“Do You Vote Like your Daddy?”

By

Gerry Niskern

I remember when I entered politics. I was three and FDR was running for his second term. I gave my first stump speech while standing on one of my Grandma’s kitchen chairs. My mother’s younger brothers, all strong UMWA members had coached me well. When my dad, a staunch Republican, came to pick me up after a day at Grandmas I greeted him with a rousing, “Vote for Roosevelt!”.  It was all in good fun, but my dad was a guy that believed his politics were his private affair. My mother, of course, was a registered Republican too.

Back then, most women were expected to register with the political party of their fathers or husbands, with no discussions about the issues. Of course, there were exceptions. Some were influenced by studies in college. Later on their employment affected their choices and sometimes marriage did too.

Mom used to laugh when she told about the first time she voted in Arizona. Back in 1942 when my family moved here, it was a blue state. Yes. You read that right, blue. The Democrats had dominated from the inception of Arizona’s government. The state had nine Democratic and three Republicans governors from l912 to l950.

Our neighborhood polling place was at the state capitol. The tables were set up in the rotunda. After my mother gave her name to the election official, the fellow waved her ballot high and yelled down the line of tables   “Hey guys, here’s a Republican.” That drew a raucous chorus of hoots and hollers.

Red faced, she took the ballot and quickly retreated to the niche to vote. What the room full of Democratic workers didn’t know was that she probably voted right along their party line. You see, she might have been married to a Republican, but that coal miner’s daughter from a strong union family was a Democrat at heart.

Today women have access to 24 hour news programs, the internet; all the sources to help them keep informed on both sides of the issues. They are free to make wise decisions that will impact their own future and the future of their daughters.

Women have taken charge of their lives. How about you?

Do you vote like your Daddy?

For the first time in the history of our country we have a woman candidate of a major party running for President of the United States. This is a personal look back in history.

“You want me to do what?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Back in the l950’s, the women in the Installment Loan Department at the Valley National Bank had to take part in a little tradition on payday. When the vice-president in charge of that busy office came around with the pay checks, he demanded a kiss on the cheek before he handed you your hard-earned money.

The first thought that ran thru my mind when I saw the payday ritual going on was ‘no way!’ When the old boy came up to me at my station, I really can’t give you a description of the expression on my face, but I can tell you he took one look and he meekly handed over my check. That particular vice-president was the brother-in-law of the owner of the bank so he had a little clout. I guess I was too naive to consider the possible consequences.

I worked in the Security Building on the corner of Central Ave and Van Buren. Our loan department had a filing system called Soundex and I was hired specifically to learn the system. You took the first letter of the name and quickly translated it into numbers and located the small card in waist level bins.

The bank was just starting to build branches around the state. The managers called in from the branches to check on the credit of a person who had applied for a loan and we would translate the name into “Soundex” language and give it to them instantly. That was our “computer” system. I have to laugh when I remember that we worked in heels all day scurrying among those files. And we ran all over downtown shopping on our hour long lunch hour in those heels too!

Another young woman, a little older than me, was hired to learn the system the same day that I was. She was married, with a child, and her husband was in Korea. While on our coffee break one day I learned to my dismay that she was being paid more than I was. The first chance I got I marched over to the personnel office and asked why the difference in our wages. They calmly replied that she her husband was overseas, she had a child and she needed more money.

The bank was generous in many ways. They had an employee’s cafeteria that was inexpensive and had delicious food. They also gave each employee a week’s paid vacation after one year. And they added another week’s vacation for each year you worked. Everyone received a Christmas bonus of a week’s salary and again, another week’s salary was added to the bonus for each year. I started a week before Christmas, but I received my bonus like all the other girls. They also had a very elegant Christmas Tea in December and the wife of the bank’s owner “served” from her beautiful silver tea service. The room was beautiful and the food was delicious.  The same old vice-president went around handing out the Christmas bonus checks and demanding the usual gesture in return.

We delivered the requested credit records for the Phoenix department to one particular lady’s office. Her office door was at the end of a line of vice-presidents offices, and I was curious as to why her door didn’t say vice-president since she seemed to be doing all the work.  When I inquired about that I was told by my lady boss, “Oh, she can’t be a vice-president. She’s a woman.”

During Rodeo Days the Phoenix Jaycees held a Kangaroo Court downtown to try anyone who was out on the street and not wearing something Western. They would drag the lawbreaker over to the court, have a trial, and fine them, much to the amusement of the crowd. When one of the “cowboy deputies” spotted one of the girls from the bank not dress western, they would come after them; right up the elevator and into the women’s restroom and pulled them out!

