“Did Anyone Ask the Kids?”

By

Gerry Niskern

When politicians are running for office, it’s “all about the children” in every campaign speech. But guess what, those concerns are forgotten when it comes to budget cutting time.
I was dumbfounded when it was announced last year that the city budget for the coming year would include cutting back on the number of days the City of Phoenix public swimming pools would be open, I couldn’t believe it; not in the heat of this city.
After all, Maricopa County boasts more than 126,000 millionaires. When our city officials travel worldwide touting Phoenix, the fifth largest city in the United States, do they mention that we can’t afford to keep our public pools open for the entire summer? Surely, I thought, someone will remember how hot it is here in August, and revise their thinking about an early shutdown. It’s still hot and hundreds of kids still need a place to swim.
This year the lack of life guards was one problem. Perhaps if the wages were comparable to other essential city jobs there would be plenty of applicants.
Who can forget the feeling, growing up here in Phoenix, of arriving hot and tired at the counter of the public pool, paying your admission, getting a safety pin with a number and a basket for your clothes and finally jumping feet first into that deliciously cold water? It was heaven. Wherever you learned to swim as a kid, canal, river lake or pool, I’ll bet you’ve never forgotten the delight of that day.
Times have changed and thousands of children have the benefit of a pool in their own back yard. Then again, thousands of kids don’t even have a back yard, let along a swimming pool. Many parents of kids who use the public pools work hard at two minimum wage jobs. They manage to scrape together enough each day for the kids to get to swim. For many that is their only recreation all summer.
Let’s ask our representatives to think about those idle pools on their way home each day to cool off a bit in their pool with the family before dinner. And then when it comes to the budget for next year, sharpen their pencils for cuts in other areas besides on the backs of kids.
After all, did anyone ask the kids? Oh, that’s right. Kids don’t vote!

Color moods
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you been to the Dr. lately? Depressing, isn’t it?
I don’t mean your reason for going, of course, I’m referring to the monochromatic colors used in most of the waiting rooms everywhere. The shades of grey on the walls and the grey plank floors are not what you would like to see when you are feeling down, worried or depressed already.
I’m convinced there was a conference of office designers somewhere a few years ago and the outcome was a pledge to use only greys, blacks, a little white in all medical places. And then, of course, the wall décor must be silver or chrome art wall sculptures that have no redeeming features whatsoever.
Of course, when they call you into an examining room, you see that the walls do have some pictures to break the monotony . But wait, when you get closer it turns out to be a giant image of the human reproductive system, or worse, the digestion tract in living color!
For several years I went to a dermatologist who had quilting as a hobby. She was a wonderful doctor who also believed in sharing her beautiful quilts with her patients. They adorned the waiting room and even hung in the exam rooms. (master of tiny stitches!)
I remember actually being introduced to watercolor painting by another doctor who believed that his patients deserved to enjoy something beautiful, colorful and original. I was fascinated by the paintings on his walls. The images were so alive, ethereal and inspiring. They drew me into the painting world and eventually the art profession.
Another Asian dentist had original watercolors installed in every room. Visits to the dentist are never pleasant, but those paintings were unique. They were done by a fellow Asian, well known here in the valley, and a welcome distraction to his many patients.
I confess I don’t know how Pediatrician’s office décor is, I hope there is vibrant color and interesting images everywhere. Phoenix children’s hospital for example, does a fabulous job.
I’ll admit I haven’t accepted the idea of a monochromatic world that seems to be widely accepted everywhere, in our homes, in the miles of grey or tan homes or apartments. I think kids should grow up in homes with color on the walls and interesting art. Landscapes, portraits, and good abstracts can trigger a response that will lead in a thousand directions.
Hopefully, someday this monochromatic trend in décor will fall out of favor and some color will come flooding back to help change and lighten our moods.

How fatherhood has changed
By
Gerry Niskern

I’d like to share this story that has stayed in my memory for many, many years. I was about seven or eight years old at the time.

(John the hired man knocked on our door on a cold night, right after supper. He had a boy by the arm who looked about twelve or so. The boy had on a man’s old suit coat.

“I caught him hiking on the highway. Could you run him back to his folk’s in town?” John asked my dad.

“Sure,” my dad replied. “Put him in my car while we get our coats.” My sister and I said “hi” to no response, as we climbed into the back with the silent boy who sat rigid looking straight ahead. I was shocked to see a crust of bread lying on the car floor under his feet. Lena, John’s wife, must have given it to him, I thought.

