Courtship Interludes
By

Gerry Niskern
(Snippets from the Creative Memoir Writing workshop. Topic suggested: Past family history)
Suddenly, she was holding a small white card. The young fellow who had been in line in front of them thrust it into her hand as he hurried away to join his friends. Her friend Ruby grabbed it and read, “Hello, I’m Chester Craig, Who are you?”. Then, she smelled it. Eva reached for the card and asked, “Why are you smelling it?” Her petite, blonde friend replied, “Because, silly, if it smells like gasoline it means he probably has a car.”
The girls paid their admission to enter the County Fairgrounds and headed straight to the Midway. Eva loved the bright lights and the rides and planned to go on every one of them. The sound of the calliope as the carosuel spun around was drawing them in.
Eva Gunto, the young coal miner’s daughter, gave her mother her paycheck as usual after work on Friday, but this week Mom handed her back five dollars and said, “You go fair”.
The line for the Ferris wheel was long so the girls decided to stroll past the booths with games of chance. There was a small crowd and loud cheers at one spot as a lean, tan fellow was throwing winning shots at the milk bottles. “That’s Chet, the guy that gave you his card. Remember he was the star pitcher of the Moundsville High School baseball team last year.”
Later on, as they approached the Ferris Wheel again, that pitcher guy was suddenly by her side. “ Would you like to ride the Wheel with me?” Speechless, she nodded yes. Chet took hand and helped her climb the metal steps and steadied the swinging seat. Her first ride on a ferris wheel was breathtaking. As they ascended high above the fairgrounds she felt like she was looking down on the whole world. Her new friend was very quiet and she saw he was blushing as his friends watching below were razzing him.
As it grew late, the crowd thinned. Ruby pulled her aside and whispered, “Bob has a car. If you will ride in the rumble seat with Chet, they’ll take us home. Okay?”
As they reached the car Eva wondered how they would ever get into that rumble seat. She found out quickly. Chet grabbed her hand and directed her to step on the running board with her left foot and then onto a small indentation in the fender with her right. “Now, just step down onto the seat with your left foot and slid in”
The ride home was magical with the breeze in her hair and her new friend’s arm around her shoulder. The stars were warm and bright.
After many movie dates and picnics down on the river, Chet invited her to go on a Moonlight River Cruise. They would catch the ferry at Wheeling and as Chet explained “There will be music and a dinner.” The Ferry would cruise the Ohio River to Pittsburgh and return later in the early morning hours.
Eva’s older sisters came to the rescue. Sophie loaned her new mauve silk shantung dress. Sister Kathrine donated her kid pumps and Annie marceled Eva’s new short bob in soft waves with the iron heated on their coal burning kitchen stove. Sarah came over with her sparkling beaded purse to carry. Best of all, Chet had his uncle Thad’s car and they didn’t have to ride in a rumble seat!
The swing band was playing Jazz and some were dancing the Charleston when they boarded the ferry boat. Eva loved standing at the bow and watching the water part in waves in front of them. After dinner the band started some slow love ballads and she and Chester danced cheek to cheek under the moonlight. Way too soon the ferry reversed and headed back. Finally , the band swung into “Good Night Ladies,Good Night Ladies.” And they were home.
They eloped the next fall as the county fair was setting up again. They took the train to Pittsburgh and were married by a Methodist minister. He didn’t know them and they lied about their age.
The following Sunday one of the “pillars of the Methodist church”, Laura Barnhardt Craig, heard whispering in the pew behind her. “Hey, did you hear? Chester Craig and that Eva Gunto eloped over the weekend?”
Laura promptly fainted.

A snippet from my “On This Corber ” Series for the Arizona Republic

“The Big Apple”

By

Gerry Niskern

The busiest intersection in downtown Phoenix in the mid 40’s was at 2nd 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 22nd 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.

