“Voices”

By

Gerry Niskern

What do you think about the new friends we all have acquired in the past few years? You know the ones. They’re voices. That’s all, just firm voices.
At first it was a little disconcerting having someone I can’t see and didn’t know giving me authoritative orders. I remember years ago when we were waiting in the car for a real estate lady who ran into her bank for a quick minute. Suddenly, a woman said real loud, “Your engine is running and your seat belt is not fastened!” I don’t know who went straight up first, my spouse or me. That was just the beginning the invasion of the voices.
Now days at the airport, when we are finally relaxing a little on the moving sidewalk, in one of many repetitious commands a voice instructs us over and over to “stand to the right and walk on the left, please”.
Then, there is our new robotic buddy at the supermarket. Actually, I like him. I get finished checking out faster and he’s never sniffing from a fresh cold. He invites me to “press start here, scan the first item and put it in the bag.”Of course, he does get a little cranky sometimes. If I have a large item, like a twelve pack of cola, and decide to put it directly into the cart, he repeats “put the item in the bag, put the item in the bag! PUT THE ITEM IN THE BAG!!! By this time the courtesy clerk is scurrying over to see just how retarded I really am and the customers behind me are snickering.
Of course, his R2D2 chum at the gas pump doesn’t talk to me at all. He doesn’t have to, as long as I need him more than he needs me. I quietly slip him that little credit card and he delivers. Gas. Nothing else. No oil checks clean windshield or “have a nice day”.
On the other hand, there’s another voice we can be sure we’ll never hear. When we call the doctor’s office and get their menu with more choices than you care to use, there’s one option we don’t have to worry about receiving. Press # 5 and you can speak to the doctor himself. Forget that one!
The voice in the box at the fast food drive- in offers a different challenge. Now, we know there is actually a live person on the other end of this form of communication. The problem is, they can never quite hear you and you sure can’t understand them. Come to think of it, maybe they could get lessons on how to speak clearly and distinctly from Mr. Robot.
Today’s children are different. They’re accustomed to taking orders from the voices in their toys. One little toddler I know pushes her pink fire engine along and is delighted when a voice tells her “Look both ways when you cross the street…In case of emergency, call 911….or Don’t talk to strangers!” The older kids take their instructions from their video game voice of authority before beginning a game. Maybe that’s better than the arguments we used to have as kids on the rules for Monopoly. .
As time goes on, we’ll all continue to be introduced to more and more new voices in our lives
I have just one request. Could somebody please put a microchip in the take- home box in the restaurants? He could yell, ”Hey lady, you’re forgetting your doggie bag!”

“An Arizona Valentine”

By

Gerry Niskern

This Valentine’s Day, February 14, is Arizona’s Inauguration Day.
Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you hadn’t ended up in Arizona? I do. I’ll always be thankful that my parents brought my sister and me here in the summer of `42.
I would have grown up in a limited little coal mining town back East with black soot on everything. I remember going to Grandma’s wearing a Sunday school dress and being admonished, “Don’t touch anything, and don’t lean either!”
My ten-year-old horizon was expanded as we drove across the U. S. in dad’s l940 Plymouth. He always picked up soldiers and sailors hitch-hiking to get home on leave during the war. Riding in the back seat with my sister and me hanging on their every word, they told their stories of the war and also of the home states they were trying to get back to for a quick visit. We were getting a liberal education.
Driving down from Globe, Miami and Superior on route 60, we were all a little shaken up. Was Phoenix going to be like these dusty little towns? Instead, Phoenix was bright and clean. My dad said “it was like someone washed your eyeballs!” Best of all, there was grass and palm trees everywhere.
My education was just beginning. Every kid in school was from somewhere else as people poured into the valley for war work and airmen from nearby bases filled the streets. My best friend was from California and another was from Mexico. The lady down the street was from England and the next door neighbor was from Nova Scotia. A Pima Indian family lived across the street. The dad worked for the railroad and the mother had graduated from an Eastern college. Their son was in the Arizona Bushmasters fighting in the Pacific. We were fascinated by their stories.
My parents embraced Arizona. My dad carpooled to save gas ration stamps to take us to every remote part of our beautiful new state. We traveled north to the Canyon, Painted Desert and South to Nogales, and everywhere in between.
We were there for the first day of trout fishing on Oak Creek in the spring and back again for the apple harvest in the fall. My dad hiked every trail of South Mountains.
I enjoyed diving into the cool water of University pool, carrying home armloads of books from the Carnegie Library on W. Washington and canoeing with my sister on Encanto Lagoon.

