“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?

“Halloween”

We all know the Grinch stole Christmas, but I’d like to know who made off with Halloween. I’m talking about the Halloween that used to be just for kids. The age-old holiday when your kids dressed up like witches or monsters and visited the neighbor’s houses chanting, “Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to eat.”

Before then, when I was a kid, Halloween parties were planned weeks in advance. That gave everyone time to create the best disguise so you could have the thrill of being the last one guessed at the party.

One year, when I was about eight years old, my sister and I begged to have a Halloween party for our friends from the neighboring farms. We worked hard sprucing up the basement. We dragged dry corn stalks in from the fields and placed them in the corners. Grinning jack-o-lanterns and black cats made from construction paper weeks in advance greeted our guests.

In my quest to be the last one identified, I’d insisted my mother pin me securely into my ghost sheet costume, so no one could peek.  I watched in dismay, arms locked in folds of white, as the bowls of candy corn, platters of doughnuts and the sweet cider disappeared before my eyes!

Years later, I couldn’t wait to take my first child trick or treating. My two-year old had a pair of blue silk Chinese pajamas and I made her a little coolie hat. We practiced “trick or treat” until she could say it perfectly. At the first home and at every door after that, she held out her paper bag and gave the poor occupants the dirtiest look she could muster, while refusing to utter a word. She came home with quite a little sack full of loot anyway.

That same year, her daddy came home with large size candy bars. “I can finally afford to give out the kind of loot I would have liked as a kid,” he declared.

There was just one problem. While I was out with our mute China Doll, he stayed home with baby brother. We both forgot to take down the “Shoo-baby sleeping” sign from the front door. Nary a goblin knocked on our front door

“MY MOM’S HANDLEBAR MUSTACHE”

First, do you know what you call a goblin that gets to close to the bonfire?

It was Halloween and the Ladies Aid Society was having a masquerade party in the basement of our little country church. Of course no one could afford to go out and buy costumes back then. You just scrounged around the closets for something that would work

Hard to believe that now around 1.5 billion will be spent on adult costumes this year; actually more than is spent on kid’s Halloween costumes, around 1.3 billion.

Anyway, Mom put together a gypsy outfit with a red skirt, some beads and baubles and a bandana around her head. I thought she looked pretty sharp and would surely win the contest of being the last one guessed. But wait, she had no mask. “That’s okay” she said, “I’ll just wear this old mask” she declared, picking up a beat up false-face from the bottom of a trunk.

“No, mom” I declared. “You can’t wear that. It has a mustache! You need a ladies mask.” After all, this little hobo was going with her and in my six-year-old logic that just wouldn’t do at all. I wanted us to win. The rumor that had circulated around the Sunday school classes the week before was that the first prize was going to be a bag of candy corn! Of course, for a little farm girl that sounded like heaven to me.

But my mother wasn’t about to spend money on a new mask and off we went to the party. Needless to say, I was embarrassed and humiliated. I was afraid they would laugh at my mom.

Then as the evening wore on different people were recognized in their disguises and their names were called out, but no one had recognized her. Everyone was puzzled. As they milled around her I heard one party goer say, “ Is that a man dressed like a woman? Can’t be a female. None of the ladies would wear a mustache.”

But then everyone’s identity had been guessed but us and guess what? We won!

I remember riding home in the back seat, clutching that bag of candy corn and thinking, maybe my mom was pretty smart after all!

By the way, a goblin that gets too close to the bonfire is a toasty-ghosty.