Let’s Pretend
By
Gerry Niskern
If you recall, I wrote about my great-great-grand daughter’s Winter Concert last week. She loves to pretend and was enthralled when she attended her first live production with her dad on Thanksgiving weekend. From toddler age she has received tiny costumes from Santa and on birthdays too. She loved pretending and stretching her creativity to act out many scenarios.
Most kids love to perform and they need to be encouraged to take part in those activities . It helps them grow as individuals and even become leaders in the future.
I’m reminded of many trips years ago of my granddaughter and her four little kindergarten friends piling into the backseat of my convertible for a trip downtown to the Childrens Theatre. We left extra early because they coveted the front row seats. They knew the actors sometimes ventured into the audience. The girls also loved approaching the actors afterwards for autographs. Imagine, “the Prince or the Frog actually talked to them1”
A few years later, at another venue, the Phoenix Youth Theatre, this time it was the great-grandkids who were allowed to kneel in front and look down into the orchestra pit and watch the musicians. Once I was urged to “come see the “ really huge guitar” as they pointed out the bass fiddle.
When one of the great- g grandsons was four and everyone was clapping at the appropriate times during the performance, he insisted on pumping his fist and shouting “whoo, whoo, whoo1”. And when it was time for his rough and tumble younger brother’s time to attend a play, I was hesitant. He went down to the floor and proceeded to sit beside an older boy in a baseball uniform. But he didn’t move an inch during “Beaulty and the Beast”. He was mesmerized. Later, when I asked how he liked it, with big eyes, he replied, “I loved it!” Even tough guys can be melted.
If my great-great granddaughter lived in my town, we would be attending every performance, but who knows, maybe some day I will get to attend a performance of hers!

A Graduation of Sorts
By
Gerry Niskern
(One topic I suggested last fall to the participants at my creative memoir writing workshop was to write about a mean teacher in their past. As I wrote along with them the thought occurred to me that kids are really being raised differently now in many different life experiences.)
When I meandered down memory lane looking for a mean teacher I found wonderful memories instead. I was in fourth grade when my family moved during Christas break from our home in the country down into the Ohio River Valley to the little town of Glendale. My parents were planning to move to Arizona in August so our time living in Glendale was going to be short.
I woke up the first morning in my new home with the sound of someone outside calling, “Gerry, Gerry, Gerry”. Mom came to my door and said “Some kids are out on the sidewalk calling for you. Get up and go see what they want.” I dressed and went outside to find a girl about my age with long brown braids like mine and a blond headed boy . Turns out that is what the kids did in Glendale. They were not supposed to knock and bother the grownups; just stand outside and call their friend’s name. They told me their names and asked if I wanted to play.
We kicked around the neighborhood and they filled me in on the school and teachers and a little gossip too. I asked if any of the teachers were mean and they answered, “just one, the music teacher.”
The day after New Years I walked the five blocks to school and found my room. What I remember most about that combined fourth and fifth grade was how we were encouraged to put on plays and skits about the history and stories in literature we were studying. To my delight there were several trunks of costumes of all sorts sitting backstage in the auditorium. We made up our own l plays and practiced during our lunch hour. If our teacher deemed them good enough. the whole school was assembled to watch. This nine-year- old never had so much fun in school.
When the end of May rolled around we had the traditional half-day, received our report cards and were dismissed early. Outside a bunch of the kids were busy planning. “ Let’s go get some stuff and have a picnic at the swimming hole at the creek.” They told me how to get there and off I went to ask Mom if I could go over to the creek with some kids and she surprised me by saying yes. I bargained with my sister to get her bike to ride over there. I don’t remember what the deal was, but it was probably doing some of her chores in exchange for the privilege of riding her two wheeler.
I put on my bathing suit, grabbed a sandwich and was off before mom changed her mind. I crossed the highway that ran thru town, pedaled down a lane and there it was, Little Grave Creek. Everyone was splashing and jumping into the deeper holes. One was deep enough for the bigger boys to show off for the girls by doing a cannonball from a high rock. Almost our whole room was there having fun chasing, laughing, doing a little flirting and playing in the creek all afternoon.
I remember feeling so free and independent and yes, trusted.

