Every family is Unique

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you going to a family reunion this summer? Reunions mean only one thing: GROUP PHOTOS. We all treasure that old family photo of the entire clan together. We can identify aunts, uncles and cousins by their common family features, but mostly, we know them by the way they dressed.
I saw an ancient family photo at a friend’s house the other day. Some of the girls had huge bows on the back of their heads. That set the time and date and brought a lump to my throat. You see, the only picture I have of my mother as a little girl shows her wearing a dress two sizes too large (in the hand- me- down era and the youngest of six girls) and sporting a oversize bow in her hair (circa 1918).
Invariably we enjoy identifying individuals by their unique style as we turn the pages of old albums and that reminds us of a great story we’ve heard about that person.
Something changed on the way to the family reunions now days. Who decreed that everyone appear exactly alike now?
With many family reunions planned this summer, there will be one individual determined to produce a cookie- cutter group picture. No doubt she will have sent out newsletters six months in advance with the strict instructions. “Everyone, men, women and children are to wear a white shirt for the family photo. And, everyone must wear tan slacks. No Exceptions” If she is extra efficient, she will bring along a few shirts and pants for any slackers.
Think about it. What’s the worst that could happen if the “photo Nazi” just relaxed a bit and let each family member show up in what they always wear?
Is the point of reunion pictures to have a rigid, boring photo of an army of relatives faces in a sea of red, yellow or blue tee shirts or an interesting group photo celebrating the different personalities in the family?
It would be much more fun many years from now when future generations are looking at a family photo taken in 2024 if they will see teenage girls in ripped out jeans, a few chubby ones with their “love muffins” showing. The boys could be in their baggy shorts. The twenty or thirty- something gals (the lines are a little blurred these days) would be sporting tube- tops and obviously a lots of long hair covering half their face. The guys who work out would be showing off in muscle shirts.
They’ll remember that uncle who always had his Blue Tooth growing out of his ear; he might miss a money making deal!
There’s that aunt still wearing her bouffant hair and grandpa in his signature overalls. And there’s the cousin who joined the commune in her Hippie days, in her long braids, and granny dress.
Years from now, you will be glad everyone dressed as their personality dictated.
Viva la differences!

Another Kind of Mother’s Day
By
Gerry Niskern
“Mothers hold their child’s hand a short while, but hold the memory in their hearts forever.”
Unknown author
Over the years I have written many essays of Mother’s Day tributes to my mom. She was the best. But I think she, and most other mothers would agree with me that the role we have as a mother is the greatest reward in the world.
When I was a little girl and grownups asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always, “a mother”. I’m fortunate enough to remember many, many details of each of my kid’s birth, infancy, toddler years and school years too.
I remember each tiny face. The softest skin on one, long eye lashes on another and the rosy cheeks and blond curl on top on the third. I loved recognizing which family member they each resembled at first and watching their personalities develope in the first few months and change over the years.
One slept thru the night from day one; The other two by six weeks. All three talked early, around a year. One walked at nine months and the other two walked at about ten months. Two played carefully with their toys and one liked to throw his! Later on, One liked to save her allowance, one would spend, but only if he was going to get “lots of money back” and one beat a hot path to the store every week to blow his allowance.
I remember who was a good eater and what each liked the best as babies. As they grew I loved cooking for them and I’m sorry to say that I insisted on one meal a week of the “hated liver and onions”. Back then mothers were told that that’s how to see that kids got their iron. (they’ve never forgiven me for that.) One of them always counted the rolls at dinner time and told everyone how many they could have. Unfortunately, they did that when we had company for dinner too!
It was such fun teaching each one the many games I had played as a kid. I loved helping them decide what to buy for their dad for Christmas. And all the Christmas mornings watching them open presents that Santa had brought.
Birthdays and Easter bring more memories. All of the egg coloring and egg hunts were precious times. Summer fun in the pool and school days too.
Then I turned around one day and….suddenly everyone was grownup and gone!
Those memories were mine and mine alone and writing about Mother’s Day this year, all I can say is “It was my pleasure!”

