Two American Families
By
Gerry Niskern
“That’s the last bag”, my young friend yelled, as she flung a bag of sweet oranges on top of the huge pile on my patio table. She has been picking my lone tree every January since she was nine years old. She is now fourteen but still needs her mom and dad to help with the top most branches. They aways come but won’t accept any pay. After all, this is her project.
This family is one of two Mexican American families that I count as friends. They are part of our diverse community. Their other daughter graduated from college last year after attending on a full scholastic scholarship. The young orange picker attends an Honors Academy. She also helped me learn to navigate my new iPad last year! We exchange Christmas gifts and this caring family has helped me many, many times since my husband died.
The other Mexican family I’ve known even longer.We met the mother when she was a teenage hostess at a local restaurant. She was brought to the United States when she was four years old. She has raised two sons with her husband, who is a construction worker. Their boys both graduated college. They are now grandparents and she and I go to lunch often. We exchange stories about her kids and my grandkids.
We all know this country was built on the labor of immigrants, many millions of them undocumented. When my grandparents came here in the 1880’s, immigrants were asked to sign a “letter of intent” :meaning that they intended to become U. S. citizens someday. Many followed thru and many didn’t. How many people can say they have actually seen their grandparents citizenship papers?
Many undocumented laborers have lived and worked here in this country for generations. They have bought homes, raised families, were good citizens paying taxes on everything, including payroll tax. My friends know their rights, but those seem not to matter anymore, with ICE raids getting worse with masked men grabbing people and throwing them into unmarked cars. With the telephone numbers available, it takes days for their families to make contact and get information.
We have THE BILL OF RIGHTS for a reason. Basic constitutional rights can’t be voted away in one election. Everyone one is entitled to Due Process.
On this Labor Day, in 2025, we need to think about all the workers who have contributed to this nation of ours. Millions should not have to live in fear in their own homes.
It is not fair. It is not right.

One Day in August
By
Gerry Niskern
“Do you remember what you were doing the day the war in the Pacific started?” I was surprised by that question from my new doctor, but I answered quickly. “ Sure, it was a Sunday morning in December and I was trying to practice a song for a Christmas program with a neighbor on the piano. Her husband kept turning the news on the radio up louder and louder and when she asked him to turn it down, he turned it louder still.” Of course he did. Pearl Harbor had just been attacked. We were at war!
I was nine years old. I remember going to school the next day and learning that a friend’s brother was stationed aboard the USS Arizona that sank at Pearl Harbor. I remember my cousin Billy, 18, immediately joining the Marines and going to fight in the Pacific. We soon learned that Uncle Joe who was a gunner on a destroyer was ordered from the Atlantic campaign to the Pacific battle, without a leave in between. His younger brother, Uncle Harry, was serving on a tanker in the navy too.
This past week marked the 80th year since the United States dropped the Atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Much was written and televised about those momentous days this week. The devastation to the Japanese in those cities was unbelievable and staggering. Thankfully, no country has suffered the fate of the bomb since that infamous day in August, l945. Right now, nine countries around the world possess nuclear weapons. Many world wide organizations actively oppose nuclear weapons and Japan is a leader among them.
The Japanese started their war of aggression against neighboring countries in the Asia Pacific area in l93l. It culminated in their attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii on December 7, l941. 111,606 U.S. servicemen were killed in the war that lasted almost four years. Without the bomb our country was facing many more months of death and destruction.
Then, when I was thirteen, I have vivid memories of people out in the streets, laughing and crying. The Japanese had surrendered. The war was over. On that day in August a Jeep load of young guys, from Luke Field, training to be fighter pilots, pulled up in front of our house, laughing and yelling to my older sister and a group of girls they had been dating, “The war over. We’re going home!”

Two Precious Dimes
By
Gerry Niskern
It’s a whole new world out there! Nothing is like it used to be! Young people to day don’t value traditions!
Sound familiar? We’ve all heard those laments by friends on the state of our culture today. And of course, a whole lot has changed in today’s traditions and ways of celebrating our life’s milestones.
Young people are looking at the old traditions with fresh eyes and deciding how to fit them into their own puzzle called life. We have all enjoyed the sense of comfort that comes with belonging to a family or group that gave us stabililty with simple traditions carried on year after year.
When I was a kid the whole extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins came out to our farm on every Sunday afternoon and brought their ice cream freezers, along with large blocks of ice. We furnished the milk and fruit: peaches, strawberries and apricots. The women mixed and then the men cranked and cranked and cranked. But, boy, was it worth it! What a summer tradition.
I ‘m sure you could name many more rituals that have continued, and yet changed. Have you ever received a birthday or Christmas card with a little money it for you? Another tradition that most families have.
The other day my great-grandson told me I would be getting a card soon from his daughter. When they were visiting a Farmer’s Market she was fascinated with a lady who was selling cards she had decorated with Swedish designs. “I’d like to send Grandma Gerry one of those cards,” she commented. The 7 year old wrote a message and they sent it to me. I was throwing the envelope away when I reallzed there was something clinking inside. Unbeknownest to her Daddy, she had slipped in two of her precious dimes for me.
I’m not worried. Our family’s traditions are in good hands.

