“A Peak by Any Other Name?”

by

Gerry Niskern

The unrest in the Middle East is becoming referred to more and more, as America’s longest war. It is foremost on the minds of families who have lost a son or a daughter, brother or father. Those families are commerating the day in their own way. The rest of the population here in the valley can commemorate the fallen every day, not just on Memorial Day.

All we have to do is look up. From almost anywhere in the valley one can get a glimpse of the mountain that needed a new name, Piestawa Peak. We have a very visible monument to the men and women from Arizona who lost their lives in Iraq and Afganistan.

Just as the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery represents our nation’s war dead, Piesatwa Peak serves as a stark reminder of all the dead and wounded from Arizona.

If you are like me, when you see the mountain, you don’t just think of Lori Piestawa, the Native American woman who was killed in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Instead you’re reminded of all the war heros.

The mountain may have Lori’s name on it, but as her mother said at a ceremony to honor the fallen soldier, “The monument represents all the sons, daughters, fathers, husbands and brothers lost in the war from an Arizona family.”

Many towns across the United States have statues of a lone soldier in their town square as daily reminder of the tragedy of war. There is a memorial that was part of my life everyday as I was growing up here in Phoenix. My friends and I used to gaze at the handsome features on the statue of Lt. Frank Luke Jr. as we waited for our bus in front of the State Capitol.  The Army Air Service flier was just 20 when he gave his life in battle in World War I. He was the first Arizona man awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously.

At the time, that prominent statue represented to valley residents all the men in Arizona who died in WWI , not just Frank Luke Jr.; just as Piestawa Peak represents all our fallen soldiers in the Middle East.

Gaze at Piestawa Peak in the pink and silver light of dawn or as the flow of sunset lights the mountain and be reminded of the lives that are still lost, and the casualty list that keeps growing.

People are changed by grief forever and it is those people who change the direction of the world.  Hopefully, some day everyone will forget their differences  and recognize their common humanity.

When Phoenix Boys Delivered the Newspapers

By

Gerry Niskern

The Phoenix Newspaper is celebrating 125 years this weekend. Here is a short bio of one of the former paper carriers, Ken Niskern

There is a landmark at 112 N. Central in downtown Phoenix known as the Heard Building. It used to be the location of the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette. The “Fresh Choice” café was located on part of the bottom floor of the Heard later.

Ken, my resident historian, remembers going down to the Heard building on Sunday mornings in the early 1940’s. Along with a couple buddies, he picked up Sunday papers to take out on complaints.   He pedaled his Blue Schwinn down the alley on the north side of the building. The printing presses were located in the basement.  “The lady in charge of skipped deliveries always gave each of us about ten extras papers. We rode over to Five Points intersection and sold them for 25 cents each. It added up,” he recalls.

The West Side of town had four stations; WA, WB, WC.  WD was located down on the curve of Seventeenth Avenue and Buckeye Road. Station WA was located around Eighth Avenue and West Van Buren, beside what was then the Arizona National Guard Headquarters.  He went on to day, “WC, my station was at Twenty-first Avenue and Adams, in front of a Chinese grocery store. If it was raining, whoever got there first dragged the bundles over into the doorway so they wouldn’t get wet. Then we each took turns folding ours in the shelter.”

“Later on we moved to Twentieth Avenue and West Van Buren. I don’t know why we were moved, but I can imagine that a group of kids that age weren’t too quiet. In fact, I recall one mischievous fellow, Cliff Cote, who lived in my neighborhood. In the mornings, he waited until he was a couple blocks from home so that his mother wouldn’t know and then turned on his bicycle siren. It was mounted on the frame and you clicked it into position. A spring held it against the tire. You could hear him all the way down to his station at Seventeenth Avenue and Buckeye Road. One morning a sheriff requested that he remove it.

Our new location was another Chinese store but it had a big canopy out front. Of course, on rainy days there were no plastic sleeves to keep them dry, so we put our jackets over our canvas paper bags. We just figured we could pedal fast enough to go between the raindrops.