Scooters, scooters everywhere!
By
Gerry Niskern
I had a visitor the other day. She came by scooter. The scooter was pink, had three wheels and her helmet was covered with blue and silver sequence. I had seen her zipping down the street the day before, tiny lights flashing as she sped by in front of her parents. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She’s three! The last time I saw her she was in a stroller.
Scooters have come a long ways since the first one was devised for people’s transportation back in Germany in l817. Adults used the two-wheeled ride to get to work Then almost a century later, they were motorized with the creation of the Autoped in l916. They were great for anyone who wanted to save time, money and energy. Those could go up to 35mph.
Of course, kids made their own scooters from day one. During the Great Depression kids used wood from old boxes and wheels from roller skates. Manufacturers started making them for kids and they grew in populatity. They were trendy for years off and on. Then in the l980’s they were largely replaced by the kids with skateboards.
Back when I was around nine years old my family moved to a little town that had sidewalks, I enjoyed the little boy’s scooter from across the street. He was four and his daddy (like most dads do) had bought one way too big for him. I was invited to come use it anytime, and I did! Our street was on a steep hill and I would pump it a couple of blocks to the top and have a glorious ride back down.
Many kids today are riding large motorized scooters with big fat wheels. Not much physical benefit there. Regular manual scooters enhances their balance and coordination while enjoying the freedom of outdoors. After the age of two or so they can ride the three wheeled scooters easily
Lucky are the little girls who live in a neighborhood with hills where scooters are really fun.

Basket Full of Easter
By
Gerry Niskern
Easter is next week and everyone will be recording the events with their cell phones; memories saved for anytime they want them.
I have a basket full of memories of Easter as a kid, but most weren’t recorded in photos because cameras and film development was too expensive. My mother started a roll at Christmas, took a little at Easter and maybe finished it to be dropped at the drugstore after a birthday party. So, special memories you just learned to keep in your head and close to your heart.
When I was just past two my uncle had a Candy Store. He sold chances to win a large stuffed rabbit at Easter time. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence, but my mom won that rabbit for me. It was taller than I was. Mr. Rabbit stood upright with orange and green stripped trousers, a green tuxedo coat and very long ears. The rabbit got dirty very quickly in that little coal mining town with me playing with him all the time. One day I looked up and saw him hanging on the clothes line by his ears. Mom had washed him! I was heartbroken because I thought she was hurting him and she couldn’t convince me otherwise.
My dad had serious surgery that year and everyone who came to visit brought him one of those big decorated chocolate covered Easter eggs. Mom always said that every time they went to have one they found a tiny tooth mark where a bite had been taken out of each end of every one! I think I took “the fifth”. I don’t recall that memory.
Up until I was nine I had to wear brown hi top corrective shoes. I hated those shoes. One Easter memory that I fondly remember is when my dad said, “Hey, while we are waiting for everyone to get ready for church lets play a game of checkers. Get the board.” I reached up high on the mantle and resting on top of the board was a pair of brown and white low cut saddle shoes, for me! My very first pair of low cut shoes like everyone else was wearing and that made my Easter!
When my kids were growing up their grandma and grandpa colored dozens of eggs and left early to hide them out in the Carefree area among the boulders. When the kids and their cousins arrived there was a wild Easter Egg hunt. Everyone was fine every year until they noticed Grandma taking the youngest toddler that year and showing him where the eggs were. “ No fair,” they complained. “Grandma is showing him where the eggs are”. Of course she was. She was the Grandma!
So, do you have any memories in your Easter basket that are not recorded in photos and are yours and yours alone?

