“Nation of immigrants celebrates the Fourth of July”

By

Gerry Niskern

E Pluribus Unum

E pluribus Unum, “from many, one”, was the original national motto of the United States.

Our country has never been a homogeneous nation. George Washington, our first president, understood that. He envisioned millions immigrating to the United States to make this country great. For most of the next two centuries, mass immigration was the rule, not the exception. So again, this year, as a nation of immigrants, we celebrate the Fourth of July, our country’s birthday.

With the exception of the Native Americans, all of our ancestors emigrated from another country. In fact, when people are diligently looking up the family genealogy they are often disappointed when they can’t find the citizenship papers of the first members. There’s a reason for that. Millions didn’t become naturalized!

That’s right. A large percentage of immigrants in the 1800s and early l900s did not actually become citizens. Immigrants were asked to sign a Letter of Intent to become a United States citizen, but most started working and raising families and somehow didn’t get around to following through. And yet, in many states, aliens who had only filed Intent, were allowed to vote.

My grandfather was recruited in Austria in the late 1880’s  to come here and work in the coal mines of Pennsylvania and then West Virginia. My grandparents saved and sent money home to buy more land for their families adjoining farms. They never intended to stay, but they did. Did they become citizens? I can’t honestly say.

It’s interesting when I hear someone declare, “My grandparents came here, they worked hard and became citizens!”   I’m tempted to ask, “Are you sure?” Actually, there were no limits on immigrant laborers. Between l870 and 1920, approximately 25 million immigrants came to the U.S. The United States needed cheap labor and welcomed them.

Over the years skeptics always predicted that the newcomers would never be assimilated; that they would never adapt to the civic culture of the United States. History proved them wrong. They have become giants in industry, business, medicine, law and in any area you can name. As a small, more personal example, those from large families have smaller families and the third generation has even less.

Yes, we urgently need to tighten security along the border. We need to stop the drugs coming north and stop the flow of guns going south.  Just as important,  we also need to help legalize the immigrants who were needed here and have been working, paying taxes, buying homes and raising children to be good citizens. We are not at a totally new place in our country. We’ve been here before.

We need to treat the existing problem of immigrants with practicality and decency.

Come on, Guys. Demonizing an entire race or religion  is not the American way.

“Scents of Arizona Summers”

By

Gerry Niskern

You can smell them now, can’t you? If you were lucky enough to grow up here you know every delicious smell of our state. And even if you didn’t, you’ll recognize most of the delicious aromas.

If you rolled down the car windows in the spring coming to and from work the smell of the orange blossoms was wonderful. Back when the valley was filled with groves, the citrus scent was everywhere.

How about the scent of the dust freshly watered down infield for the first pitch at a baseball game? Or the smell of the boys sweat, dirt soaked uniforms as them pile in the car to go home?

I remember the aroma of the cantaloupe sheds out on Grand Ave as you drove past this time of year. How long since cantaloupes in the stores have smelled like that? My Resident Historian used to back his pickup up to a shed and they would fill it to the brim with “over ripes”, enough for a neighborhood feast!

When I was a kid, we bought our watermelons from a house on W. Jefferson who kept them in a pop cooler. When mom slid her big knife in the dark rind, the melon split with a loud crack, releasing the sweetest aroma in the world.

The fragrance of freshly cut grass mingled with the aroma of  honey suckle and ripe figs in neighborhoods. At ll5, the smell of hot tar in asphalt was as strong as the odor of the Tamarisk trees where we kids played on the wide branches.

The exotic smell of coconut oil rose from warm bodies as teenagers sunbathed in the back yard and inside the house the smell of fresh aspen cooler pads mingled with the smell of mom pressing dad’s pants for church.

Does anyone remember when the candy counter at Newberry’s beckoned with chocolate aroma; or when the caramel corn shoppe over on Monroe tried to take your quarter. Cigars wrinkled your nose as you passed the Adams hotel (which you walked thru quickly just to cool off in the lobby) , but a trip past the Green Dragon on Jefferson emitted onions and spices of Chinese fare.

The required walk thru of the foot bath at the swimming pool reeked with heavy chlorine, but worth the running plunge in the cool water.  Which smelled better: the sputtering hot dogs or the icy cold Barq’s Root Beer from the snack bar?

But, best of all to old timers and brand new residents,  is the pungent smell of our desert after a summer rain? The scent of wet creosote mingling with the fragrant  sage is found only in Arizona!

“The Game”

By

Gerry Niskern

I remember a few years back when the age limits for kid’s baseball was lowered considerably. Naturally this pleased all dads everywhere.

The tiny wannabe ball player in our family was ready. His daddy had been practicing with him since he could catch a ball.

The Peoria Blue Devils were about to play their first game. If you asked any one of the three or four year old boys what position he played, the answer was always the same; “I’m the batter”.

Before the game started, the Devils had a little personnel problem. It seems we had to re-negotiate a player’s contract. My great-grandson balked. He hunched  down in a lawn chair and refused to do the warm up exercises. When his daddy told him the exercises were required if you wanted to play, he replied, “Then I don’t want to play today.” ‘Okay, Dad,’ I thought to myself, ‘What are you going to do now?’

One of his grandmothers promised bubble gum if he played. No deal. Several family fans suggested the possibility of an ice cream cone after the game. No deal. Then big brother was recruited to take the field with him. That was the offer he was holding out for. Negotiations were closed.

As play got under way I heard a familiar chatter: no, not from the players on the field, but from the whirring of video cameras.

Before placing the ball on the tee, the coach asked each player to show him where first base was. Most didn’t know. That’s okay. They didn’t know where second or third was either. And they sure didn’t see the sense in touching home plate.

The lead off batter for the orange team stepped to the plate. “Strike one…two…finally on strike three he sent a grounder out in the general direction of a large clump of fielders that made up of the entire blue team. Orange batter immediately dropped his bat and raced after the ball. He carried it proudly back to home plate. His coach took it from him and begged him to run to first. “Run, run, over there, look, run to the man waving his arms,” he pleaded.

The next hitter for the blue team knocked a ball to right field. Our kid and a teammate both dove for the ball. Everyone agrees that the kid “has an arm on him” and could have sent it sizzling to home plate. Instead, he politely handed the ball to his teammate. Right about then I started having second thoughts about all those lessons on sharing in nursery school.

One solid hitter got on third right away and then collapsed in a heap of tears when he realized his daddy wasn’t beside him. He walked off looking for him.

Out boy was first up for the Devils. He swung once, twice, and connected with a crack of the bat as his ball soared. He got on first and soon scrambled on to second and third. Another blue Devil brought him in home. His eyes lit up and a grin spread across his face when he realized that the cheers of the crowd were for him!

In this league, the players took breaks as they say fit. They sought out mom, got drinks and did a little “lap sitting”. When one orange shirt was called back to the game, he replied, “ I can’t right now, dad, I have to kill these ants”.

At this age the teams only play three innings. It’s a good thing because the players were still willing to go to bat, but several of the red faced, sweating Devils refused to run bases. When that inning was over, the slap of high-fives could be heard as the two teams learned the closing ritual. The three year olds were pretty proud about finally playing their first baseball game, but not nearly as proud as ALL OF THEIR DADDIES

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?