I stole a glance at the boy. He had unshed tears in his eyes as my dad drove the five miles of steep winding road back down into town. “What’s your address, son?” my dad asked him a couple of times but received no reply.

Finally, as we reached the edge of town, he told dad where to turn. We stopped in front of a soot covered old house and dad took him to the front door. The porch lights came on and the door opened. A man spoke with my dad for a minute.

I got on my knees and watched out the rear car window as the boy, shoulders bent, shuffled slowly into the house as we drove away.)

I remember feeling sorry for the boy and asking why we had to take him back. My dad replied, “Because it’s against the law for kids to run away from home.”

Of course, no one knows why that boy wanted to get away from home back then. but we do know that times have changed. Parenting has changed. And the way fathers “ parent” in today’s society has changed most of all.

Father’s are no longer the traditional disciplinarian. Since dual income households has greatly increased, dads have nearly tripled the time spend with their children since the l960’s. If you were raised in the 50’s, you probably can’t help but compare the huge change in dad’s today. They spend more time talking to their kids, encouraging them, and really listening.

Some will always be better in the role of dad then others. I can’t help but think of the men in my family and how they differed. Some dad’s were there emotionally for the kids and some weren’t. Some were better teachers, of anything, than others. Some were good with babies and toddlers, but not so much with older off spring. Some taught with words,, others by example. If dad treated people with respect the kids learned respect. If dad was honest, the kids learned to be honest. Most fathers tend to follow the lead of their fathers, but with improvements too.

Those kids from the 50’s are watching their son’s become better dads than they were and their son’s will do the same.

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 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 2023 if they will see teenage girls in low rise 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 lot of new boob jobs too. 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!

The ties that bind
By
Gerry Niskern
I had a phone call last week that “warmed the cockles of my heart.” It was my cousin Joann. She was going to be in the valley for a few days and wanted to get together with me for a mini reunion. We hadn’t seen each other in eighty-some years! I have to tell you, the joy that I felt on hearing her voice was awesome.
My mom and dad both came from large families so I had loads of cousins. What I remember best about those cousins was playing outside in the evening after dark, up to nine or ten o’clock. The grownups would be in Grandma’s kitchen or sitting on the swings out under the grape arbor, laughing and talking, while we kids were running all over the neighborhood at the direction of Joann’ older brother. He had the imagination to led an “army “ of kids, including little three-year-old Joann, in make believe games. If I remember correctly, many included him as the “Lone Ranger”.
‘This is great’ I thought. I’ll be able to ask her lots of questions about Moundsville, the little town we both came from and places that I missed because my family moved to Arizona when I was ten and she was three. She remained there through high school before moving away.
She clarified a lot for me; I loved to hear about some of my favorite places and how they had changed. My favorites were hers too! I was able to answer a lot of her questions about the family history that I had learned about the time our grandparents had come over from Austria.
We reminisced about the story of the time my mother saved my cousin’s dad. I’ve told it before in my writing, but it’s worth repeating. It seems a group of little boys were breaking a strict rule at the elementary school one morning and my mother saw her six- year- old brother among them. Later on, from her third grade class room, she saw the principal yanking her little brother down the hallway with a strap in her hand. Mom was only eight but she ran out and grabbed the principles strap and said, “You aren’t going to strap my brother unless you strap those other boys too!” Back then, boys from foreign families were always the first to be punished. The lady was so astonished that she stopped, let the boy go, and said, “Both of you just get back to your class right now!”
However, the more we talked it became clear that my memories of fun at our grandmother’s house; the wonderful Christmas celebration (and polka dancing) on January 6th, my grandma’s Christmas, were not Joann’s memories! Even though they lived right around the corner, her little family did not feel welcome. “You know, Gerry, “ she sighed. “The family was not nice to my mom. We kids played together, but my dad’s sisters did not speak to my mom. “ “Well,” I replied. “What I remember is your Mom made the best donuts in the world. I was always told not to go around the corner to your house, but I couldn’t resist! I didn’t lie, I just neglected to mention my furtive visits where I always received a warm sugar coated donut from your mom.”
When you are a kid a lot of things go over your head. I knew there was tension when her mom and dad walked by and a lot of whispering among the women, but knew enough not to ask questions. Kids weren’t allowed to question everything back then. I never knew that when she went around to see our Grandma, one of my aunts wouldn’t let her in. I broke my heart to hear that she wasn’t allowed to be with our grandma anytime she wanted as I always was.
To her credit, over the years Joann always kept in touch. She sent Christmas photos of her kids and then grandkids. I’m in awe of her tenacity in keeping track of all our many cousins. She valued her ties to all of us.
As we spent hours catching up last Saturday I was able to tell her about the time I was finally able, as an adult, to truly know her mother. You see, years ago I had flown with my daughter and her new baby, to a cousin’s home in Long Beach to get away from her volatile situation. Lucky for us, Joann’s mother was visiting the cousin in California. This aunt that I was never permitted to know was the most vivacious and fun loving person I had ever met. She told us story after hilarious story. She joked and made a sad time bearable, all while her fingers were crocheting bootie after bootie for the baby. I often think how sad that petty family differences had kept this woman apart from our family. My daughter and I went home with our spirits greatly lifted and baby had a diaper bag full of booties!
In this season of all kinds of family celebrations: graduations, weddings and large family reunions, I’m so grateful for my cousin who created our little mini-reunion because she knows the value of the “ties that bind”.

