MEMORIES OF A DAY

By

Gerry Niskern

I was reaching for the gas pump when a pickup roared to a stop beside me. A man jumped out. He brushed back his wavy, grey hair and quickly tucked his shirt a little more neatly into his good fitting, stonewashed 501’s.

“Hold it, he said. “I’ll do that for you,”

He quickly shoved his credit card into the slot and began punching numbers. He grabbed the handle and jammed the nozzle into place. While my tank was filling, he asked, “Do you have time to go to lunch?”

I’d love to,” I replied, “but my appointment at the gallery is at l O’clock. I’ll just have tine to make it if I drive fast.”

Putting his arm around my shoulder, he said, “Good luck and don’t worry. Remember what we talked about last night.”

I thought about our conservation the night before when I had expressed my apprehension about my presentation of my paintings to a new art gallery. His many years of expertise in sales had helped me numerous  times. Last evening he suggested, “Don’t put her on the spot.”

“Mention that those are what Tom, (the owner) was interested in and ask her which she likes best. After that, gradually work the conversation around to what sizes would work best for her right now.”

He replaced the gas nozzle and with a quick kiss he pulled away in the 64 yellow Ford truck with teal, purple and hot pink stripes marching jauntily down the side.

I eased my van into the traffic. My spirits were lifting like the bubbles in a glass of Pepsi as I thought about the person who had been my childhood friend, lover, husband, sales coach, gas pumper and the father of my children.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

DAD’S ROLES HAVE CHANGED

By

Gerry Niskern

“Wise is the father that knows his own child”-William Shakespeare

Economic conditions in our country are creating thousands of wise young fathers. While millions of jobs have disappeared for expectant dads, babies wait for no man!

Many moms have been lucky enough to keep their jobs. They get back to work as quickly as possible after childbirth and are now bringing home the bacon. Dads everywhere have stepped up to the plate and are learning how to diaper, burp, feed and soothe their newborns; what ever it takes.

One young dad I know says he remembered his football coach telling him to carry the ball “high and tight”. He found that worked very well with his tiny charge. “I placed the baby’s head in the palm of my hand and let the feet lay back toward the bend of my arm; no fumbling at our house.” Before long dads learn the difference between a wet diaper cry, a hungry cry, a need to burp cry or just a plain “I’m tired and sleepy cry”.

Of course, it’s a given that dads take pride in the burping skills of their newborn, not to mention the musical tooting. It takes them back to their boyhood and many contests.

. As you would expect, many first time daddies of newborns have turned to the numerous web sites to answer any question on baby care he might have.

These programs allow dads to track and time the diapering, feeding, sleeping, bath and whatever else they program.

Speaking of their reverse roles, one young mother told me,” my baby’s  papa is loving, but super cautious. He watches Sponge Bob with her in the mornings, gives her a bath with all her fishy toys, then its bottle and nap time. When I get home each day he tells me how their day went. The problems that they dealt with together, and the surprises he witnessed.  He talks about the events he can’t wait to experience with her.

There’s always the good, the bad and the ugly, and quite frequently in our home,

The adorable!”

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY

“How will you spend Memorial Day?”

By

Gerry Niskern

War memorials have been much on the mind of Arizona citizens recently. Memorial Day is coming up and although there are many versions of how it started, the fact is the day has always been set aside for honoring our dead. In other words, a day of memories.

There will be flourishes and speeches at Wesley Bolin plaza. Then what?  Will you visit it? A better question would be have you been to view the large group of memorials on the state capitol grounds recently, or ever? Let me give you a descriptive tour.

At this time of year, early morning is a good time to visit. The tree-lined walk circling the plaza is tranquil. Birds are singing. Interestingly enough, the first monument I came to really summed it up. “The nation that forgets it’s past has no future.” Those words were inscribed on the monument for Arizona Confederate troops. Another honored Jewish War Veterans. WWI veterans were similarly honored.

The figure of a pioneer woman caught my eye further on. According to the inscription, way before 1875 hundreds of heroic women came to the Arizona territory to teach school and one was the publisher of the first newspaper. Imagine that!

Across the way, I passed the monument to the 158^th Regimental Combat team, known as “The Bushmasters”. Beyond that an impressive larger than life statue of Father Kino astride a horse told of his part of Arizona’s history.

Up a curved walkway lined with American flags to the Vietnam Memorial. At the top, three flag poles. The Vietnamese community of Arizona donated the one flying the Vietnam flag as a thank you. Here in a circle were slabs of black granite engraved with the names of the men and women who gave their lives during the Vietnam War.

There is a memorial for the often forgotten Arizona peace officers killed in the line of duty.

