Easter Traditions

By

Gerry Niskern

. Expensive spring vacations and pricey brunches are not in the plans for many Arizona families.

Easter egg hunts have been scaled down and new family traditions are in the making. In fact, many of  the new celebrations might resemble the desert picnics our family had when our children and their cousins were growing up here in the valley. The kids thought the Easter bunny hid his eggs out on the desert. That’s because Grandpa had scouted out a pristine site shaded by Palo Verde and Mesquite trees the week before. Then on Easter day he and Grandma hid dozens of dyed eggs among the desert poppies and blue lupine.

Did you know that 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, no one told the chickens. The hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter Egg tradition was born.

Each baby’s first creative experience was usually at Easter when our family dyed their eggs. The kids typically started out with wax cryons, delicate designs to follow and great expectations. After a few eggs were colored and the first container of red dye hit the kitchen floor, the job became a little rushed and it was all downhill from there.

It didn’t really 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 rocks and flowers.

For years our extended family gathered on the desert North of Thunderbird Road in the area where the Moon Valley Country club now stands. When that area filled with houses, we met for our picnic on the land just East of Scottsdale Road and Bell, where the Great Indoors was built.

Finally, we moved our Easter picnic among the smooth, round rocks of the Carefree area. The kid’s baskets full of candy were forgotten as they scrambled over the round rocks hunting for the mysterious eggs hidden among the boulders. And, of course, the Boulders Resort commands that old picnic site now.

So remember. The huge rabbit with the really big ears is coming again. And remind Grandma that it’s not fair to walk ahead of everyone showing the baby where the eggs are hidden.

A word of caution: Leave real early. You’ll have to drive out a long, long way past the houses to find a pristine desert site for your Easter picnic.

LOVE IS A FINISHED HOUSE

By

Gerry Niskern

NOTE: This was written a few years ago when Ken remodeled our last house.

Every year around this time we all realize that “sweeps” month on television has arrived. Anyone in our valley who clicks on their television sets knows the networks are competing for the highest ratings. They do this with sensationalism and brazen schemes. The pandemonium and  destruction, the  raw nerves…and that’s only from the home improvement shows!

Are any of your neighbors planning to remodel their home this year? Even worse, are you dreaming of a new addition?  Instead, I should ask, have you ever lived in a war zone? Did you ever sleep with every stick of furniture you owned stacked precariously beside your bed because the bedroom walls were still intact, at least for that day?

Whether you are newlyweds, or have a few years of martial bliss behind you, let me warn you about the home improvement shows. On the television home shows, the host is shown interviewing the owners of a recently renovated house. The delirious couple leads him from room to newly decorated room. They describe in glowing terms how easily they knocked out this wall and moved that door and behold, had a wonderful spacious new living room. All this, according to them, was accomplished while they were living in the home. According to the silly grin on their faces, it was actually fun!

Let me tell you about fun. Fun is rising every morning to be greeted by a new layer of white powder on every surface in the house from the ripping of dry wall as the partitions came down.

Try getting up at two a. m., when nature calls, and finding that none of the toilets are working. In television land, the newly remodeled bathroom is a vision of elegance. The husband explains to the viewing audience how easily the new plumbing for the twin basins fit together, just one, two, three.

Our plastic pipes, on the other hand, finally worked after four trips to Home Depot, three changes of fittings, and two applications of adhesive.

The wide-eyed T. V. host pauses in the “state of the art” kitchen and the beaming couple recount how they resurfaced the kitchen cabinets, installed a new countertop and punched out a sky light for an encore. They neglect to mention that the electricity and water are off for ten days while they breezed through these chores.

Trust me on this. Remodeling is the ultimate challenge of the strength of a marriage. One minute you’re in ecstasy while your handyman husband shows you how these two bedrooms will evolve into that spacious great room. The next minute you’re drawing up divorce and settlement papers.

One day you’re congratulating each other on the speedy way the  grand plan is  coming together, and the next day you come home to find your clothes scattered over every piece of furniture in the house. The walk-in closet no longer exists. Your mate explains that the laundry room, on the opposite side of the house, is now the closet…sort of.