“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!

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!”

“Scents of Summer”

By

Gerry Niskern

The summer of 2023 is fast approaching. Looking back, here are some of my memories of summer. Are any of them yours?
While walking past a newly moved lawn the other day, it occurred to me that the charisma of summertime is all in the smell. Think about it. Does that fragrance of freshly cut lawn remind you of rolling down grassy banks with your cousins amid peals of laughter? Or perhaps the aroma of grass was mingled with the scent of the dust freshly watered down for the first pitch in your baseball game. You can smell it now, can’t you?
After the game nothing was better than the tangy citrus scent of cold lemonade unless it was the first icy gulp after a hot game.
If you grew up here in the valley, surely you remember the aroma
the cantaloupe sheds out on Grand Ave as you drove past this time of year. How long since cantaloupes in the supermarket smelled like that?
Speaking of melons there used to a family on West Jefferson, around llth Avenue, that sold the best watermelons in the valley. They kept them cold in large soda pop coolers. After much thumping and checking for sugar spots, your mother selected her melon. They always plugged it for her. No need. They were all winners. Everyone gathered around the table at home. When she slid the knife into the dark rind, the melon split apart with a loud crack releasing the familiar sweet aroma. It was heaven.
The fragrance of honey suckle and roses mingled with the ripe figs in our neighborhood. When the temperature hovered at 115, the smell of hot tar in the asphalt while we were bike riding was even stronger than the pungent odor of the Tamarisk trees as we relaxed on a wide limb while cooling off in the shade of the branches.
Summertime always sent older sisters out into the back yard seeking a tan. Soon the exotic smell of coconut oil rose from warm bodies. Inside the house the fresh, clean cooler pads made from shredded aspen wood meant summer was here.
Saturday brought the scorch of hot iron on the damp cloth as mom pressed dad’s pants for Sunday church. If you were allowed to go downtown on Saturday, the candy counters at Newberrys or Woolworth on Washington beckoned with chocolate aroma. And if that didn’t take your quarter, then the Carmel corn shop on Monroe tried.
The odor of cigars wrinkled your nostrils if you stepped into the lobby of the Adams hotel, just for a peek, of course. A trip past the Chinese Green Dragon that emitted the wonderful aroma of onions and spices on East Jefferson wasn’t on the way to anything, but the giant green neon dragon was fascinating to watch.
If the movie theatre was your destination, the smell of freshly popped corn beckoned.
Sunday afternoon meant family picnic time at Riverside Park down on South Central Avenue. The swimming pool was great. Then again, wading through the footbath that reeked with the smell of heavy chlorine you were required to walk through before entering the pool was gross. After a cool swim, the sputtering and popping of roasting hot dogs mingled with the savory smell of Mom’s potato salad. We washed it all down with a bottle of Barq’s, root beer, orange or strawberry.
The summer week was complete.

“Change of Plans”

My great-grandson will be finishing up his residency soon. He is an Internal Medicine specialist. He has been away from his family and working hard for seven long years. In this great-grandmother’s opinion, the hospital where he accepts a position will be “darn lucky” to have him!
Years ago when our children and even grandchildren, were grown up, his generous mother trusted us to take him on vacation with us for several summers.

I’m remembering many years ago watching this 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.
At Laguna Beach he played in the surf with a little boy from Russia. We had a world geography lesson back in the room where 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 about them and learned they were from Jordan; and were the wives of a Sultan. 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 yearly 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 waited in line on the tarmac at the Newport airport for two hours and we 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.

NOTE: Maybe he can take that mule trip down the canyon trail with his little daughter someday!

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?