My memories of this sweetheart state are endless and there is a story in every one!

Time Travelers
By
Gerry Niskern
I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything new lately on this blog. I’ve been neglecting this site because I’ve been spending a lot of time helping writers become time travelers. That’s what people who write a memoir are called: Time Traveler.
Anyone who has ever attempted to write a memoir of any kind must dig into the past, with all its pain and joy. It is usually a perilous journey to do that personal excavating and discover an abundance, beautiful and heartbreaking both, that you didn’t even suspect was lying beneath the surface.
People often ask “ Why would anyone be interested in my life?” I’ll tell you why; because everyone is unique. There is not now or ever will be a person exactly like you and your story. Your family is like no other. There are undiscovered stories in all of us. Telling those stories are how we learn our true self.
It’s your chance to set the record straight. It is your chance to tell some family history from your point of view.
As a memoirist you will be getting a better understanding of how you came to be who you are today. The people in my creative writing workshop are completing a collection of personal essays that they may use in the final version of their memoir.
I’ve worked with this small, but delightful, group of writers who have been striving to be more creative in the way they tell their stories; in ways that will hold future readers interest. I’ve written along with them on weekly projects and have discovered that I only have so many “words” to give in a week.
When and how they decide to share their stories with the world is up to them. Some will self- publish, some will have print small booklets just for the family and some will finish, put their work away to be discovered by another person some day, but they will have recorded their history that is theirs and theirs alone.
Permit me to refer to the quote I used at the beginning of my own memoir,
The word that unites all families is, “Remember!”

This popped up on Facebook Share again today, so I thought some of my new readers might enjoy it.

“The Stir Stick”

By

Gerry Niskern

There used to be a running joke in our family about who will inherit the “stir stick”. Which offspring will be deemed worthy of the old pine stick that my grandmother, my dad’s mother, used to stir her clothes in the big tubs hold the laundry rinse water? That piece of pine was bleached white and worn smooth as satin as she stirred the clothes round and round the old tubs till they were rinsed clean. She raised six children all alone by taking in boarders and laundry, with the help of that one small stir stick.
My own mother inherited the stick from her mother-in-law and used it many years. However, somewhere along the way the stick was retired, pushed to the back of a cupboard. That probably happened when she purchased her first automatic washer.
She didn’t get a dryer though. Mom insisted on having the fresh breath of wind and sun on her towels and sheets. Actually, she didn’t take quickly to any new gadgets for the home. I wonder what she would have thought about the new cooking parties that the young homemakers are giving?
I can imagine Mom’s running commentary on the latest cooking tools.
As the hostess carefully demonstrates how the new colanders can be used to drain not only pasta, but also canned peaches; I can just hear Mom saying, “What’s wrong with using the can lid like always?”
The innovative measuring cups have a cup on either end, so if one’s messy, you can use the other end. Mom’s comment would be “Ever hear of measuring the dry first, then the wet?”
The new baking stones are touted to bake every cookie perfectly even. “But what if you have one kid like his cookies real soft, while another wants his dark and crisp. And then there’s dad who likes the date bars cut from the edge of the pan because they’re crunchier?”
The exhibition of the special onion chopper and handy tomato slicer would have brought the retort, “use a knife.” When the hostess explains that the new garlic press can be used in a real emergency to crush bullion cubs. Mom would say, “Make your own chicken broth, it’s better for you.”
Don’t even mention the improved spatulas that sell for thirteen dollars! “Nonsense. Cake batter tastes just as good licked off a ninety-eight cent spoon.”
Something tells me those women, like Mom, of years ago who melted down their soap pieces on Sunday evening to get ready for Monday’s wash and saved their potato water to make gravy, wouldn’t be good ones to invite to today’s cooking parties.
But actually, if you look closely, some of the old customs are new again. Nostalgia is back in a big way. Young couples are snapping up the old Victorian homes. They’re hanging lace curtains and searching for handmade quilts. Spinning wheels and butter churns are sought after items to place in the entry hall and Grandpa’s wicker rocking chair is sought for the front porch.
The latest trend is to knit your own afghans; some women’s magazines are now carrying complete instructions. The sewing pattern industry is reporting a big comeback as stay- at- home Mom’s are buying sewing machines.
Cooking is back. On kitchen stoves the size of small Volkswagens, today’s homemakers are simmering Thai stews and soups with Eastern-European flavors as they celebrate their ethnic backgrounds.
Everyone is embracing the “rootedness” of the home. They’re very keen on traditions. Parents desire a way of life they can pass on to their children.
The other day I saw some antique, hand decorated wash tubs hanging on a back patio. Since I’ve been hanging on to that old piece of bleached pine, I’ve been wondering, is it possible that we might see the return of the “stir stick?”
Nah.