I once heard someone say that the true test of a marriage is if a couple can successfully wallpaper a room together. Obviously the author of that quote had never remodeled a house.

Each year, after sweeps, some senator introduces a bill in congress to curb the excessiveness on T. V. In my opinion, they could have already solved the problem and saved thousands of marriages by voting to ban the home improvement shows. Legions of wives of “wannabe remodelers” would erect a monument in honor of the lawmaker who sponsored that bill.

If the government is not going to outlaw the home improvement fairy tale shows, the least they could do is insist on warning labels on the opening credits to alert spouses…VIEWING NOT ADVISED FOR HUSBANDS WHO OWN HAMMERS OR SAWS.

“Therapy for Today’s Swingers”

By

Gerry Niskern

Guess what? The old-fashioned porch swing is back. According to many home living magazines, today’s young families, in their pursuit of the coziness and warmth of Grandma’s house, are buying porch swings. The young marrieds have realized the therapeutic benefits of relaxing by gently swinging back and forth after a hard day working.

There’s just one problem. They are installing them on their back patios. Wrong! Before this becomes a trend, I’d like to offer some advice. Porch swings don’t belong in the backyard. How can you watch the passing parade on your street? How can you catch up on the latest news when the evening strollers stop to chat for a minute?

Some of my fondest memories include playing on my Aunt’s front porch steps while the adults were swaying gently on the squeaky swing.  My Aunt Sarah did a continuous monologue on the personal news of each passerby. She used to comment, “See that fellow, he’s stepping out on his wife, or “I think there’s a new baby on the way for that couple coming down the sidewalk.” Back then, after a hard day of laundry, baking and canning inside the house, the front porch evening respite on the swing was her way of “surfing the net”.

Other summer evenings spent swaying in one of the three swings hanging from my grandpa’s grape arbor. I would climb onto an adult’s lap and watch the lacy pattern on pattern of leaf shadows on weary faces at sunset. The trio of clicking swings provided a soft background of rhythm for grandma’s narratives of the old country.

My husband and I had several swings over the years. We know the seat must be constructed to gently curve, sloping down towards the back. It should be hung so that when sitting in it the swinger’s toes just touch the floor. It must be long enough to hold three adults or as many little kids as can squeeze in. The chain should be strong enough to hold your chubbiest relative. You know the one; they back up to the swing and suddenly drop! Only the strongest chain can withstand the shock.

It must be hung so that it can be pushed back to the full extension of the chain. Nothing surpasses the giggles of delight of a one-year-old taking her first wild ride choreographed by big brother doing the pushing.

When I was a child, the safe cocoon of the swing was a haven for playing dolls, experimenting with nail polish or discovering the enchanting world of reading. Many have  rocked with their dates and exchanged a first kiss on a swing. The proposal of marriage has occurred on a porch swing. Somehow, it takes the stress out of the whole event.

Colicky grandbabies love to hear “Rock a Bye Baby” over and over again while gently swaying. . While moving to a faster rhythm, it’s a great place to teach kids the old songs like “She’ll be coming Round the Mountain” or “Where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?”

Later on, when they’re teenagers, the sanctuary of the swing in the anonymity of the evening darkness becomes an easy place to discuss personal problems. Almost anything can be resolved while watching the stars come out

“Hold it! Don’t Move ”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you moved lately? Don’t! Even thinking about changing houses leads to work. I’m talking a lot of mental work here.

It’s not the packing and heavy lifting that’s hard. No, it’s the decisions; many, many decisions. If you have an old “hope chest”, or the equivalent, you know what I mean. Back in the dark ages, when I was engaged to be married, young brides-to-be stored table and bed linens for their future homes in a beautifully finished large wooden chest. Mine was a light Ash modern design and I dutifully filled it with hand embroidered items.