I worked there until I was expecting our first baby and even allowed to stay on in another department for a while longer than normal because I was working downstairs where I wasn’t seen by the public. Otherwise, I would have had to quit because you couldn’t work after you started to show. And, of course, the employees insurance, which the bank provided, by the way, covered the wives of the men employees for childbirth, but not the women employees.

I was very lucky to have that job. The pay was more than average and the atmosphere was relaxed, friendly and flexible in many ways. When I look back I realize that although some things have changed, some haven’t.

“Are you sure that was you?”

Ken, my husband, loved cars. He kept an eye out for unusual cars and he had many unique vehicles over the years.  Like all car guys, he wanted to have something that nobody else had. Among the exotic cars in his lifetime  collection was a little English Morris Minor, A P l800 Volvo, a tiny red GarmaGia convertible, a black fin- backed Cadillac, a Sunbeam Tiger convertible, and a 65 Mustang convertible and a Rover, to name a few.

He always had his work vehicle, and I had my car, first a beautiful gold and white Ford Fairlane and then a white Ford Station wagon as our family grew. However, there was always an extra beauty sitting in our carport that he was tinkering with. That was his hobby and it was fine with me; but I have to acknowledge that it took us a few years to negotiate that arrangement. Specifically, his car money had to support itself and he had to keep his “car money” in a separate account and away from our household expenses.

When I think back to the first time I put my foot down on a car purchase, I have to ask myself, ‘Was that really me?’ We were newlyweds and money had been very tight during the first few months. I had a saving account when we tied the knot. My new husband did not. But since I married a super-salesman and we were both working, I agreed to us buying  a new Black Ford Coupe on the installment loan plan at the bank where I worked.

The payments were $90.00 a month. Everything went along fine for a while and then my new husband’s work came to a halt as the building industry suffered some long strikes. We ended up using all my savings to make those car payments each month. It was a struggle but we finally did it.

Soon afterwards, he had changed jobs and was learning a new trade. He had to drive up North Central to the job, where all the used car dealers were located back then. That’s when it happened. He spotted a two-tone Ford Crestliner. He was smitten.

“You want to do what?” I whispered, in disbelief, that evening. Surely I had heard him wrong. I couldn’t believe my ears as he explained the bargain he had worked out with MONEY BAGS KLEIN, the car dealer. He wanted to trade in our new “paid for” car, on a really “neat” different car, a couple of years older.

Thinking I just didn’t understand the importance of the deal he had made, he patiently explained. “But Honey, its RED AND BLACK .and we would have the only one in town. Our payments would only be….”  I can’t remember what the amount was because at that point, I had stopped listening.

“I don’t care if it’s the only one in the whole world!” I yelled. “We are not going to give MONEY BAGS KLEIN our new, paid for, car. No, No, No!”

Over the years, our kids always enjoyed hearing that story because they thought I could never say no to their dad. They always asked again, “Are you sure that was you?”

“Trick or Treat time in Pumpkinville”

By

Gerry Niskern

All the kids in Pumpkinville are busy gearing up for the big night. They have been busy discussing and planning their choice of costume for a couple of months now. After all, you have to think ahead about life’s more important decisions.

For all you newcomers out there who are wondering where Pumpkinville is, Phoenix was originally known as Pumpkinville for the first years of its existence. The first pioneers found pumpkins growing profusely along all the canal banks in the valley.

Who planted these all those pumpkin vines? Well, Jack Swilling, of course. Who was Jack Swilling? Settle back, and let me tell you about Jack and then you can pass along a little of the valley’s history to your munchkins who are getting ready for Halloween.

Jack Swilling arrived in the valley around 1867. He was an Indian fighter, deserter from the Confederate Army, and most of all, a visionary. He was fascinated with the ancient Hohokam (the Pima word for “people who have gone before”) ruins, especially the extensive network of canals the ancient Indians had dug to irrigate their fields. Swilling realized the farmers could use the canals. He and his partner began clearing and rebuilding the long-abandoned irrigation canals of the Hohokam.

Within a short time Salt River water was flowing in the canals. The farmers were growing barley, alfalfa and other crops. Jack Swilling planted pumpkins everywhere he worked. That lead to the settlement being called Pumpkinville, approximately around 1870.