Huber Rides Again!
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you taken an Uber ride lately?
I had rode with Uber in the last few weeks to get to the doctors. A lot has changed since my first experience a few years ago when ridesharing was pretty new. After some surgery, I didn’t feel like driving and I signed up with Uber.
On the first occasion I needed a ride, I was told the doctor could squeeze me in if I could make it by a certain time. I summoned Uber and watched in frustration as the tiny little car wandered all over the mountain above me on the screen as the minutes ticked by. When he finally arrived I got in and started to explain my time problem when suddenly, the very large man behind the wheel pounded his fist on the ceiling and said, “first of all, we are going to need a change of attitude”. I was struck speechless, and little voice in my head that sounded like my mother was saying “never get into a car with a stranger!”
After that terrifying moment, when I could finally speak again, we started down the street. I started to explain my time schedule again when he suddenly slammed on the brakes and declared, “ Do you want me to turn this car around and go back? I will get you there on time if we can just proceed.” And he did. Needless to say, after my medical issues were over I was happy to be driving myself again.
When I quit driving at night I started taking Uber way out to the family holiday celebrations and catching a ride home with one of the younger drivers in the clan. It’s worked out great and I’ve been fascinated meeting my many different drivers over the years.
I like to ride up front and most are happy to accommodate me. A few weren’t. When I explained that I was very claustrophobic one fellow insisted I get in the back. He said that’s silly and he argued that I would have more room in the back. When I insisted on the front he was not happy picking up the trash he had accumulated in the front seat.
I always tip something because I know the customer service business is hard, but I recently learned that around 60% of Uber users do not tip. I was a little surprised, but I could understand the reluctance sometimes. Most guys were happy to engage in friendly conversation but a few were not. They only answered in one word or two.
When I ask how long they have been driving in Phoenix, I find that usually “breaks the ice.” I love it when they declare they have been here for twenty years and that I wouldn’t believe the changes they have seen. I love it even more when I tell them how long I’ve been here and watch their reaction.
Some drivers get out and open the door for you. Other do not. Some help you carry you packages to the door at Christmas. Others do not. In my experience, not always, but as a rule, the older men are more courteous and helpful. The drivers from another country like to talk, tell you about their family and any other work they are doing.
When I need special rides from family members on a medical issue they are always willing, but It’s also great to have uber available and totally improved since my first wild ride.

The Dreaded New Year’s Dumpling
By
Gerry Niskern
What will you be eating on New Year’s Eve?
That last night of the year is coming up and countries around world are preparing a special food that everyone must eat to ensure good luck for the coming year. In Spain people must eat 12 grapes at midnight to represent each month to bring good health and prosperity. Black eyed peas are a must in the United States South. Mexicans eat delicious tamales and, of course, dumplings in numerous shapes and sauces are the traditional midnight fare in many countries.
Somehow, as a young kid I had Christmas and New Years mixed together. My Orthodox Christian Grandmother’s Christmas was celebrated on January 7th. After church, the whole family gathered at her house to celebrate. The kitchen was filled with all kinds of pies, cookies, delicious cabbage rolls, roasted pork in browned sauerkraut, and Grandma’s speciality, her round loaves of bread decorated in flowers and leaves. There were also bowls of stewed prunes and apricots. There were no presents exchanged, just lots of laughter and fun.
Even though my parents had given my sister and me a wonderful Santa Claus day on December 25th, with toys and filled stockings, I looked forward just as much to the Christmas at Grandmas with a house filled with my cousins.
I remember walking up the path to her house every year, our boots crunching on the frozen snow. I couldn’t wait, but then I would remember the tradition that I always dreaded, the dumplings! Along with all the delicious food spread out on the long tables that filled the living room, dining room and hall, were bowls of honey drenched, round dumplings covered generously with black poppy seed. Tradition dictated that you were supposed to swallow one whole in order to have good health, good luck, and much happiness for the entire coming year. “Everyone must eat,” Grandma would command. “Or you won’t have good health in the new year!” She watched to make sure all of her grandchildren followed tradition.
I hated those dumplings! I tried my best and finally gagged down a tiny bite and I was “off the hook” for another year.
Than all the tables would l come down, clearing the big kitchen floor for the polka. Everyone joined in, well, except for my dad and uncle John, the two “Americans”. My Uncle Paul Fama provided the music with his sparkling, blue accordian and we danced in the New Year. Uncle Walter Tribelo lead those willing to try in the high kicks of the Masurka.
Lucky for me, soon that dreaded dumpling was forgotten!