I carried around 250 Republic papers in the morning and over 200 Gazettes in the afternoon. My route was Monroe and Adams out to 23^rd Avenue. About 90% of my customers paid by the year. The price was $7.95 for the Republic, including Sunday. The Gazette was 6.95 and both could be ordered for the bargain price of 13.95 per year. I’d say around that 80% of my people took both papers. I don’t remember how much we were paid per paper, but I made around $120 a month, not bad for a kid in the sixth grade. The yearly subscription renewal time was in December. It was a good time for tips! For any kid who wanted to work and wasn’t afraid to get up at 5 A. M. it was a great job because it didn’t interfere with school. I was able to maintain good grades and even trade up every time a new model Schwinn came out.”

Most of those fine old homes around the State Capitol had big porches and the customers insisted their papers be on the porch. “We used to have contests to see who could ‘porch’ a paper the farthest from the sidewalk while pedaling past at full speed.  I could “porch it’ from the sidewalk, a good 30 to 40 feet. Of course, I didn’t realize it probably sounded like a thunder clap in the early morning hours when it hit,” he mused. “And then there was the “Haunted House” on Monroe that we all kind of dreaded riding past. But my biggest worry was a big white bulldog that used to come bouncing out of the dark on 23^rd Avenue at the edge of town.

I was the station manager, no monetary reward, just the prestige of getting to boss the other guys around. Les DeFord was the station manager before that; I understand Les stayed with the paper and retired from the Advertising Dept. Carriers came and went, but I remember working on my station with Doyle Baine, Dick Woods, Chuck Peabody and Jay Brashear.  Jay later became the editor of the editorial page of the Phoenix Gazette.

We had lots of district managers over the years. Some of the names that come to mind are Woods, Westmore and Bagwell. They would reward us once in a while with breakfast or pile us all into their car for a short trip somewhere. We didn’t go far due to gas rationing. One particular district manager that I recall vividly was a fellow by the name of Askew. One morning a car followed him to our station. A man jumped out and stuck a gun in his face and said he was going to teach him a lesson about his driving. The fellow made Mr. Askew drive him around a few blocks. The funny thing is, we all just kept folding our papers and pretty soon, they came back! I guess maybe we figured he needed a driving lesson.”

The boys took their job seriously. “There was a great rivalry among the guys about who could go the longest without getting any “kicks” (complaints.)

I, for one, knew my resident historian was serious about his job back in those days many years ago.  We were in the eighth grade when I took my first ride on the cross bar of that Schwinn.  We started to fall and just as I thought I was going to hit the ground, the bike swooped upright again. I commented on how strong he was and he replied, “Heck, you’re about as heavy as the Sunday papers.”

“Let’s go to some graduations!”

By

Gerry Niskern

It’s graduation time here in the valley and the parents of high school seniors can finally relax.

Actually, parents today can’t relax anymore then the moms and dads did back in l950 on graduation night.   There were four major high schools in Phoenix graduating students; the largest was Phoenix Union, then North High, St. Mary’s and Carver High. West High had just started and not completed a four year class yet.

The graduation celebrations for Phoenix Union High School started with Senior Ditch Day the week before the graduation ceremony. Ditch Day was held at Tempe Beach. There were several swimming pools at the Tempe facility located on the South side of Mill Avenue just over the bridge. Of course, some groups of kids always took off for Canyon Lake, six to a car, instead of going to the official Ditch Day where there was no alcohol allowed. A few juniors went along to the lake too.

On the big night the class of ’50 formed a line in early evening  in front of Montgomery Stadium for the ceremony. The young men were all wearing suits and ties. The girls wore long formal white or pastel gowns. No tradition caps and gowns for this crowd.

The rehearsal was held the night before and guess what?  My boyfriend, the class Salutatorian and I totally forgot to attend. I was busy typing his speech for him.

Discipline was strict in those days. I was punished by having to walk at the end of the line of 700 graduates. Since your place in line was determined by your class scholastic rating, instead of 150, I was # 700! Parents didn’t argue with the school back then!

We had a graduation dance in the Girl’s Gym. There were lots private parties and of course, after the dance some cruising up and down Central Avenue with trips to The Village Inn, Polar Bar or other restaurants.