Winter Concert Time
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you been to a Winter Concert this year? Perhaps you know it as the annual grade school Christmas program?
Do you remember attending your kid’s programs, or even better, do you recall getting your own chance to perform in school programs?
Eons ago, when I was in first grade our class played in the Christmas concert but not by singing. We were in a Rhythm Band. I remember different kids playing the bells, drums, tambourines, triangles, blocks and best of all, the symbols. I earned the position of the lone symbol player by being the tallest in the class. We wore red capes as we marched into the auditorium with me banging those brass disks together as hard as I could.
When my # one son was in second grade, years later, his class marched down the center aisle in their pajamas, wearing round tarboosh fi hats, and singing “This old man, he played paddy-wack on my thumb,”
A year later my #two, five year old son chose to be a mesquito in a play about (I’m not really sure) I had to make a pair of mesquito wings and he insisted on painting a pointed card board cylinder black and having it attached to his nose so that, in his words, “he could fly around and sting the rest of the kids”.
Now, this year, my great-great-grandaughter’s Winter concert was last Friday.She really wanted her Daddy to be there. This kindergartener loves to perform and we knew she had been practicing hard. Everyone in both families was hoping he could get off work, by everyone I mean at least four grandmothers! We knew if he got to attend then we would get to see a video at least. Then suddenly, on Friday evening, there it was . The video. Her classmates were filling up the risers to start their act. And there she was. top row, on the end. Our singer had turned director as she pointed out where each one was supposed to stand.
That’s our girl!

lor World
Memoir Interludes
By
Gerry Niskern
As we pulled in behind the gallery years ago, I was overwhelmed with tremendous joy. I walked in to delight at seeing my paintings lining the walls of both rooms. The soft murmur of patrons blended with the guitar riffs provided by my son flowing pleasantly by. I had achieved a goal and I sighed with pride. I was experiencing the opening night of my own one- man- show in one of the prestigious galleries in Scottsdale, at the height of the winter season.
When I saw my first professional watercolor painting, I was hooked. I loved the medium. I signed up for a class and was dismayed to learn we were required to paint on small quarter sheets like the hobbyist uses. Not for me! I insisted on using the best handmade A’rches paper from France and always a 22 x 30 or 25 x 40 sheet. And of course, the finest paper required the best paints, Windson Newton, always.
“Watercolor is a water medium, and should have a watery look.” I heard that rule repeated many times when I attended various classes and workshops given by visiting out of state artists.
Smoothing water over the paper with a sponge to just the right degree, and then waiting to start took patience. I learned to wait for the precise point to start laying the pigment on the pristine white paper. The paint is always mixed on the paper, never on the palate! The vibrant colors mingle together as they create vibrant passages. This transparent medium takes the artist by surprise to unimagined places. I learned to go with the flow. I became a purist, vowing to save my whites and never adding another medium to my paintings. I developed my own unique methods and creations using only white paper, paint and water.
I studied every book I could find on composition and design. You see, I was determined to be juried into the Arizona Artists Guild and also the Arizona Watercolorists Association, the measure by which every artist in Arizona was judged. I achieved success with both in the same year with five different submissions for each jurying.
I painted my way up from small art festivals and juried competition to purchase awards to attending the Dallas, Long beach and finally the New York Art Exposition. At the New York Expo I sold hundreds of prints of my images to vendors here in the united States and also Europe. I loaned images to publishers who wanted to “split the run” with me.
The Expo was open to the public on the last day and the wonderful people of New York came and bought my originals; always two, it seemed. One for their apartment and one for their home upstate. We laughed about the couple who deliberated at length over an “elephant size” (25 x 60), and then contacted us when we were back home. They wanted the painting and requested we ship it to their home on Bayshore Drive in The Hamptons!
I was invited by many galleries to have one man shows in California, Colorado, Santa Fe, and other states. It was all fun and exciting but nothing compared to that grand opening night in Scottsdale, years ago.