Heading Home
by
Gerry Niskern
Are you planning on flying home for Christmas? Millions of travelers are planning their schedules, checking their flights daily. Everything could change in a minute with the powerful winter storm barreling across the U. S. It’s tough.
I’m reminded of a trip our family made to see both families in West Virginia in December of l946. The war was over and gasoline had been released to the public again. People were overjoyed. They could make the trek home once again to enjoy the love, warmth and share family memories. Air travel wasn’t even considered for most.
The trip from Phoenix to the Ohio River Valley took five days. We were lucky. Dad drove our little four door black Plymouth thru bitter cold states with snow on the ground but no storms. We did break down in Brownsville, Texas, and had to spend the day waiting for the local garage to get the part needed from another town.
I remember singing carols along with the radio to pass the time. “The Old Lamp Lighter” accompanied us towards home. We made it to Moundsville by Christmas.
I also remember my cousins taking me roller skating every evening. There was a rink in every town and we hit them all. “Couples only” was fun and they played “Christmas Island” always for that round.
We walked back to my Grandma’s from the local rink sometimes and spent the evenings listening to the adults recalling family stories while watching the purple, red, yellow and blue flumes sputtering from the coal fire in the grate.
Bad weather was threatening the morning we headed home. Mother nature was getting serious now. A young friend of my sisters was going to ride to Phoenix with us. She was going to begin nurses training at St. Joseph’s Hospital so Dad had extra responsibility heading West.
He took the Southern route, but my vivid memories were of driving thru snow flurries and the radio announcer telling us it was 106* as we drove into Dallas, Texas. Around midnight we were looking for a motel, the vision was bad, and suddenly the blinding light of a train coming around a bend was bearing down on us. Dad stepped on the gas and we shot across the tracks.
The next morning our somber group drove on across the rest of Texas and New Mexico as we saw cars stuck in snow banks everywhere . I have to think that Dad’s experience driving on the icy roads with “hair pin turns” in the West Virginia hills had prepared him for that icy highway home.
The “Old Lamp Lighter” was still with us as we crossed into Arizona and headed into the sunshine of home.

Christmas is a time for families to get together and tell the familiar old stories. Here’s a good one from our family’s beginning.
“Now, That’s a Story!”
By
Gerry Niskern

One of my most memorable nights actually started at eight in the morning.
I woke up suddenly and realized the alarm hadn’t gone off and I was going to be late for work. Starting to turn my head to wake Ken, I was hit with a paralyzing pain. Something was wrong. I couldn’t turn my head or move any part of my body. It hurt too bad.
I called out to him and he came around to my side and tried to help me up, but I was in such pain we stopped. I don’t know why but my scared, young husband decided the best thing for him to do was make me some breakfast. “Stay in bed. I’m going to fix you something to eat.” He made some scrambled eggs, the first and only time he cooked in our marriage. I couldn’t get even a bite down.
I was four months pregnant with our daughter. Ken then calmed down and said, “ We are going over to St. Josephs emergency right now.” He helped me dress and I leaned on him as he half carried me to the car.
The examination indicated the pain was radiating from the appendix area. However, when the blood test came back the blood count was normal. There was no sign of infection. Various doctors, including Dr. Craig, our family doctor, were consulted. They gave me something for the pain and I fell in and out of sleep as the day wore on.
I woke up once and my mother was there. I realized Ken was hold my hand in a tight grip. A hospital doctor came in and said “It’s complicated. Your baby has camped on your right side and won’t move. It is crowding the appendix and causing unusual pressure. We need to remove the appendix.” Then he said, very clearly,” You need to understand that the shock of the anesthetic could cause an abortion. You need to be prepared for that.”
I remember someone saying it was ten o’clock and they were waiting for Dr. Craig. And I was asleep again
Suddenly I was awakened by bright lights. I was in the operating room. My most vivid memory of that exciting night was of me frantically searching the faces above me that were moving in and out of view. I was determined to stay awake and to speak to Dr. Craig. I finally saw him come into view. “ Don’t forget”, I pleaded, “I’m having a baby.” His eyes twinkled above his mask as he replied, ”Yes, dear. I know”.
Then a voice told me to start counting backwards from 100.
Over the years, our kids asked me to tell that amazing story over and over again. “Tell us about the time that Daddy made scrambled eggs!”