Following are some quotes from graduates of other Phoenix high schools: St. Mary’s, the Catholic high school here in Phoenix had separate facilities for the boys and girls. A former student described the girls school as “ an ancient old two story structure across East Monroe Street from St. Mary’s Church.” For graduation the girls, all prim and proper, wore white caps and gowns and the boys wore black. The Knights marched across the stage at the Encanto Park Band Shell where they received their diplomas. (Yes, Encanto had a beautiful band shell back then. Pretty much where the amusement rides and parking lot exists today!).

The class of ’50 had already attended a mass and then a breakfast together. The graduates I spoke to don’t remember a having either a ditch day nor a dance for the graduates.

North Phoenix High School, on East Thomas Road, had their very first graduation without caps and gowns in l950. The graduates were allowed to wear suits and the girls could be creative with pastel colored gowns. Either long formals or the latest style of mid-calf, “waltz length” were allowed.

The Mustangs held their ceremony in their stadium, with a Baccalaureate service there the night before. The ceremony was followed by an “all-night” party at Bud Brown’s Barn, with dancing and breakfast served the next day at the Barn. Lots of the sororities and fraternities had their own private celebrations. The girls belonged to the X Club, Phi Sigma, and Kappa Delta Kappa among others; Esquire and Cavalier were two among the boy’s fraternities.

Carver High School graduated around 25 students each year. The official name of the school was George Washington Carver High School. When the school for African American students was built in l926, it was called Phoenix Colored High School. Later, largely due to the efforts of  Carver teacher Elgie Batteau, the name was changed to Carver.

A former graduate recalled the boys wearing brown wool worsted suits for graduation. They were all purchased at Hanny’s, a well-known men’s department store in downtown Phoenix. They were all given a good price for the entire class.

The young ladies wore long formal gowns. The school gym was decorated in blue and white, the school colors, for the graduation dance.

The senior Monarchs had their ditch day at Encanto Park, but as with all the schools, some juniors decided to have their own celebration. They opted to take their own picnic and gather at Hole-in-the-Rock in Papago Park. According to one former student, “There were no cars available, so we rode the bus to the park!”

A common place of students went for fun was “the flume” over by Tempe, near the T. B. Sanitarium. You could ride on the swift water coming out of a big SRP pipe down over the road. It actually was quite dangerous because there was a gate under the stream where you could get sucked under.

The most popular teen age gathering spot remembered by everyone was “The Ship”. It was up on the West Side of 32^nd street on a little hill, between Camelback and Lincoln Drive. The unique rock foundation was what was left of a restaurant that had burned.  Kids from rival schools headed there on weekend nights; throw in a little drinking and a few fistfights usually occurred.

One former  St. Mary’s graduate laughed about going to “The Ship” with a crowd one evening. When she went over later to the car and opened the door to the back seat, she interrupted a couple engaged in some heavy petting.  The startled guy said, “Oh, hi there.” Then turning to the girl in the backseat with him, he said  “Let me introduce….uh, what’s your name?”

One “50’s” Coyote told me he cringed when his own high school Senior asked for the keys to the car one night not so long ago. When asked where he was going, he said, “To the Ship” with some kids”.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

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.  Looking  back, I have a feeling my mother was way ahead of her time. My earliest memories are of her singing to me.   Her voice wasn’t anything special, even a little creaky at times, yet when I heard her warbling I knew that all was well.

Mom sang while she was hoeing in the garden as I trudged behind her down the rows of beanstalks.  The old songs like “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer True” and the lyrics that always made me giggle,  “Ka, ka, ka Katie, beautiful Katie, I’ll be waiting at the ka, ka, ka, kitchen door” were in her hit parade of tunes.

She sang while she peddled her treadle sewing machine mending our dresses. She might break out into “When you wore a tulip and I wore a big red rose” when she was churning; patiently letting me take a turn when I was a toddler and could barely reach the plunger.

While making cottage cheese or kneading bread mom gave us her rendition of  “I’m Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.”  I sensed it had something to do with the fact that she would rather have been outside working.