ater Color World
Memoir Interludes
By
Gerry Niskern
As we pulled in behind the gallery years ago, I was overwhelmed with tremendous joy. I walked in to delight at seeing my paintings lining the walls of both rooms. The soft murmur of patrons blended with the guitar riffs provided by my son flowing pleasantly by. I had achieved a goal and I sighed with pride. I was experiencing the opening night of my own one- man- show in one of the prestigious galleries in Scottsdale, at the height of the winter season.
When I saw my first professional watercolor painting, I was hooked. I loved the medium. I signed up for a class and was dismayed to learn we were required to paint on small quarter sheets like the hobbyist uses. Not for me! I insisted on using the best handmade A’rches paper from France and always a 22 x 30 or 25 x 40 sheet. And of course, the finest paper required the best paints, Windson Newton, always.
“Watercolor is a water medium, and should have a watery look.” I heard that rule repeated many times when I attended various classes and workshops given by visiting out of state artists.
Smoothing water over the paper with a sponge to just the right degree, and then waiting to start took patience. I learned to wait for the precise point to start laying the pigment on the pristine white paper. The paint is always mixed on the paper, never on the palate! The vibrant colors mingle together as they create vibrant passages. This transparent medium takes the artist by surprise to unimagined places. I learned to go with the flow. I became a purist, vowing to save my whites and never adding another medium to my paintings. I developed my own unique methods and creations using only white paper, paint and water.
I studied every book I could find on composition and design. You see, I was determined to be juried into the Arizona Artists Guild and also the Arizona Watercolorists Association, the measure by which every artist in Arizona was judged. I achieved success with both in the same year with five different submissions for each jurying.
I painted my way up from small art festivals and juried competition to purchase awards to attending the Dallas, Long beach and finally the New York Art Exposition. At the New York Expo I sold hundreds of prints of my images to vendors here in the united States and also Europe. I loaned images to publishers who wanted to “split the run” with me.
The Expo was open to the public on the last day and the wonderful people of New York came and bought my originals; always two, it seemed. One for their apartment and one for their home upstate. We laughed about the couple who deliberated at length over an “elephant size” (25 x 60), and then contacted us when we were back home. They wanted the painting and requested we ship it to their home on Bayshore Drive in The Hamptons!
I was invited by many galleries to have one man shows in California, Colorado, Santa Fe, and other states. It was all fun and exciting but nothing compared to that grand opening night in Scottsdale, years ago.

What was your favorite Christmas present?

By

Gerry Niskern

Can you think of the favorite Christmas present that you received in your whole lifetime?

Of course, all of Santa’s surprises were wonderful when you were a kid. I remember rushing down on Christmas morning and finding toys under the tree. Nothing was wrapped. They were just there, right where Santa dropped them!

Then as I got older I became more aware of the true spirit of giving gifts to loved ones at Christmas. In my teens I couldn’t wait to exchange gifts with my girl/boy friends. Then it happened. That special boy gave me a small beautifully wrapped package. Inside was heart shaped locket made of gold and embellished with rose gold. It opened, and inside on either side was a space for two tiny photos.

Years later, at Christmas, my new groom, the Locket Guy, brought a large box home. He shut the bedroom door and tried to quietly wrap the contents of the box. When I heard something clanging and banging on the hardwood floor, I immediately thought, “If he bought me a vacuum cleaner, like some HOUSEWIFE, I’ll kill him!”

On Christmas morning, when I opened his gift to me I found a tiny FeatherWeight sewing machine. I loved it.

Other totally surprising and thoughtful gifts come to mind. : a beautiful silver coffee/tea set for my ladies group meetings, a luxurious Aqua blue gown and robe that he let the kids pick out on their own, Best of all, right after baby number three was born he brought home the latest kitchen item, a portable dishwasher. This tired young mother felt like she had a maid!

Years later, when they first came out, he surprised me with a microwave. I was not happy! I had read too many stories by all the skeptics that they were dangerous and could cause all kinds of health problems. Now, think about it. What would we do without our Microwaves?

Finally, he settled into the tradition of a generous gift card from Barnes and Noble that warmed the heart of this “Book Worm” wife.

So, what was your favorite Christmas gift that you ever received? If I had to choose, I know that I will always treasure the gold heart locket with our tiny photos inside, but I think
the portable dishwasher won, hands down!

Is this the year that you will give someone their all time favorite gift ?