“Don’t worry, the rain is coming”

By

Gerry Niskern

(This column from the Arizona Republic seems appropriate again!)
Well, it didn’t happen on the 4th, but it’s coming!

It’s late this year, and worrisome. We usually have a first big storm by the Fourth of July. But, relax, it’s coming, and it always comes with a bang! Here are some memories of past wet summers many years ago. Enjoy.
One day, years ago it was raining so hard I could hardly see them out on the sidewalk. One toddler ran by, laughing, the feet of his soggy sleepers slapping the pavement. Baby brother came into sight; his drenched diaper, laden with rainwater, dragging behind. Big sister in pink pajamas led the parade of upturned, wet faces squealing with the joy at the rain that had finally come after a long period of despair.
That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. On the days my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came, as always, sometime in July.
We have had years of drought and years of unbelievable rains. That summer, before the rains came, the huge dust storms, the weathermen now call them Haboobs, left an inch layer of dirt on the bottom of everyone’s pool. The kids begged to swim, so I became an expert at pool vacuuming…every single morning!
The thunderstorms that sometimes come tearing thru the valley create havoc, but just manage to give everyone’s grass a good soaking. It’s hard to believe, but sometimes we do get too much precipitation.
Years ago, in the l940’s when I was a kid, the rain finally came and drenched the parched ground, but didn’t stop. The Cave Creek Dam finally broke. The railroad tracks along Nineteenth Ave dammed the water. The residential area around the Arizona State Capitol building had heavy flooding. We kids, in the blissful ignorance of childhood, just enjoyed riding our bikes through the knee high water flowing curb to curb in the streets. We didn’t realize that most of the businesses were sandbagged and the Capitol basement had flooded.
We were even treated to our first look at an U. S. Army amphibious vehicle. The Seventeenth Avenue underpass was flooded too and the kids all watched in awe as a group of soldiers came down the street and drove right through the deep water.
I’ll never forget my dad returning from hiking alone on South Mountain. He was caught in a downpour so hard that he said, “I couldn’t see or breathe. I was really beginning to panic!”
I remember a neighbor at that time telling my folks, “Back in l938, the Salt River really overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water back and all of central Phoenix was in danger of being flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”
One other summer, when my kids were in their teens, around 1970, we lived in a different neighborhood and the rains were again unrelenting. The ground was saturated and one Saturday morning police drove through the area shouting on loud speakers, “Attention, Prepare to evacuate!” Arizona Canal just North a few blocks of us was starting to overflow its banks
The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they will surely nourish our spirits.
Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain above me, mixed with the pungent smell of desert grass below will be like heaven as I watch the rabbits and quail scurrying for shelter from the rain that is sure to come soon.

“Don’t worry, the rain is coming”

By

Gerry Niskern

(This column from the Arizona Republic seems appropriate again!)
Well, it didn’t happen on the 4th, but it’s coming!