Where are the Ukrainian Children?
By
Gerry Niskern
We’ve all heard stories about the Russians taking Ukrainian children during the fighting in Ukraine. According to a recent column by Kris Kristoff the Ukrainian government count at least 11,000 kids known by name taken in the Russian controlled territories. They estimate there are thousands more not identified, with less detail.
Sometimes the parents were told they were just taking them to a safer place and they would be returned. Many were removed from boarding schools and hospitals without the parents knowledge. The parents have tried unsuccessfully to get their children back. But the Russian authorities have demanded paper work impossible to provide as homes and records have been destroyed. Some have already been adopted into Russian families.
When I read these accounts I am reminded of stories I heard years ago during WWII when I was around twelve or so, Mom’s kid brother, Uncle Harry was an electrician on a tanker In the U. S. Navy. Tankers were giant floating fuel stations that serviced all the ships in the U. S. Navy. One German U-boat torpedo and the whole ship could go up in flames. When Uncle Harry was discharged he came to stay with our family before going home to W.VA. He told us about the many places he had seen during the Atlantic campaign and then the Pacific. When asked about the navel battles, he would just drop his head and shrug.
Normally I wasn’t paying much attention, but one day something caught my attention. He was pretty emotional when he told the story.
You see, his ship was the first ship to enter Russian waters after the war was declared over. They sailed into the harbor at Vladivostok in Siberia. Harry was designated the ship’s interpreter and was the liaison officer between the Russian officials and his ship’s captain. He had more freedom to look around and the sight that distressed him so much was the unloading of shipload after shipload of young children, alone without any parents. He cried as he talked about the hundreds of children herded off Russian ships. They had been picked up in Europe and brought around to Siberia. When they disembarked they were marched inland immediately. They were probably used for slave labor. I’m sure they never saw their homeland again.
So yes, Russia does kidnap children.
Stealing another country’s children is a war crime.

Hard times thanksgiving
By
Gerry Niskern
The best word to describe my earliest memory of Thanksgiving is tension, lots of tension.
Standing with our faces pressed against the cold glass of the dining room window, all Mom and I saw was a lacy curtain of swirling snowflakes. She twisted her apron round and round into a knot as she muttered to herself.
A few days earlier my Dad came home and announced he had invited his boss, who was going to be in town during Thanksgiving week, to our turkey dinner. I don’t remember their conversation, but I imagine it went something like this: “Why on earth did you do that? You know I’ve never cooked a turkey dinner!” Mom declared.
“Honey, I couldn’t get out of it. And he said he was bringing his rifle because he’s hoping we can get in a little hunting before dinner.”
“You can’t go. Your leg can’t take that right now. You know the doctor said to stay off of it as much as possible.”
“ I had no choice. I had to extend the invitation and if he still wants to go hunting, I’ll just have to take him. I’ll be careful.”
Dad suffered from a serious accident in his teenage years and had to stand on crutches doing his work as an industrial engineer. He didn’t want to let on to his supervisor and also mentor, on the new project, that he wasn’t in condition to do his job. It was the Depression and if you had a good job, you guarded it fiercely.
My mother had no experience with cooking turkey dinners because her family didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving when she was growing up. I remember the story she told us about rushing home to tell my Austrian grandma about the wonderful American holiday called Thanksgiving she learned of in school that day. “We have to celebrate Thanksgiving. You have to cook a turkey, and lots of good pies too!” she informed grandma. “ That’s how we give thanks for our many blessings in this country.”
Grandma agreed to cook a special big dinner, “but I no buy turkey. We have chickens.” She declared. “And you no give thanks for your blessings on one day, you always give thanks every day.”
So on that day of my earliest memory of Thanksgiving I helped my mother set the table with her best table cloth and brand new set of Fiesta Ware. The bright green, blue, yellow and orange plates waited patiently on the dining table to receive the turkey that was already getting cold, gravy too thick from simmering forever, and the mashed potatoes that had lost their fluff long ago.
As Mom and I stood at the window and strained to see through that West Virginia “white out” I remember vividly the tears in her eyes as she was saying, over and over, “If he’s got himself lost in this blizzard, I’ll kill him!”’