Another quote that I found interesting was on one of many statements made by GIs who had taken advantage of the GI Bill which provided a college education. One man stated, “There are two epochs in one’s life, one is before the war…and one is after”.

Next the path leads through a graceful archway to the eight-sided Pagoda with a gently curved black tile roof of the Korean War memorial. A dragon crouches atop an impressive bell hanging from the center. A gentle knock on the tell brings forth a mellow, haunting note that carries over this place of memories. I found three former schoolmates names engraved here.

Further east is the flags winking atop the Signal Mast of the battle ship the USS Arizona that was sunk at Pearl Harbor. Then on over the huge anchor which is permanently loaned to the state by the U. S. government.

Over in front of the Capitol building is the memorial for Frank Luke Jr. He was the first Arizona man awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously. My friends and I used at his handsome face on our way to school. The young Army Air Force flyer was just twenty when he gave his life in battle.

Best of all is the tangible monument that I see each dawn. The siluolette rises majestically in front of a pink and silver sky. In the evening the mountain comes alive with shades of red in the sunset. It’s name, Piestawa Peak.

MEMORIAL DAY

By

Gerry Niskern

Memorial Day! For most kids Memorial Day means a fun filled break from school, lessons and the daily routine. Perhaps they’ll  attend a family outing at the lake or invite friends over for a swim and barbecue.

Sure, they might see a few spots on television reminding the public of special ceremonies planned around the valley to honor the American soldiers killed in one of our country’s wars.  Usually, only the men lost in battle are mentioned.  I don’t know why, but in recent years the meaning of this special day to honor all the dead is not acknowledged.

Actually, memorial comes from memory; to remember or recall. When I was a child it 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 in the family.  We kids pulled weeds while our parents clipped overgrown grass around the family plots.

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

The tradition we celebrated on those outings had the added benefit of giving us a feeling of security. Of course, we didn’t realize it at the time, but our sense of self respect was being honed, as we understood, perhaps subconsciously, someone would be telling our stories some day. The continuity of the tradition of decorating the graves conveyed a sense of accountability.

In recent years I’ve attended funeral services at Greenacres Cemetery in Scottsdale and Resthaven in Glendale. Lately, I sensed that something was missing at these gatherings. Then I realized what it was. Children.  There is generally a noticeable lack of children at these gatherings. Babies, yes, but then, babies don’t ask the tough questions, do they?

I’ve heard parents say, “I wouldn’t dream of bring my child to a funeral.” The majority of children are sheltered from the reality of death, but they are allowed to watch movies depicting death and destruction. Most kids are permitted to play video games that include violence and killing. But, ironically death is not  included as part of  real life.

One of my earliest memories as a toddler is of being held in my mother’s arms. She was standing in my grandmother’s living room beside her father’s coffin and crying.

A few years later, around age seven, at a funeral I bid goodbye to a favorite aunt, a young mother who died at age thirty. I had to be consoled and tears wiped away, when I saw the grief stricken face of her husband, my uncle. Hard lessons? Perhaps.

Why not consider a family session this Memorial Day to remember and honor the dead. Is there someone’s grave you need to visit? Take the kids with you. Let them place the flowers that commemorate and show respect for your loved ones.  Yes, you’ll get questions. You will also have a wonderful opportunity to tell some family stories about the kinds of lives the departed once lived.

If you family hasn’t been in the valley long and you haven’t a cemetery to visit, get out the old photo albums. Set aside a special time this Memorial Day weekend and go through the pictures together. Tell your child what kind of man Grandpa was, what kind of work he did, where he worshipped. Did he go to college; did he work his way through? Who looks like him? Who has his nose?   How did Grandma dress when she was their age? What games did she play? When she married, was it hard raising a family back then?

Ask the question, do you remember…? Along with their answers, you will get a flood of their questions. Most kids are just waiting for someone to start the dialogue. The time you spend together remembering the ones who have gone before us can be valuable lessons between right and wrong. The importance of choices that were made in the past. Who is respected in the family and who isn’t?

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.

And yes,  get ready to answer some tough questions

“Mom would love a letter”

by

Gerry Niskern

Have you bought your Mother’s Day card yet?  Are there special things you’ve always wanted to tell her, but none of the cards seem to say it just right?

That’s because the mothers we see on greeting cards with the saintly smiles are perfect, but are they really mom? It’s through mom and the comfort of home that we learn to trust others and life itself. Mother is the twine that holds the family together. And yet often she is a mysterious set of contradictions. It’s hard to sort out your feelings for her: annoyance, anger, companionship, apprehension and yes,  love.

Frustrating, isn’t it? I have a novel idea for you. Forget the fancy cards this year and instead, write your mother a letter!