It’s late this year, and worrisome. We usually have a first big storm by the Fourth of July. But, relax, it’s coming, and it always comes with a bang! Here are some memories of past wet summers many years ago. Enjoy.
One day, years ago it was raining so hard I could hardly see them out on the sidewalk. One toddler ran by, laughing, the feet of his soggy sleepers slapping the pavement. Baby brother came into sight; his drenched diaper, laden with rainwater, dragging behind. Big sister in pink pajamas led the parade of upturned, wet faces squealing with the joy at the rain that had finally come after a long period of despair.
That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. On the days my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came, as always, sometime in July.
We have had years of drought and years of unbelievable rains. That summer, before the rains came, the huge dust storms, the weathermen now call them Haboobs, left an inch layer of dirt on the bottom of everyone’s pool. The kids begged to swim, so I became an expert at pool vacuuming…every single morning!
The thunderstorms that sometimes come tearing thru the valley create havoc, but just manage to give everyone’s grass a good soaking. It’s hard to believe, but sometimes we do get too much precipitation.
Years ago, in the l940’s when I was a kid, the rain finally came and drenched the parched ground, but didn’t stop. The Cave Creek Dam finally broke. The railroad tracks along Nineteenth Ave dammed the water. The residential area around the Arizona State Capitol building had heavy flooding. We kids, in the blissful ignorance of childhood, just enjoyed riding our bikes through the knee high water flowing curb to curb in the streets. We didn’t realize that most of the businesses were sandbagged and the Capitol basement had flooded.
We were even treated to our first look at an U. S. Army amphibious vehicle. The Seventeenth Avenue underpass was flooded too and the kids all watched in awe as a group of soldiers came down the street and drove right through the deep water.
I’ll never forget my dad returning from hiking alone on South Mountain. He was caught in a downpour so hard that he said, “I couldn’t see or breathe. I was really beginning to panic!”
I remember a neighbor at that time telling my folks, “Back in l938, the Salt River really overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water back and all of central Phoenix was in danger of being flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”
One other summer, when my kids were in their teens, around 1970, we lived in a different neighborhood and the rains were again unrelenting. The ground was saturated and one Saturday morning police drove through the area shouting on loud speakers, “Attention, Prepare to evacuate!” Arizona Canal just North a few blocks of us was starting to overflow its banks
The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they will surely nourish our spirits.
Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain above me, mixed with the pungent smell of desert grass below will be like heaven as I watch the rabbits and quail scurrying for shelter from the rain that is sure to come soon.

“Don’t worry, the rain is coming”

By

Gerry Niskern

(This column from the Arizona Republic seems appropriate again!)
Well, it didn’t happen on the 4th, but it’s coming!

It’s late this year, and worrisome. We usually have a first big storm by the Fourth of July. But, relax, it’s coming, and it always comes with a bang! Here are some memories of past wet summers many years ago. Enjoy.
One day, years ago it was raining so hard I could hardly see them out on the sidewalk. One toddler ran by, laughing, the feet of his soggy sleepers slapping the pavement. Baby brother came into sight; his drenched diaper, laden with rainwater, dragging behind. Big sister in pink pajamas led the parade of upturned, wet faces squealing with the joy at the rain that had finally come after a long period of despair.
That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. On the days my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came, as always, sometime in July.
We have had years of drought and years of unbelievable rains. That summer, before the rains came, the huge dust storms, the weathermen now call them Haboobs, left an inch layer of dirt on the bottom of everyone’s pool. The kids begged to swim, so I became an expert at pool vacuuming…every single morning!
The thunderstorms that sometimes come tearing thru the valley create havoc, but just manage to give everyone’s grass a good soaking. It’s hard to believe, but sometimes we do get too much precipitation.
Years ago, in the l940’s when I was a kid, the rain finally came and drenched the parched ground, but didn’t stop. The Cave Creek Dam finally broke. The railroad tracks along Nineteenth Ave dammed the water. The residential area around the Arizona State Capitol building had heavy flooding. We kids, in the blissful ignorance of childhood, just enjoyed riding our bikes through the knee high water flowing curb to curb in the streets. We didn’t realize that most of the businesses were sandbagged and the Capitol basement had flooded.
We were even treated to our first look at an U. S. Army amphibious vehicle. The Seventeenth Avenue underpass was flooded too and the kids all watched in awe as a group of soldiers came down the street and drove right through the deep water.
I’ll never forget my dad returning from hiking alone on South Mountain. He was caught in a downpour so hard that he said, “I couldn’t see or breathe. I was really beginning to panic!”
I remember a neighbor at that time telling my folks, “Back in l938, the Salt River really overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water back and all of central Phoenix was in danger of being flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”
One other summer, when my kids were in their teens, around 1970, we lived in a different neighborhood and the rains were again unrelenting. The ground was saturated and one Saturday morning police drove through the area shouting on loud speakers, “Attention, Prepare to evacuate!” Arizona Canal just North a few blocks of us was starting to overflow its banks
The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they will surely nourish our spirits.
Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain above me, mixed with the pungent smell of desert grass below will be like heaven as I watch the rabbits and quail scurrying for shelter from the rain that is sure to come soon.

My Two Moms
By
Gerry Niskern

I have two “Moms” these days. They are the quintessential idea of a mom. They are both nurturing and helpful, loving and kind.
One son drives a Mazda Miata sports car and the other drives a Blue Toyota Suv. One car is easy to get into and one sure isn’t. But they both often take me where I need to go. One son checks with me every day by phone, the other by text.
One orders my groceries (I flunked Instant Cart 101). The other son brings lunch. One likes to do repairs and improvements on my home, the other, not so much. They are helping me through a rough patch.