PLAYDATE
By
Gerry Niskern
I had a play date last week.
The kindergartener arrived with her dad. The old toy box came out and she got busy cooking on the little stove. She served us up a tasty breakfast of bacon, eggs and even decaf coffee for me! Then, even though it’s been over a year, she suddenly remembered that I had the dining room chairs you can spin round and round in.
Then it was outside for some Frisbee tossing but in the excitement of the moment she ran head on and took out the screen door. After a few tears she was fine but getting over the shock that you really can’t run thru screen doors! After Frisbee she swept the leaves off my patio, watered my plants and then we had a really fast game of “Go Fish”. She won the game, all while chair spinning.
My visitor filled my Easter candy dish with Jelly beans and promised to wait to eat some only after lunch.
During lunch, in between spins, we engaged in some school gossip. I learned who the smartest kid in her class was; turns out she is also the class bully! My playdate was real interested in hearing about the boy bullies on my school bus when I was a kid.
She confided who her “crush” was and I said that was nice that she had a boyfriend. But she replied, a little sadly, “But I’m not his “crush.”
Her Dad decided to go take a nap so we thought it would be a good time to analyze the jelly beans. She brought me the colors one by one. After much testing, it was a tough call but we decided that the white ones tasted like coconut and were the best.
She wanted to know how I painted the images hanging on my walls; “exactly how!” So we had a little discussion on the difference between acrylics and watercolors. I realized that she knows “where the funny is” when I told her about one time when a man bought one of my large paintings and put it on his car and drove away. She thought that was hilarious.
I had been waiting for some new art work from her for a long time and she did two great images for me. Even gave me long eye lashes in one! She wanted to know my full name and then sounded it out herself and wrote it exactly right! Afterwards she found the Scotch tape and put them up on the fridge for me.
On her suggestion that we “go outside and get some fresh air” I asked her to clean out my large geraniums and get rid of everything that was dead. She was working hard and doing a thorough job when her Dad came out and said it was time to go. My great-great- granddaughter, Iris Mary, had to leave way, way too soon!

“Winning Ways”

By

Gerry Niskern

Do you enjoy the baseball games in the spring and summer? . I like to watch the five and six year old girls starting softball. I remember one opening practice game a few years ago.
First up was a chubby blonde. After every pitch the umpire had to signal time out to explain she didn’t need to brush off her socks when the catcher’s scuffling threw up some dust.
Next was a redhead. She was about 34 inches high. She connected for a grounder that rolled through three girl’s gloves. She decided there was enough time to stroll to first while her dad pleaded, “no, honey, run…run!”
The gaggle of boys watching the girl’s game were falling off the bleachers laughing.
The players waiting their turn at bat weren’t wasting their time watching the game. They braided each other’s hair, traded jewelry or played with someone’s baby sister.
When they took the field, our pitcher was sturdy and low to the ground. What she lacked in accuracy, she made up in power. The other teams’ hitters had to jump straight up, three feet back or just plain run for cover as she blasted balls towards home late.
Twins, playing center and left field respectively, had softball confused with keep-a-way. When one got the ball, she ran until she was tackled by her sister while the coach implored, “Please…throw the ball.”
I remember, a few year ago, watching my granddaughter’s game in an older girls league. A sharp crack of the bat brought me to attention. They were practicing their hitting. The pitchers were sending sizzlers down the sidelines. The confidence and determination of the thirteen to fifteen year- olds was exhilarating. Uniforms were regulation, including cleats.
It was obvious when they took the field; they had found their positions.
When our pitcher stepped into the pitcher’s circle, her windup gave us an Instamatic flash of form as her right arm started up, the left glove raised too. She was the picture of grace up on her right toe as her left foot left the ground and she turned on the power in true Joan Joyce style! The first baseman stretched out and snagged a wide throw from left field to rack up their first out. Nothing was out of her reach.
One of their opponents hit a sharp grounder between short and third. The red haired third baseman dove for the ball and on one knee managed a straight throw to first base.

The few hits the pitcher gave up were quickly taken care of by the catches of the fielders. They took turns circling the ball yelling, “I got it. I got it…and they did!
It was apparent the girls had developed a keen batters’ eye. In the last inning, the redhead was up first. She strolled to the plate and whacked the mud from her cleats while the fielders moved back. She swung at the first pitch…a crack…the ball jumped off her bat for a hot grounder past third. She dashed to first and then later, a bruising slide to second to avoid a tag. Later skinned elbows were ignored as she stole third.
The pretty blonde up next hit a hi- bouncer over the pitchers’ head and got on first.
The opposing pitcher was throwing mitt dusters when the sturdy pitcher came to bat. She swung…the high ball went off as if from a rocket launcher and sailed over the left field fence. This time there was no ridiculing from the crowd of young male fans. They were on their feet as the winning runs came in…whistles through the teeth and clenched fists thrust skyward.
The hugs and hi fives in the dugout couldn’t begin to match the smiles of triumph on the faces of older women in the stands who remembered when the ball diamonds were for Boys Only!