The pumpkins that grew along the canal banks provided a great supply of Jack-o-Lanterns for the pioneer kids.

Halloween night, dating back to around A.D. 830 when Pope Gregory 1V proclaimed No 1 All Saints’ day, has by tradition been a kids night for fun.

If Halloween was celebrated at all in Pumpkinville, it was most likely a social event for the whole family; an excuse for singles parties and courting. You could hear the sound of guitars and fiddles coming from parlors around town. If there were any Irish families around the kids could count on hearing some scary ghost stories to fit the occasion.

Most children of early Phoenix were far removed from goblins, trolls and spirits in European ghost tales. Who cared about gnomes when rattlesnakes, coyotes, when real bobcats padded nearby? Fear of Halloween witches also gave way to real life encounters with small bands of renegade Apaches.

Now, this October in Pumpkinville the kids can choose their pumpkins from stacks in corner lots around town. On the other hand, they might get a trip to one of the “Pumpkin Patches” around the valley to pick their own.

That brings us back to the costume dilemma..

Here’s an idea. How about dressing them up like Indian Fighter, Jack Swilley?

“Have you seen any good scorpions lately?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you new to our valley? How well do you know your neighbors? Have you met any of our resident scorpions yet?  The swift venomous arthropods are everywhere.

When you live in the desert, you have invaded their territory; especially when you dwell in an area where the ground has been disturbed for new housing construction and their nests are stirred up. The stinger is at the end of the tail; the sting site can be extremely painful. It generally does not swell, but there is instantaneous pain and numbness. Young kids and seniors are most at risk.

Almost everyone has a scorpion story. I saw my first scorpion years ago. It was a rather large one, on the wall above a sleeping newborn’s crib. The proud parents had invited us in to see their infant, and there on the wall was the culprit. What a lucky intervention that was.

We’ve had them quite often because we live in the Dreamy Draw area that is especially known for its scorpions. Our son gave us something handy to keep from stepping on one at night; plug in Limelites  that cast a faint glow on the floor, enough to throw a scorpion’s shadow to alert you.  I recommend getting one.

My resident historian took off his socks one night and surprise, there on the bottom of one sock was a squashed scorpion. He was lucky that time. It pays to shake out your shoes before putting them on. Sometimes you hear them first; they make a slight scratching sound on a hard surface.

Most pest control companies will tell you that you cannot kill them. Scorpions usually follow other bugs into a home. What actually can be done is to spray for their prey thereby eliminating the scorpions.

I remember walking into the kitchen one morning and seeing one on the telephone sitting on the counter. I came back with the flyswatter and to my amazement, I watched that tiny scorpion run down the wall, under the locked and what we thought was an airtight Arcadia door and out onto the patio. They can crawl through a credit card size slit.

Last year, we were at a friend’s new home in the Sun City area. She leaned down to pick up what she thought was a piece of dry grass from the carpet. Guess what, it stung her!  Her pain from that scorpion sting lasted several hours.

Another friend tells about the time when he was in high school and the family had just moved into a new home. He thought he saw a scorpion run under the refrigerator. Determined to get it, the high school boy got down on his hand and knees and looked under the frig. The little pirate dashed out and stung him on the nose!  Of course, the repercussions were serious from that sting.

According to the emergency room staff at John C. Lincoln, children under six and seniors are the only ones they normally to give antiserum for scorpion venom. It’s very hard on you. But unfortunately with children, if they are crying loudly, and it appears to be quite painful, they have to assume it’s probably a scorpion bite.

According to my research, there are 1,300 species of scorpions worldwide, and many varieties are non- poisonous. However, the poisonous ones live mainly in the Southwest Deserts. Watch out!.

“Have you seen any good scorpions lately?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you new to our valley? How well do you know your neighbors? Have you met any of our resident scorpions yet?  The swift venomous arthropods are everywhere.

When you live in the desert, you have invaded their territory; especially when you dwell in an area where the ground has been disturbed for new housing construction and their nests are stirred up. The stinger is at the end of the tail; the sting site can be extremely painful. It generally does not swell, but there is instantaneous pain and numbness. Young kids and seniors are most at risk.

Almost everyone has a scorpion story. I saw my first scorpion years ago. It was a rather large one, on the wall above a sleeping newborn’s crib. The proud parents had invited us in to see their infant, and there on the wall was the culprit. What a lucky intervention that was.