As years went by the linens were used and replaced with keepsakes. You name it, I saved it. My old school projects and awards were stashed there. Then each new babies’ little beaded I.D. bracelet from the new born nursery at Good Sam. A washed out nightgown that was worn by all three, plus a handed down little necklace of rubber teething beads. Then their first Christmas outfits, tiny shoes, and favorite stuffed animals went in. Then came the report cards and achievement awards and hand made cards; oh my, the cards! Especially Mother’s day cards. My all time favorite one had unique hand made flowers pasted all over and read “Dear Mother, I only have $3. 65 so I can’t buy you anything, so I made you this card”.

I was getting rid of the chest, so everything had to be divided into three stacks.

There were three little silver cups. Each had a name engraved on it. They all learned to drink from them at around eight months and then straight to a sturdy glass Surprising, there were few spills. Those won’t be passed down to grandchildren. It’s Tippee cups now; the kind that are sipped from, then tossed on the floor till they are old enough for Kindergarten.                                                                                                                                      Right in the middle of sorting I found a bundle of a dozen full note book pages that read “I will note touch other peoples $”, over and over, front and back. I don’t know when I meted out that punishment, but it apparently worked.

So that sorting is done. Everyone has their bundle and I enjoyed the trip down memory lane. However, as I said before, don’t move!

“Let me call you Sweetheart”

By

Gerry Niskern

Though the ancients were not aware that the heart was responsible for pumping blood through the circulatory system, they knew one thing for sure. The heart was the center of all feelings. This belief has lasted through the ages. From the early cave dweller’s drawings to today’s text messaging, sweethearts have declared their love for each other.

Most women remember valentine’s day as an enchanting time in school. A lot of thought went into selecting just the right words for homemade cards. It helped to have a big sack of those little candy hearts with the “love messages” to copy from.

In school, you rushed to get your lessons done so you could help decorate the valentine box. If you were extra good, the teacher chose you to pass out the valentines on the day of the big party.

The best feeling of all was opening an envelope and finding a big red heart from someone special. Everyone knows “there is no love like the first love!”

It seems that the ladies have the pleasant memories of valentine’s day, but in contrast, most of the guys do not. Several fellows told me it was a day of humiliation and dread. “What if they didn’t get even one card? What if a little girl that you really hated declared her undying love? And worse of all, what if the object of your affection didn’t give you a card at all?”

One fellow in our family recalls saving his money in first grade and buying a tiny box of Whitmans for a sweetie with beautiful long brown hair. When she came to school on Valentine’s day her hair had been cut into a short pixie. He just couldn’t bring himself to give her the candy.

This same Lothario, in third grade, bought a St. Christopher’s medal for a little girl, as was the fad then, to declare his love. The problem was, the next day she had to give it back. Her Jewish parents were not happy.

He agreed that his younger brother probably had the right idea. He always voiced his dislike for girls and declared he would never get married. One day when he was four he saw a little sports car with a button down cover for the back that extended around to cover the passenger side. “That’s the kind of car I want when I’m big, so no lady can ride with me!”

Over the years, the old valentines’ boxes morphed into personal folders for receptacles for valentine giving in school, but that didn’t solve the popularity problem. The practice now in most classrooms is for the teacher to send home a list of everyone in the class. The parents are expected to see that a card is addressed to everyone in the class. Actually the only benefit with that is it gives the student’s a chance to practice their handwriting.

Of course, it’s much easier to declare affection in today’s cyberspace world. There are hundreds of web sites for Valentines. You can send your sweetie a message instantly across the street, the country or the continents. Web sites are available to provide numerous sentiments; talking animated characters will speak the words and music of your choice. If he needs it, a young man can find a guide on line to help him write a love letter. And then again, if time is short, there’s always text messaging.

Somehow, it’s just not the same.

Valentine’s

By

Gerry Niskern

Valentine’s day is coming soon. What are your plans?  One young couple I know will celebrate cupid’s evening at a local hotel complete with champagne and a new nightie from Victoria’s Secret. Hotel packages are running around $500 per couple for the day of hearts. It’s anyone’s guess what the new lingerie will cost.

We’ve come a long way, Sweetie…or have we?  A box of chocolates from the corner drug store just doesn’t cut it anymore.