FANNY/Memoir interludes
By
Gerry Niskern
I remember going to my Grandma’s house on Saturday just in time to see some of my uncles piling into a car, with their hunting rifles. “Someone stole Fanny and they are going to get her back”, one of my cousins said. “They have an idea of a couple of places where she might be.”
I was around six or so, but I recall thinking, “If they are not going hunting, why do they need their guns?”
Fanny was a hunting hound. My Uncle Joe brought her home when she was a puppy, but little did he realize that she was a “scent” hound and would grow into a prize hunting dog. She wasn’t real big, probably part Beagle, with white, brown and black fur. Her ears were long and no matter how many times they were pulled by the babies in the family she never seemed to mind. She loved the kids, but everyone knew her heart belonged to Joe.
Joe and my other uncles took her hunting often and she was borrowed frequently by friends because of her keen sense of smell. She was fast and agile and a champion at flushing out game. Joe always bragged that she was the best hunting dog in Marshall County. Fanny had been stolen more than once, but the men always had an idea where to look. They always came back with her.
She was allowed to sleep in the house, which was unusual since my Grandma wasn’t crazy about animals in the house. Fanny stayed around the place except when she trotted down to the high school to wait for Joe after football practice. After Uncle Joe started working at the coal mine she was right there waiting to “bring” him home when his shift was over. Then when Joe joined the navy right after Pearl Harbor she began her long wait for him to come home.
Joe was a gunner on a destroyer. His ship was in the Atlantic campaign and without any leave home, the destroyer was diverted to the Pacific Theater. Joe was gone for over three years. Of course, Fanny went hunting with anyone who wanted her, but we knew she was waiting for Joe.
Then, one beautiful fall Sunday afternoon in l945, the war was finally over and our big family was down at Grandma’s sitting on the benches and swings under the grape arbor. Fanny was playing with one of the kids. The state highway ran past Grandma’s house and there was never much traffic but on that day a large Anheuser-Buschbeer truck sped by and Fanny shot out of the yard like a rocket and was in the arm’s of the hitch hiker before the trucker could barely get stopped two whole blocks away.
Joe came walking up with his sea bag on his shoulder and Fanny in his arms.

“Magical Freedom”
By
Gerry Niskern
We moved slowly up the mountain. Then, suddenly, at the summit, we plunged straight down. The sled made another turn and I thought we would fly off the side. One more turn and I was screaming, sure I was sailing off into space; sure I was going to die.
How did I get into this predicament? Well, let me tell you.
It all started with ken coming in from work one day in l959 and asking, “ What do you say we try to get away for a few days? Do you think you can get Mrs. Garside to watch the kids on short notice? We could drive over to the coast and relax on the beach a day or two?”
I was on the phone in a flash, and as luck would have it, our sitter was free that weekend. Grandparents were put on backup notice and our “Angel of Mercy” was on the job as we pulled away waving goodbye to our munchins, aged one, four and six.
In Del Mar the next morning, my devious husband said, “Let’s drive up to Orange county and look around. I hear that area is really growing. “ As we drove around Anaheim I noticed something strange, a mountain! “Oh, look” I said, pointing at the startling sight in the center of town. “Do you think that’s the Matterhorn and that’s Disneyland over there?”
“I don’t know, do you want to go see? “ my sly husband replied. We drove closer and there it was, right in front of us, Disneyland! The happiest place on earth. “ Do you want to go in?” I was torn. I felt so lucky that we had just happened to drive by it . “But we should take the kids, “ I worried. “Look around, do you see any quilt police?” my young partner asked.
So, we two, twenty something parents, parked and bought our tickets. We were carried down main street on the joyful feeling of freedom and fun. We rode every ride and enjoyed that Matterhorn adventure more than once. Streaking down that mountain, I felt unbelievably free!

CONCLUSION: We took the kids the following summer and every place we stopped someone asked, “Where are you kids going? One of them would put on a long, sad face and pointing an accusing finger, say “Disneyland, but THEY WENT LAST YEAR!