We’ve had them quite often because we live in the Dreamy Draw area that is especially known for its scorpions. Our son gave us something handy to keep from stepping on one at night; plug in Limelites  that cast a faint glow on the floor, enough to throw a scorpion’s shadow to alert you.  I recommend getting one.

My resident historian took off his socks one night and surprise, there on the bottom of one sock was a squashed scorpion. He was lucky that time. It pays to shake out your shoes before putting them on. Sometimes you hear them first; they make a slight scratching sound on a hard surface.

Most pest control companies will tell you that you cannot kill them. Scorpions usually follow other bugs into a home. What actually can be done is to spray for their prey thereby eliminating the scorpions.

I remember walking into the kitchen one morning and seeing one on the telephone sitting on the counter. I came back with the flyswatter and to my amazement, I watched that tiny scorpion run down the wall, under the locked and what we thought was an airtight Arcadia door and out onto the patio. They can crawl through a credit card size slit.

Last year, we were at a friend’s new home in the Sun City area. She leaned down to pick up what she thought was a piece of dry grass from the carpet. Guess what, it stung her!  Her pain from that scorpion sting lasted several hours.

Another friend tells about the time when he was in high school and the family had just moved into a new home. He thought he saw a scorpion run under the refrigerator. Determined to get it, the high school boy got down on his hand and knees and looked under the frig. The little pirate dashed out and stung him on the nose!  Of course, the repercussions were serious from that sting.

According to the emergency room staff at John C. Lincoln, children under six and seniors are the only ones they normally to give antiserum for scorpion venom. It’s very hard on you. But unfortunately with children, if they are crying loudly, and it appears to be quite painful, they have to assume it’s probably a scorpion bite.

According to my research, there are 1,300 species of scorpions worldwide, and many varieties are non- poisonous. However, the poisonous ones live mainly in the Southwest Deserts. Watch out!.

“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 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 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 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. “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 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.

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 on 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.

“Outlaw the Fun!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you heard that the grade schools are banning contact sports at recess? Tag is only one of many games forbidden at most schools because there have been injuries with pushing and shoving. The parents are complaining.  It’s about time they have a ban on fun, in fact, its decades late.

This issue of contact games reminds me of one first grader in our family coming home and telling of how much fun it was to chase the little girls at recess. When asked what they did when then caught them. “We just chase them. He replied, horrified. “We don’t catch them!”

Then there’s dodge ball.  I speak on behalf of all the uncoordinated kids who were subjected to dodge ball humiliation.

My heart would jump to my throat, as a kid, when the teacher announced, “We are all going to play together this recess. The game is dodge ball.”  That meant the boys too; the hard hitters.

First she appointed two captains and then came the mortification of being the kid chosen last. The next insult was always being the one put out. By out, I mean a sizzling ball speeding towards my body while I instinctively froze knowing there was no escape

It’s a good thing my school didn’t play wall ball too.

Workup softball at lunch recess was a disaster too.   We had an hour, but the best players ate fast, raced to grab the bat and ball, and then claimed positions on the diamond. If, on the other hand, you were required to walk home for lunch you never made it back in time for more than a field position.  It’s just as well. The one time I got to pitch, I caught a speeding ball right in the teeth.

Is jump rope is considered a contact sport these days? Those whirling jump ropes can sting when they smack you. That’s was right before your knees hit the pavement.

Lot’s of friends in school tried to help me master the Monkey Bars. “Just grab hold and swing right and then left as you go across.”  I tried, I really did, but by the 3^rd grab, I was on the ground. No soft sand under the bars at our school,  just hard dried mud.

The kids in our neighborhood played “Ante, Ante Over” too. One  team was in our back yard and one team in front. The ball was launched over the roof, and if someone caught it, they would sneak around house and try to hit someone with it.  That’s right. That someone was usually me. Then you had to be on their team. Playing with my older sister and her friends, my only function was being the easiest target. Those balls stung pretty good too.

Mothers didn’t want to hear about how hard you got hit either. The phrase was, “If you are going to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Then there were jacks. An easy game, or so I was told. All you do is throw out the jacks on the sidewalk, then take the little red rubber ball in one hand and throw it up in the air, not too far. Before it comes down, pick up one jack and catch the little ball in the same hand before it bounces twice. That was called onsies. Next came twosies or so I hear. That’s about as far as I ever got.

Personally, I think they should outlaw jacks too

“The Face of Labor has Changed”

By

Gerry Niskern

Did you have any help preparing for the coming holiday that celebrates the working people in America? You probably had a lot more help from unseen workers than you realize. We all tend to take other peoples labor for granted, just like we take our country’s holidays for granted.