Serenity Found
By
Gerry Niskern
“Okay, are you ready?” my husband yelled as he released our baby at the top of the rapids. The churning, clear water rushed our one year old sitting a raft downward into my arms. The baby was still chortling with delight with his wild ride as I picked him up. Riding the rapids right behind him came his brother and then his sister in their small innertubes.
Our little family was at Red Rock Crossing on the lower Oak Creek. We were there alone for two whole days with the beautiful area to ourselves. Not one ranch truck came thru the crossing. We set up our tent in a grassy area close to the creek. Grand old oaks, cottonwoods and willows surrounded us, casting down their shade. I can still smell the scent of the fallen dew covered oak leaves outside our tent as we stepped out each morning.
I don’t remember what part of the summer it was, must have been late May or early September when Ken came home one day and said, “ Hey, let’s go camping for the rest of the week.” This invitation was highly unusual because he was a guy who preferred nice hotels with room service. But he knew how much I loved the outdoors and I had had a rough year with every childhood disease you can name going thru all the kids. So we loaded up his gold and white Ford pickup with the tent, chairs, playpen, firewood , supplies and headed north.
Cathedral Rock stood watch from a distance as we spent two days riding the rushing water as it hurtled down from the north over the red sandstone formations forming a long chute thru the fiery red rock. The water spread out to cover the crossing road and then dropped down on its journey into a deep pool below the road. The ice cold water was numbing but the hot rocks warmed us right up. Our almost six and almost four year old, brother and sister, scampered up over the sandstone and delighted in the glorious water ride.
We roasted hot dogs and toasted marshmallows and then tucked three sleepy kids into their sleeping bags for the night and zipped up the tent opening. We let the fire burn down to glowing coals and relaxed. All my tension and stress had melted away.
On our last night, The night sky was dazzling with stars and then a perfect full moon came out and the image reflected in the deep pool below. We gazed at the peaceful night scene. “I hate to leave tomorrow, “ I sighed. That’s when Ken got up and checked the sleeping kids and said, “Hey, let’s go skinny dippng”.

NOTE: I can only return to Red Rock Crossing in my memories because a large area of land was purchased by the State of Arizona and the contour of the stream was destroyed. The centuries old massive sandstone formations that created the wonderful chute were removed. The stream was widened considerably. Red Rock State Park was dedicated in October, l991. and our crossing was gone forever.

Thanksgiving memories Revisited

THANKSGIVING, LET’S KEEP IT

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone knows the “Grinch” stole Christmas, but I would like to know who made off with Thanksgiving. You remember Thanksgiving, the American holiday of feasting, fun and reflecting on our blessings?
Lately, I’ve been hearing many younger couples saying things like, “It’s too much trouble, who needs it, or I’m not getting stuck in the kitchen on my day off.”
I’ll admit just thinking about turkey and all the trimmings for eight or ten extra people can be overwhelming. Look at it this way. It could be worse. At the Pilgrims’ first Thanksgiving, Gov. Bradford invited Chief Massasoit to share their feast. The chief brought ninety men with him and they stayed and celebrated for three days.
Our forefathers started the tradition of sharing food and games with family and friends on the first Thanksgiving, and it’s up to all of us to keep and cherish those family customs.
Traditions, the bonding material of families are held firm by repetition year after year. The special holiday ceremonies are woven into the fabric of a family, stability of a community and the strength of a nation.
For those of a generation who can’t see the point of preparing the annual feast of gratitude, I promise you the investment of precious time and borrowed energy will set in motion a chain reaction of harmony for years to come.
When I slip that bird into the oven this year, the first rays of a pink and silver dawn will be glowing behind the mountain. When we return from breakfast, the aroma of turkey roasting will serenade us up the steps. Later, pungent notes of onion and sage from cornbread stuffing will mingle and blend. Soon the symphony will build to a crescendo with the yeasty tones of homemade rolls.
The lilting giggles of our granddaughter being teased by male cousins will join the tinkle of ice as she fills the glasses.
The new groom and his bride will arrive late. She’ll bring her famous tofu casserole. The soft murmur of women’s voices will blend with the deep male tones as we join hands and give thanks…well, maybe not for the tofu casserole.
Dessert will be the teenage grandson’s mouth-watering apple pie.
During the rest of the day, some will hike up the mountain behind the house. The clickity-clack of Ping-Pong balls will be heard downstairs and a football game will be on for the die-hard sports fans.
Later, we’ll set up the board for our annual Win, Lose or Draw game tournament. The teams range in age from five to eighty-five. Aunt Elsies’ giant size canister of golden homemade caramel corn will disappear as the contest warms up. The guys’ team will lie, cheat and make all kinds of excuses. The girls’ team will win.
A few hardy souls will head for the kitchen for another plate of turkey and dressing. The aroma of a fresh pot of coffee will energize others to finish the pie.
Thanksgiving Day is more than just a day I might spend extra time in the kitchen. It is a celebration of life with a group of people more precious than life itself.
Send dad out to one of the local delis for a roasted turkey if you don’t like to cook. Let someone bring the rolls or a pie or two. Use paper plates. Serve buffet style in from the kitchen counter. Put away the “solitary” Nintendo games and play something everyone, young and old can share together.
That’s what memories are made of. In today’s world, we need those bonds more than ever before.