“Winners Never Quit”
By
Gerry Niskern
“You’re not coming back, are you?” The voice startled me as I was unlocking my car and preparing for a fast getaway. A current of anger had carried me quickly out the door of my first writing class. ‘How dare them criticize my treasured family story?’ I thought. I was hurt and humiliated. ( I had a lot to learn about writing and class critiques!) I turned and recognized the pretty, brunette woman from the class.
“No, it was probably a bad idea. We are remodeling a house we just bought and I have lots of work to do on it.” I replied. “Oh, where is it? I would love to see what you are doing.”
Why wouldn’t this pushy woman just leave me alone?’ When I explained our new home was at the end of Central Avenue, up against the North Phoenix Mountains, she said, “Do you mind if I follow you home?” I reluctantly agreed.
As we got out of our cars at the top of the steep driveway the steady beat of my husband’s hammer drummed us up the stairs to the second floor. All of our white furniture was piled in the middle of the future great room, covered in heavy plastic). We learned that Mary, my new friend, had plenty of knowledge of home construction as she and her spouse, an electrician, had built more than one house.
As she talked with Ken he explained that he was doing the work of tearing out walls, flooring and putting in new baths and a kitchen himself; all this in his spare time as he was still working. She marveled at the renovations we were planning and recommended men’s names in various trades that we could use. She gave us a French door for our intended master bedroom. She cheekily volunteered her husband’s welding services in putting together a wrought iron railing and gate for the inside stairway Ken still had to design somehow.
She spotted my paintings down stairs and I explained that the lower floor was going to be my studio eventually. I was supplying several galleries and needed to get back to work soon. In the meantime I thought I would start writing, that’s why I had been in her class today. Mary
offered kindness and support. When she left, leaving us warmed by her enthusiasm she turned to me and said, “ I’ll see you in class next Tuesday Gerry.”
And the rest is history.

Retro Jacket
By
Gerry Niskern
(Memoir Interludes)

We waited. The sun was getting higher and searing heat rose from the sidewalk. I tried to find some shade up in the shadow of the building. Donna, my girlfriend, sighed, “I hope they have jackets this time.” Suddenly, the door opened and waves of excitement carried me into the store. The crowd surged thru the aisles and pushed me forward like an ocean swell down the steps to the men’s department in the basement of Korricks Department store. I was separated from my girlfriend. Cheers went up when shoppers spotted the stacks of Levis they had spent hours waiting in line in the August sun to buy,
“Here, over here,” Donna yelled as she grabbed a couple of jackets. I took one, tried it, and it fit! Mission accomplished. The Levis were three dollars and the jackets were four. Some of the “ In”girls in school were wearing them. The guys had always sported the jackets, but the trend for the girls was starting now.
The word had gone out in town that Korricks would have a shipment of Levis on Saturday. We were never sure just what would come in each shipment. But, we knew the drill. Armed with our babysitting money, Donna and I got in line at 7 A.M. on Saturday morning. When the doors opened at nine o clock everyone who had been in line was there for only one thing, Levis.
Between l941 and 45 cities in the Western United States suffered many shortages during the war. All truck and train shipping was dedicated to the war effort. The government issued ration books to every citizen for shoes, sugar and meat. A J Bayless, our neighborhood market had meat available on Saturday morning every week. My sister and I went early, around seven, to get in line. On hot summer days it was not fun, but no one complained. It was just your job. Mom, armed with the ration books, came later when it was time for the doors to open. At that point, we ran to the butchers counter and was allowed one roast, and maybe some bacon all depending on what the store had received.
Clothing, like the Levis, and yard goods were hard to come by too. When it was rumored any time that Korricks would have some yard goods, we followed the same routine. We waited in line early and then when the doors opened, my sister yelled, “forget the elevator, it’s too slow.” We raced up three flights to the third floor and secured some bolts of material while waiting for our mother to arrive on the elevator. “We should get a couple of dresses out of this.” Mom yelled over the noise of the crowd.
I looked forward to a new outfit, but nothing filled my heart with joy like finally wearing my new Levi jacket. I wore it all thru Junior Hi and High School, but only with skirts to school. They were called Levi jackets back then and somewhere along the line in various decades their popularity came and went. Actors started wearing them in movies. Then The fashion designers began calling them Jean jackets, making all kinds of changes in material, stitching and colors too. but mine was still a Levi jacket to me.
I don’t know when I let it slip away, but I’ve wished I had it back many times.
After all, it was “The Real McCoy!”