Our country’s unique national holiday came about because back in the late 1880’s around 10,000 workers in the garment industry walked off the job and staged a notorious strike in New York City. They demanded that common laborers in the United States have a day of recognition for their efforts.

Look around this Labor Day. Do you notice anything different? There is a lot of white hair out there. A fast growing number of the unseen workers are seniors. These older workers show up everyday, sometimes regardless of poor health. They see what needs done and they do it.

The people who hire seniors can’t say enough good things about them. They know they’re on time, with no call-in excuses of “the car broke down or the sitter didn’t show up.”

Do you know any of these people personally? Probably not, since they just melt into the blur of people who serve your needs as quickly as possible and get you on your way. When you do spot a senior on the job, remember that they are probably someone’s mom or dad, grandma or grandpa.

Most seniors didn’t expect to be working in what has always been described as their “golden years”. They’re working for various reasons. Many just plain need the extra income. Social Security doesn’t go far in this day and age. Others are stranded with no pension from life long jobs. Some were just unskilled or unlucky. As one fellow said to me, “By the time you can make ends meet, they’ve moved the ends!”

I recently attended a swim suit sale at one of our large department stores. The snowy hair on the sales lady was getting whiter by the minute as she tried to take care of the whole department by herself. When I overheard her say, “I’m getting too old for this!” I inquired about her age. She was 88.

Pat, a friend of mine, retired from the phone company a few years ago and is now a hostess at one of our local restaurants. “I ‘m working part time now in order to have money for traveling.

She went on to say, “I find that I have more patience because of my life experiences.  In the restaurant business, you have to learn to not take things personally. You’re there to serve the public”

Jim retired from a large company and drives a van for the guests at a resort. He gets along with the young guys just fine. That is, after he let them know they were not to refer to him as “the old man.”

Several Seniors mentioned the fact that they were better able to relate to their grandkids because of working with the younger set.

I knew  a distinguished gentleman by the name of Sam who was a Utility Person at AJ’s Preveyor of Fine Foods in Central Phoenix.  He was 77. Sam raised ten children, had nineteen grandchildren and five greats.  He’s retired from forty years with the U.S. Post Office; he always said,  “I’m a people person and I love this job.”

Every year when I asked him if he would be there on Labor Day, he answered cheerfully, “If it’s on Monday, I’ll be right here.”

“Labor With Love”

By

Gerry Niskern

Labor Day was the signal of the end of the season at my parents business each year.  They started their small manufacturing plant and retail store where they produced evaporative cooler pads and sold new coolers and parts here in the valley in l950.

At that time, the majority of residents used evaporative coolers.

When they opened, my dad, a time study engineer, had everything planned down to the last detail. The retail store was in front and in the large back facility he positioned    work tables, the rolls of cheesecloth and bales of shredded aspen needed. Every motion was planned down to the last detail.

When they placed the first ad for “unskilled” seasonal workers, only women applied. Some were Anglo and one was Mexican. They exchanged ideas on life and families as they worked together making the pads, laughing and talking.  Heating and Cooling service men would stop by for parts and pads and kid around with the workers. Of course, they had to keep it quiet when the Spanish program was broadcasting the daily soap opera.

Ernestina, the original Mexican lady returned to work year after year. In the off season she worked at Phoenix Linen supply. Her husband worked a seasonal job at Anderson-Clayton cotton gin. They were raising four children in a home with a dirt floor and outside shower. All four kids eventually graduated from ASU.

Most of the Anglo women who applied only worked one season for something special they wanted to buy for their home. Nellie, the second Mexican lady, came the second year. She worked at a bathing suit factory in the off season. She made fresh tortillas every morning for her family and always brought some to share.

One African American lady was their shaker for a few seasons. She shook and fluffed the damp excelsior so the women could grab loose handfuls more easily. They never had another shaker as good.

Mom hurried from the customers up front to the back room helping and supervising the women.  She made them fresh coffee at break time which she served with liberal doses of her views on morals, democracy and whatever she had baked the night before.

As years went by the Anglos went on to better jobs and more Mexicans women answered their ads. Mom eventually learned some Spanish and they learned English.

By Labor Day, the season was over. Come the New Year, the help wanted ad ran again and the chance for honest labor was offered: No matter what your ethnic background or legal status. No one cared.