Sitting and rocking to and fro on the porch swing in the evening after a hard day’s work, my mother turned to hymns. “Come to the church in the Wildwood, come to the church in the vale,” had the right rhythm for the creaking swing. I always thought if I concentrated hard enough I would see that “little brown church in the dale.”

My parents started out across the United States seeking the dry climate of Arizona, in the wartime summer of 1942.  Sometimes on the long August journey before air conditioning was available in cars, tempers flared and a foot fight broke out between us kids in the back seat.   Dad’s hand left the steering wheel and swatted randomly over the backseat, trying to connect with the culprit. That’s when mom would say, “Let’s all sing.”

“No, you sing mom, sing Redwing”…we begged. As the words “There once was an Indian maid, a shy little village maid”…came floating from the front seat, our young girls hearts melted while hearing the love story once more and peace prevailed.

Before long, Dad was picking up soldiers hitching a ride home on leave. Many a songfest was enhanced by a deep male voice joining the girl sopranos from the back seat. The young men provided great “raspberry” sound effects when we belted out “Dur Fuhrer’s Face”

The war dragged on, and later my sister had a sweetheart in the service. Mom joined her in “Always…I’ll be loving you always” or “Till the End of Time” at dishwashing time.

My mother taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.  But I also grew up with the assurance that you could get through almost anything with a good song.

I’m reminded of an old poem. Its last line goes something like this; perhaps you know it?  “ I’m richer than the child who was left a fortune of silver and gold, because…my mother sang to me!”

“Ask Mom”

By

Gerry Niskern

While sitting at a sidewalk cafe recently, I overheard two Middle Eastern boys explaining to another boy how to pronounce their Arabic word for bread.   One said, “Wait, I’ll ask my mother” but the other laughed, “No, I’ll ask my mom”.   How easy, just ask mom.

Moms know about everything. At least we thought she did when we were little.

Of course, when we became teenagers, mom didn’t have a clue; it was a wonder the woman didn’t need a keeper.

However, when 2,000 miles away at college it’s seems perfectly logical to kids to call mom and ask, “What do I use on my whites at the Laundromat?”

As we married and started families it was mom who we called to ask about a recipe or a petulant child. Or to try to help us understand men! Or women!

I asked several people whose mothers are gone this question: “Is there something you wish you had asked your mother when you could?”

Several said they would ask,  “What was your childhood like? Where did you and dad meet? What attracted you to him?

Another wants to know her grandmother’s stories about growing up in Germany; what her feelings were when she left? Who did she work for when she got here?

One friend who’s parents marriage was “arranged” in Iran would ask her mother what her true feelings were at her wedding.

A friend from the Philippines told me she grieved that there were no baby pictures taken of her and she wants to know why.

Several wondered what kind of day it was when they were born?

One would ask, “What happened to my baby brother; what did he die from?”

I would ask my own  grandmother about the sadness of leaving her infant in Europe when she immigrated to America.

My mother, an avid storyteller, loved our family and tradition. I would ask her thoughts the situation of our family today.

The mothers we see on greeting cards with the saintly smiles are perfect, but are they really mom? It’s through mom’s sheltering arms 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, she is a mysterious set of contradictions. It’s hard to sort out your feelings for her: frustration, anger, companionship, apprehension, love.

Speaking of questions, I ran across a suggested list of soul-searching questions for everyone to ask himself on Mother’s day.  I hope I fulfilled some of them when I had the chance. It read: When was the last time you visited your mom? What are the things that make your mom happy or sad? How many minutes do you spend in quality talk with your mom in a week? When was the last time you cooked for your mom? How much do you know about your mom’s mother? How well do you actually know your mother?

We can honor and show respect by trying to learn about the real person who we call mom. Have you asked your mother what she really wanted to do with her life, besides being your mom? What was her dream while growing up?  Did she achieve her life goals?  In other words, who was she, really?

I think one friend answered my question best. She said, “Well, the question wouldn’t really matter. Calling her would give me what I wanted: to hear the love in her voice, because more than anything, I miss her love.

So on this Mother’s Day, go ahead, ask mom now!

“Change of Vacation  Plans”

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone is thinking the same thing right about now, ‘Where will we go  on vacation this summer?’ In this land where we are free to vacation anywhere and with whomever we choose, have you thought of going some place different or taking a new person with you?