When you think about it, does anything compare to the thrill of receiving that big red heart from the valentine box when you were in fifth grade?  You remember the enchanted box.  You hurried to get through your lessons and turn in your papers so you could add your share of red paper hearts to the structure.

Valentine’s day marked your validation of popularity. If you received a big stack from your classmates it was great, but the most wonderful feeling of all was opening an envelope and finding a declaration of love signed by the boy who was too shy to look your direction.

Valentine’s day and courtship has changed through the years. My mother, Eva, used to tell us about one special Valentine’s day when she was twelve years old.

She was the youngest of six girls. Everyone who has been in that position knows that most of the work helping the mother around the house falls to the last girl. On Saturday, before Valentine’s day, her older sisters were upstairs shampooing their hair and preparing to step out with their suitors that evening. Eva was kept busy answering the front door, while trying to perform her weekend household chores.  Each time it was the delivery boy from the local confectioners with a heart shaped box of candy for one of her sisters from their current boyfriend. The twelve-year-olds mouth watered at the thought of all that chocolate candy.

Walter, a Russian fellow, was courting her widowed sister Annie. Early that morning he brought Annie a box of chocolates and stayed to help Grandpa hoe the garden. Eva teased him about loving Annie so much he was willing to hoe on his day off. He laughed and said how did she like being the only girl in the family without a sweetheart?

The last straw occurred late that afternoon when an elegant box arrived for her sister Kate. She was just two years older and had been her playmate. Now Kate had a boyfriend and was abandoning her.  Mom started to knead the bread dough for the next  day’s baking, tears of frustration in her eyes.  She pounding the dough so furiously she almost didn’t hear the knock at the door.  “Delivery for Eva,” the boy announced loudly as he placed in her arms the largest golden heart that had come to the house that day.

“Girls, come see what Eva has,” my grandmother called up the stairs. For the first time in her young life my mother was the center of attention in her family as her five sisters speculated whom the sender could possibly be.

“So, Eva,” Walter asked when he came to escort Annie that evening, “What does your dad think about you having a boyfriend?” It was quite a long time before she realized Walter, who later became her brother-in-law, was the anonymous sender.

Maybe it’s time for all of us to spread the love around a little. I’m sure everyone can think of many people in their lives who need an unexpected expression of affection. How about the crossing guard at your child’s school, the woman recently widowed in your neighborhood, the day care worker at the nursery or the waitress at your favorite luncheon spot. The list is endless. You know who they are.

“New Rules”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you heard the old saying, ‘There’s two sides to every story’? I hear a lot of complaints from friends about poor service in valley restaurants.  On the other hand, we hear complaints from several friends who are wait people

I know, depending on what side of the table you are on, you are thinking…. But it’s them!

We like to be greeted with courtesy and have our drink order taken promptly. That’s reasonable. However, when with a group, do you give your order with everyone else, or wait to finish a cell phone conversation, while holding one finger up to the waiter to hold on a minute (which can stretch on for several!). Then, when everyone is served, place your order, causing an extra trip to the bar for the waiter.

We all like to have our food served in a reasonable amount of time. Sometimes when it comes less than warm, we know its been sitting awhile.  You certainly should ask for it to be warmed.

On the other hand, if the food is a long time coming but is hot when it gets to you, that indicates the kitchens if running long. Don’t take it out on the waitperson.  There is only so much they can do.

Are you a slow eater? Do you get annoyed when someone tries to take your plate before you have barely started dining? Do you feel that you can’t put your fork down, or whoosh, its gone, with a cute little remark such as, “Are you two finishing up?”

Then here are some people who expect their plate to be removed immediately when they are finished. How can you please everyone? The waiter should  notice if the customer has placed his fork and knife at the four o’clock position, tines down. Take note managers, a little training here would help. Teach your servers to serve the ladies first. Don’t reach across; it’s hazardous and very impolite.