I know. You probably haven’t written a personal letter since letter writing class  in fourth grade English. Besides, if you are like most adult children in this electronic age, you always phone, text message, or get online for a chat.

I’m not suggesting a gushy, cloying type of correspondence that will embarrass both you and her…just a few lines of remembering. It doesn’t have to be hand written. If your handwriting is as bad as mine, computer generated is fine if that’s more readable. But put it in an envelope and mail it. It doesn’t matter if she lives here and you’ll probably be seeing her on Mother’s Day or miles away. Everyone, especially moms, likes to get a personal letter in the mail.

One year, while living in another state, when I couldn’t get home for Mother’s Day, I decided to send my mother what I call an “I remember” letter.

“Mom,” my letter began, “Lately, I’ve been remembering the time you spent showing me how to gently lift the baby chicks out of the incubator and trusted me to do it. And how you taught me how to carefully pick the raspberries and helped us set up a roadside stand and helped celebrate each sale. Remember how I rode on your back sledding in the winter? And how you let me cook anything I wanted and encouraged me to be creative ?”

As I penned that letter, I realized that what I was remembering was really about a commodity we call time. I continued writing, “Also the time you spent brushing and braiding my hair, making Halloween costumes, and  sitting on the porch swing and talking together.”

It’s really so simple yet difficult. Mothers need to care enough to spend that precious time that no one seems to have enough of these days. Time to pay attention, Time to talk. Time to just sit together and do nothing.

It doesn’t matter if your mom was biological, adoptive, step, grand, foster or single. If she spent time with you then, take some time now and tell her what you remember.

“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. 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 quivkly 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….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. He listens spellbound, brown eyes solemn and wide.

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”.

“Mother’s Day” Series # 1

By

Gerry Niskern

Moms and food go together. With my mother, it was food and family stories, always with a moral.

One of my first memories is of my mother standing in our kitchen making cottage cheese. I can’t tell you how she did it, but I know there was a cloth bag involved. Anyway, it was the best cottage cheese you’ve ever tasted.

That brings us to buttermilk; cold, tangy, buttermilk. I was allowed to help pump the churn plunger up and down. (A process that would have gone more smoothly without my help, I’m sure.)  After that she used wooden paddles to collect and shape the mounds of butter from the bottom.

All these dairy products were the result of mom insisting that we have Daisy, a young cow.   Mom suspected that she was part deer because she kept leaping the barbed wire fences to chase the bulls.  Mom hiked across the steep hillsides to bring her back and soothed her scratched udder with balm but the milking process was hectic.

Dad worked in town, but mom loved living in the country. She planted large gardens, plowed and hoed them herself and canned vegetables and fruit every summer. She made deep fried fritters with chunks of peaches, apricots and plums.

I’m always amused about the ongoing debate of today’s young mothers. Should they work or be a stay-at home mother? With mom, there was no question. She was a working mom; in the barn, kitchen and the garden.

But along with the chores was a running monologue of her opinions on democracy, morals and life in general.

In the l930’s, during the dark days of the depression, one or two men came to our back door every day. They would ask if they could get a drink from our pump in the yard. Then they would as if they could do some work for a bite to eat. Mom never let anyone go away hungry. Occasionally, I was trusted to carry a battered tin pie pan heaped with steaming eggs and generous slices of homemade bread and butter out to the destitute man waiting on the porch. Mom always followed with a fresh pot of coffee.

When my adult kids are reminiscing about grandma’s cooking, each remembers a favorite dish. Was the Sunday roast beef, with mashed potatoes and gravy, the “to die for” meatloat, or the fresh green beans, seasoned with bacon that was the best.

I’m here to tell them that the chicken and homemade noodles win, hands down. The egg noodles were rolled out on Saturday, cut into thin strips and laid on wax paper to dry overnight and dropped into the golden broth on Sunday before she finished frying the chicken.

On second thought, I forgot to mention Halupkis. Every European country seemed to have their version of cabbage rolls. Mom’s recipe came down from her mother. Each roll, (leaf of cooked cabbage), contained a delicious mixture of ground beef, pork and rice. They were cooked in a large pot in brown gravy with bits of tomato floating.

I should mention the creamy dill flavored potato soup. Of course, my husband votes for her pies.  She baked two every Saturday up until the day she left us.

In her kitchen, while cooking, Mom taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.

I wonder if many of today’s young mothers who occasionally announce that they are “cooking tonight” will be remembered so well?

“Let’s all go to the Prom”

By

Gerry Niskern

Among the paintings by Norman Rockwell is one titled “ After the Prom”. In the image a teenage couple is seated at the soda fountain of a drugstore. The girl is dressed in a waltz length pink gown with cap sleeves.  Her date is holding her purse and pink sweater while she adjusts her corsage. The soda jerk waits to take their order. A trip to the corner drugstore for a soda after the prom…imagine that!