I’m reminded of many summers ago watching our great-grandson and a new friend building a sandcastle on the beach. After a while, the girl asked,  “Are you his grandparents?”

“No,” I replied. “ We’re his great-grandparents.”

“Whoa” she said,  “Well, isn’t  anyone else here with you all?”

“No, he’s just here with us.” I answered.

“Whoa”

That had been my reaction exactly back then when someone in our family asked our nine- year- old great-grandson if he wanted to go with my husband and I on our annual trip to California. His parents were expecting a new baby and I confess it took a while for the idea to grow on me, then I got busy and changed hotel and plane reservations to include a great-grandchild.

His Daddy delivered the youngster on our doorstep the evening before our flight.  My husband tried to lift his backpack. He couldn’t.  “What on earth do you have in here?”

“Some trail mix, an electronic fishing game, a gum making kit, three shell reference books, five story books, cookies (all melted together) and my world map.”

The trail mix, one shell book, and the world map were allowed to stay.

He played in the surf with a little boy from Russia. We had a world geography lesson back in the room while his great-grandfather helped him locate Russia on the world map. We were used to hearing different dialects spoken on the boardwalk, but our great-grandson was fascinated with the many languages he heard. One evening he saw a large group of women wearing beautiful long dresses with scarves covering their hair and part of their face. He asked their guide and learned they were from Jordan.  When we got back to the hotel that evening, out came the map again.

He persuaded us to try different ethnic restaurants that we had always passed by.  He was willing to order and finish exotic new dishes. We found we all enjoyed the variety. Looking at familiar sights through the fresh eyes of a nine year old brought exhilarating sparkle to our yearly trip. We didn’t have our romantic get away, but we had lots of fun.

We explored the tide pools in early light of dawn.  We learned to chase the surf and quickly gather shells before another wave came crashing in. Our paddle ball skills were honed to perfection.  Luckily, I only had to explain once that each person washed the sand out of his own swimsuit and hung it out to dry. Best of all, we had someone always willing to go after ice!

The trail mix in his backpack came in handy when our return flight was canceled and we stood in line at the airport for two hours and missed lunch.

On the trip home I knew we had passed a kind of milestone when my great-grandson turned to me and asked, “Grandma, could we go to the Grand Canyon next July?”

“Well, maybe so. Haven’t you been there?”

“No, then we could take the trip.”

“What trip is that, Honey?”

“You know, the mule ride to the bottom.”

Lucky for me his family went on vacation the next summer

“Leave it to the Women”

By

Gerry Niskern

Do you remember the first scolding you received in school? I do.

We first graders were allowed to take home our reader with strict instructions, “You may read the next four pages only and remember to bring your books back tomorrow.” Well, I was so thrilled to know how to read I finished the entire book. My mistake was telling the teacher!

Speaking of reading,  the Carnegie Library building on West Washington is 107 years old and when I say, ‘leave it to the women”, I’m speaking of many of your great-great-grandmothers.  Back in the Arizona Territorial Days , the Phoenix Woman’s Club wrote a proposal that resulted  in a grant from the Carnegie Foundation for four new libraries for Arizona;  one for Tucson, Prescott, Yuma, and Phoenix.

I discovered the Carnegie Library when our family moved to Arizona in 1942.  I staggered out of the basement where the children’s department was located with an arm load of books every week. I attended readings by authors of the children’s books in the beautiful bandshell located behind the library.

I couldn’t wait to turn twelve and could then check out books upstairs in the adult section. A world of imagination and curiosity allowed me to visualize settings and characters in endless ways for the rest of my life.

The love of books runs deep in our family. We still laugh about the 2 year old granddaughter who, without her mother’s knowledge, re-packed her bag full of her books in place of her clothes for an overnight with us.

Our great-grandson, a recent graduate of  NAU, started exchanging adult books with me at age ten. He is one of many reading friends with whom I’ve had the pleasure of sharing books. Of course, there should be no surprise there. His daddy used to sit up in his crib and read his books by the glow of the space heater in his room. When the heater cycled off, down he flopped. Then back up again turning pages when it cycled  bright again.