Of course, we have covered the subject of kids before. Crying babies or kids being allowed to run around the dining establishment without supervision is unsafe for them and dangerous for the waiters too. I heard one disgusted waiter say that if he had a tray full of hot dishes on his shoulder and he was tripped up by a running kid, “The foods not going all over me!”

And if you insist on taking the offspring along, compensate in tipping for the amount of debris left all around your table.

However, if you are seated next to a loud table, ( see: crying babies) or extra loud, boisterous adults, don’t take it out on the waitress when its tip time . They can’t do anything about it. It’s the luck of the draw.

Do you snap your fingers at the waitperson when you have a request? Of course, you know that’s rude.

Any waitress will tell you that if a patron does that, its always easy to tell by observing a little that he also treats his female companion the same way. Funny how little habits tell a story about someone?

There is a pattern we’ve come to expect when we are eating out. Most, not all, waiters seem to decide up front who is probably paying the check. That person gets the bulk of attention, refills, etc. It gets amusing when more than one male is along. They still choose one of the males, but not always the check grabber.

I’m going to start an experiment suggested by our manager friend. Early on, I will put my American Express card out by my place. Something tells me I will get really good service that day, maybe even a coke refill now and then!

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“MOM’S CEDAR CHEST’

By

Gerry Niskern

It was a deep, burnished walnut with round, pedestal legs. There were roses and leaves in muted pinks and greens carved along the front. When I was a child, I loved it. But what I really loved was all the treasures I imagined it contained. Then one day I was allowed to discover some of them.

When my sister and I unlocked mom’s cedar chest, along with the heavenly aroma of the cedar wood, memories came tumbling out. On top were two small bathing suits, circa l930’s.  We wore the scratchy, wool one piece suits when the mom’s whole family of aunts, uncles and cousins had Sunday picnics down on the Ohio River.

Back then, we complained about having to hold back the vines as my dad helped one of our elderly aunts slowly down the steep, overgrown path to the river bank. We wanted to race ahead and join our cousins in the water. “Always help an old person,” our mother admonished. “Their life is hard!”

The high light of the day was when Uncle Walter, our strong  uncle from Russia, swam across the wide Ohio, as his wife, Aunt Annie, ran up and down the rocky bank screaming, “Don’t swim all the way across, you damn fool. You’re just showing off!”

Mom did manage to mention quietly on the way home that. “Of course, it was great fun to watch, but Uncle Walter should respect his family and not worry them.”

Another item we pulled out of the cedar chest was our worn out softball, with stitching half gone. We always protested about trying to catch Sam’s hard balls in our neighborhood game. Unfortunately, Sam was a husky teenager with a toddler’s mind who always forgot which base to run to. When we complained, mom explained “Sam’s your friend. He deserves a chance to play ball too.”

The pale, longing face of a little girl with severe Asthma was always framed in a neighbor’s window watching our fun, winter or summer. There was not much help for Asthma back then. But she had playmates because at least once a week mom would say “go play with Dorothy. She needs friends too.”

There was a message from mom linked to most items we pulled out of the old chest; “Treat everyone with the dignity they deserve as human beings.”

Turns out I was right. Mom’s cedar chest really did contain treasures; word’s to live by all of our lives.

“Let’s all go To the Movies”

By

Gerry Niskern

Have you been to any of the new movie complexes that have sprung up around our valley? I started patronizing some when we realized it was getting close to Oscar time. I realized I’d better catch up on the past year’s flicks.

Actually, I had put a moratorium on trips to the local theatres some time ago for various reasons.

There’s the person beside you having a long conversation on their cell phone. It takes a while to realize that the dialogue you are hearing does not match the actions on the screen. Then you have the popcorn crunchers and back-of-the-seat kickers. Actually, the most annoying is the guy who brings his hearing aid with him. When he can’t hear the dialogue on screen he yells, “What did he say?” and the wife shouts, “Would you like a drink?” “What,” he screams, “Would you like a mink?” and so it goes for the next two hours.

Anyway, I decided to give the movies another whirl. The problem is, going to the show is not as simple as it used to be. First, I had to decide if it’s a guy or a chick flick. Who is the mastermind that created those categories?