I know some girls in Paradise Valley who are getting ready for their prom. The girls have been shopping for the right gown for weeks.  Strapless is a must. They plan to spend around $400 for their dresses, but with shoes, purse, makeup and hair the evening will run closer to $600. Their dates will be in a rented tux, of course. But that’s just the beginning. He’ll be footing the bill for the dance, dinner at an upscale restaurant first and hopefully sharing a limousine with a group. Typically, they will go on to another party after the prom.

On the other hand, our Junior-Senior prom at Phoenix Union High School was held in the gymnasium. My date picked me up in his low riding black Chevy coupe. The cool look was achieved by loading the trunk with sand bags.  A trip to Coney Island down on Central Ave for a chilidog or a ride out to the Ice Cream Polar Bar on North Central for a Zombie were a couple of the after dance options.

A friend of mine from Minnesota reminisced,  “My prom in the 40’s was held in May when the weather was good. My date picked me up in an Essex for the $6 dinner dance. My gardenia corsage was $3.  All the juniors and seniors went whether they had a date or not. The gowns were long and the boy’s suits were dark.”

We both share the experience of raising children of the 60’s who spurned the idea of anything traditional. They wore their hair long and their army fatigues baggy. Needless to say, since they worked hard at being anti-establishment, going to a prom was out of the question. By the time our free spirits had offspring of their own, the prom was popular again but prices had changed. Dress prices had quadrupled and tuxedos and limousines were a must.

Actually proms started changing in the late fifty’s. Another friend who went to Glendale Union High School remembers paying around $45 for her gown and of course, shoes dyed to match.  “My boyfriend showed up in a white tuxedo he had rented for $20. He brought white orchids.  The prom was a dinner dance at the Bali Hi Hotel in Phoenix.  After the dance everyone raced home and changed clothes. Then we drove to up to Yarnell, and had a sunrise breakfast at the old “Ranch House Café. Don’t ask me why!” she laughed.

. If you didn’t have a date,back then, you didn’t go.

It seems we’ve come full circle; because now groups go to the prom without  dates. Sounds good to me!

My great-grandaughter is going to the prom this year. She will be the first girl in our family to go to the Prom in a long time.  She had the trendy typical formal invitation complete with balloons and flowers. I don’t know where it will be, but I know she will have a wonderful time and some great memories.

My date for that prom in April, 1950 always said  the most expensive part of prom night was the price of the ticket he received for having straight pipes on his Chevy coupe that could be heard several blocks away. He thought that maybe the limousines aren’t such a bad idea.

  An Arizona family Easter

By

Gerry Niskern

When our kids and their cousins were growing up here in the valley, they thought the Easter Bunny hid his eggs out on the desert. Grandpa usually scouted out a pristine site shaded by Palo Verde and Mesquite trees the week before.  The dozens of eggs that Grandma dyed were hidden before our extended family and grandkids arrived. The eggs snuggled among the gold desert poppies and blue lupine.

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, the hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter egg tradition was born.

Different cultures have developed their own unique ways of decorating their Easter eggs. Our family always typically started out with wax crayons, delicate designs to follow and great expectations. After a few eggs are colored and the first container of colored dye hit the kitchen floor; the job became a little rushed and it was all downhill from there.

Actually, it didn’t 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 flowers. .

For years we gathered North of Thunderbird Road in the area where the Moon Valley Country Club now stands. After the egg hunt, the older kids rode ride a small go-cart and the dads fired off toy rockets for the kids to chase and try to be first to find them.

When that area started to fill in with houses, we met for our picnic on the beautiful desert land just East of Scottsdale Road and Bell, that is of course where the North valley residents shop at The Great Indoors and surrounding stores.

Finally, we moved our picnic place among the smooth, round rocks of the Carefree area, right where the Boulders Resort sprawls over the desert.  Their Easter baskets full of chocolate ducks and jelly beans were forgotten as they scrambled over the round rocks hunting for the mysterious eggs hidden among the boulders.

If it was windy, they flew kits. Led by Grandma, arroyos were explored and unique rocks scrutinized for signs of gold. A feast of ham, potato salad and Grandma’s cream pies topped off the day.

So tell the kids to put on their running shoes and practice their wind sprints. The furry rabbit with the huge ears is coming. Remind the Grandpas it’s not fair to walk ahead of the pack showing the baby where the Easter eggs are hidden.

Just a word of caution, leave real early. You’ll have to drive outside of Phoenix a long, long way to find a pristine desert site for your Easter picnic.

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.