The kindergarteners who started school this year will be expected to learn many skills, but the most important one they will master is reading. Thankfully, there are thousands of books available in the local libraries.

The old Phoenix Carnegie no longer functions as a library, but it will always have a special place in my heart. “Kudos” to the first Phoenix Woman’s Club in the Arizona Territory for their foresight and resourcefulness.

“Easter Day, Here in Arizona”

By

Gerry Niskern,

Easter day, here in Arizona, is a day of traditions. It will be celebrated in many locations and the rituals will be as varied as the individual families. How could it not, with thousands of new residents of every ethnic group arriving in the Phoenix area each week?

Many families will go to church on Easter morning to thank God for their many blessings. Other whole families will give up their day to serve others in the various charity dining rooms.

In some families, grandmothers and grandfathers will serve their children and grandchildren a fine old-fashioned Easter dinner, complete with ham, potato salad and homemade hot rolls that melt in your mouth. The carving knife is already sharpened and the table linens are freshly laundered.

Perhaps this Easter weekend newlyweds around the valley will invite the clan to their home for a barbecue and a dip in their new heated pool. Regardless of where family or friends gather, some will argue politics, religion and or latest courtroom trial. Everyone will over eat and some will drink too much too.

Many, looking to do something different, will wrap their ham up tightly, put their sweet potatoes and gravy in heated containers and head out for a desert picnic. They’ll fly kites, hike and go egg hunting, just as our family did for many years. Just a reminder, leave real early. You’ll have to drive outside of Phoenix a long way to find a pristine desert site for your picnic this year.

Lonely residents of nursing homes will be served Easter dinner at long tables decorated with papier-mâché chickens and jaunty little bunnies. They will be remembering other Easter days when children sat at their table.

Firefighters will cook their Easter meal at the station. Policemen will grab a quick bite while on patrol.

Other families will gather in hospital rooms or visit cemeteries, carrying pots of flowers and trying to remember why they are supposed to be celebrating on this day.

Families of all nationalities will talk about Easter to their children. They might explain how the egg came to be associated with Easter. It seems that 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. All the different countries around the world eventually developed unique ways of decorating eggs.

Hopefully these same parents will remind their families that there are moms, dads, and even grandparents who are hungry and homeless on this Easter day, here in Arizona

They’ll tell the kids that we have the freedom to celebrate out traditions or change them as we wish. They will remind them to nuture and cherish those traditions.

All these things will happen on Easter day, somewhere here in Arizona.

“The Big Apple”

By

Gerry Niskern

The busiest intersection in downtown Phoenix in the mid 40’s was at 2^nd Avenue and W. Washington. The Wells Fargo building stands there now, but back then the old Ford hotel occupied that space. The corner newsstand at the hotel was a popular stop for the streetcar passengers waiting to take the Eastlake car to Sixteenth Street or the Capitol car heading west on Washington all the way to 22^nd Avenue. If you had to transfer on your nickel ride to the Brill or Kenilworth line heading north; sometimes it was quite a wait.

The heavy set man who owned the corner newsstand, sat high above his display, smoking cigars and keeping an eagle eye on his merchandise.  He carried newspapers, magazines, comic books, cigarettes, cigars and candy bars. However, the items that I remember coveting were the huge, shiny red apples he kept by the cash registrar. Those enormous apples that were marked ten cents apiece fascinated me.

On many Saturday mornings, when I was twelve, during seventh grade,  I had to transfer to the Brill streetcar. I rode it north to East McDowell Road where our dentist was located in the Grunow clinic.  And every Saturday as I waited for the northbound trolley I paced back and forth in front of that newsstand and agonized. You see, I usually had the dime but I also had a voice in my head. That was the indignant voice of my mother declaring, “ Ten cents for an apple…who ever heard of such a thing? Why, you can buy a loaf of bread for ten cents” You see, our family had recently moved here from a little farm in the East that had a large apple orchard and I missed that luscious fruit.

So every Saturday, I went to the dreaded dentist and then agonized while waiting  for the Capitol trolley to take me home again, always without a huge,  scrumptious red apple.