On the morning of the big date we hold a phone conference to compare notes on the critic’s comments about our choice. “That guy in the paper gave it four stars”, I say. “But they gave it a thumbs down on the radio this morning,” a friend replies. Now what do we do? Do we dare to use our own judgement? Is that still allowed now days? Is it on at the good theatre; you know, the one with stadium seating and a railing down front where you can put your feet up?

After paying our seven-fifty dollars admission and sitting through ear-splitting music, the movie starts…wait, it’s a ten minute commercial featuring a sports car driving 120 miles an hour through city streets. Then we have numerous previews of coming attractions. If it’s a comedy, we are shown every single funny scene in the film.

It makes you long for the theaters of your childhood. Before the movie, there was a newsreel and if you were lucky, a cartoon. I remember back then the manager stopped the movie for an intermission and a drawing. If her ticket stub contained a lucky number, your mother might win free dishes or a six pack of Pepsi!

Trying to keep the real and imaginary characters straight in today’s movies is impossible. It seems we moviegoers aren’t presented with a straight narrative anymore. There are flashbacks within flashbacks fading in and out of the actor’s imagination or dreams.

Later, when we are drifting in a perplexed state of bewilderment towards the car, I inevitably get the question,   “Now, just tell me, WHAT WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?”

“New Year’s Driver”

By

Gerry Niskern

It’s 2016. Does your family have a brand new driver? Many lucky families do. I’m sure his head is swimming with instructions from parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and experienced friends (those who got their licenses last month!).

Here’s some of the advice I heard a new driver in our family receiving a few years back. Feel free to use some of it.

“Be aware of other drivers at all times. Know who is in front, behind and beside you,” That was some of the sage advice from one great-grandfather. “Also, go over in your mind how to react quickly in difficult situations. And don’t assume that just because you have the right-of-way that they will give it to you!” If I recall correctly, this grandpa used sandbags in the trunk of his first cool car until he could afford lowering blocks. He also had skirts on the rear wheels, a metal sun visor and twin pipes for which he received a ticket or two.

One uncle chimed in; “Always do the speed limit. Every mile per hour that you travel over the limit increases the danger to yourself. If someone cuts in front of you, don’t play the game.  If you are following too close and have to panic stop, you will slide from 110 to 140 feet. You’ll run into them and you get the ticket and your insurance will triple.” This uncle had his first car taken away because he couldn’t say no to his friends when they asked to borrow his Ranchero.

News of our new driver reminded some friends of their early driving days. One man recalled he and his brother, who was not driving age yet, saving their money and buying a 1937 Chevy for $175.00. “Things went fine till the younger brother got his license and announced he was taking the car that evening. I believe my reply was, ‘The heck you are!’ A scuffle broke out and Dad stepped in real quick and took the keys. He kept them for two or three months, until we worked out our differences.”

In the meantime, their younger sister and her girlfriend took the keys to that Chevy and decided that between them, they could drive it. Their sister was big enough to reach the gas pedal and clutch. Her girlfriend was smaller, but knew all about shifting, so she shifted gears and told the driver when to push in on the clutch. They actually made it a few blocks.

One fellow remembers when he was 13 being sent across town to the Bertino’s farm on 44^th Street, north of Van Buren to pick up a load of apricots and grapes for his dad’s produce business.  An U. S. Army plane had crashed on 24^th street and he stopped to check it out. His dad was frantic and furious with worry about his taking so long.

Another friend recalled driving her family’s car here in Phoenix when she was 13. They lived in central Phoenix. Her mother told her to take her aunt to visit the uncle in the TB hospital in the Dad’s Buick. She wasn’t worried until someone backed into them. She had to take a crowbar and pry the fender away from the tire so her dad wouldn’t notice.

Our new driver in the family has an after school job to go with the new insurance payment he will be making. Quite a difference when compared to the cars the teenagers bought a few generations back. Everyone agreed that back then none of the kids thought about having car insurance.

Then again, our New Years driver has just purchased some bigger rear speakers with his first pay check.  Of Course!