  Picture this. Kids actually sitting at the table so the waiters carrying heavy trays didn’t have to dodge the “happy wanderers.” Of course, Mom and Dad might have to put down their cell phones to encourage this peaceful scene.

And speaking of cell phones, everyone could leave their cell phones in their pockets when having a social conversation at a family gathering. Perhaps no one ever told them that challenging every remark with an immediate “double-check” on a cell phone is not good manners. It is rude and hopefully soon a new rule  book for everyone is published on cell phone manners!

You know, come to think of it, with a good meal under their belts, I’ll bet the kids could sit down and write those thank you notes to aunts, uncles and grandparents for the great Christmas gifts they sent. Trust me, the child benefits more from this exercise than the gift givers.

In this New Year, we could all start with our every day encounters with everyone.  Wait your turn patiently at the butcher, bakery or deli counter. And don’t park in the handicapped spaces; it doesn’t matter if you’ll only be a couple of minutes.

The passing on of norms and manners in general have slowed down in this country.   I’ll admit some formal manners are too old-fashioned for today’s world. If the old rules are too cumbersome, streamline them to work in our world today. In the meantime, the consideration for the feeling and rights of others will always be appropriate.

It has been said that manners are the glue of society; they are what hold civilization together. Let’s mix up a whole new batch of that glue.  If we want to be the best country in the world, we have to start practicing our civility within our own family, our neighborhood and in our community.

What do you think? Could 2017 go down in history, as the year good manners for all ages became fashionable again?