Their Dad was a good caregiver so they get it honest. He set the example a long time ago. I’m reminded of another rough time many years ago when I was in bed with “morning sickness” expecting son #2 and my 4 year daughter made me a toast with butter. She put it by my bed and went off to play. Her two year old brother slipped in and, thankfully, ate it.
I’m glad I got to be the mom of those three. It was fun.
So, HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! ….. and be grateful for whatever form your Mom comes in on MOTHERS DAY 2025!

“Easter”
By Gerry Niskern

How is your family spending Easter this year? Will you be taking a spring break trip? Will you have a big family reunion? Or is your family shopping for Easter outfits for Easter church service?
When I think of Easter Sunday different images come to mind. I remember a particular Sunday at the little country church back east that our family attended when I was a child.
Easter was early that year. Gusts of spring wind pushed the worshippers up the steep hill as we clutched armloads of flowers from our yards and nearby woods. Soon the sanctuary was filled with green and blue canning jars containing iris, tulips, lilacs and daises from the fields.
There were farmers in carefully brushed dark suits. Their wives wore cotton print dresses and sturdy shoes. Little girls in new Easter dresses sewn from the latest calico feed sacks came next. Big boys in clean overalls, wet hair slicked back from sun burned faces shuffled in last.
As I took my place on the front pew with the other children, I prayed that no one would notice the hat. It was my new pink straw sailor hat. Along with a turned up brim it had a large pink wooden bead on the top that secured the ribbon that tied under my chin. No such luck! The finger pointing and grins on the other kids faces told me the hat had been noticed. It would be putting it mildly to say I hated that hat, but my Mother operated on the premise that “if she didn’t have new Easter outfits when she was a child, by golly, her girls were going to.
When the church service was over and the Doxology had been sung, the adults gathered in small groups outside to discuss the prospects of a good spring rain. We kids usually played hide and seek among the tombstones in the side yard. When a friend, one of the little farm girls, asked to try my hat on, I willing obliged. Just as she reached out to take it, a strong gust of wind whipped it from my hand. The pink straw went spiraling down the hill. We raced to the wall in time to see it skip under the wheels of a dairy truck passing on RR #2.
When I went to bed that night and knelt to say my prayers, I added something extra. “Thank you, for our good Easter day, and especially for the fine wind!”

Hitch’n with Uber
By
Gerry Niskern
As we neared my destination I asked the Uber driver to pull around and let me off in front of the store where the carts are lined up. After stopping , he leaped out of the car, declaring “I will get you a cart!” As I was gathering my things and slowly getting out I heard him shout loudly, “No!No!No! That is her cart!” I looked up to see two women, eyes as “big as saucers” hastily drawing their hands away from the cart he had pulled out and scurrying away. It wasn’t funny to the women, I’m sure, but actually, It was funny! That driver was an exception. He was very enthusiastic about his job, unlike many others.
A good example would be the first Uber I ever called. Several years ago after knee surgery I couldn’t drive and texted my first Uber. I just barely had time to get to a specialist who was squeezing me into his schedule. After expressing my concern about the unusual long wait for the ride, I expressed my concern as I got into the car. Suddenly, the large Black man driving, pounded his fist on the ceiling of the car and declared, “First of all, we need an attitude adjustment!” as he started down the street.
I made the mistake of mentioning the time again and he slammed on the brakes, pounded the ceiling and said, “Do you want me to turn this car around or continue and get you there on time?”.
I was driving myself for several more years until recently when I had to give up my car and totally rely on rides. Both of my sons take me often, but many other times I take Uber. The phone app has improved, and I’ve had many interesting conversations with drivers from every country you can name.
I like to ride in front and my conversations with drivers from other countries has been amazing. I remember an Irishman comparing his country’s holiday to ours. I loved listening to his lilting Irish brogue. He carried my bags full of presents to the door and wished me a Happy Christmas with my family.
One Senior driver from Romania told me he had spent many months in a Refugee camp in Austria after I told him that my grandparents had immigrated from Austria many years ago. “So you have some good cooking,” I remarked, when he said his wife was here too. “Oh yes, we never go to your American restaurants” he replied. “We stay at home and have good food.”
I’ve had drivers from Morocco, Pakistan, South Africa, Thailand. You name it. They almost always tell me they are married and have young children. They also are usually working another job. They work long days to provide a better life for their families. It is not an easy job

Hitch’n with Uber
By
Gerry Niskern
As we neared my destination I asked the Uber driver to pull around and let me off in front of the store where the carts are lined up. After stopping , he leaped out of the car, declaring “I will get you a cart!” As I was gathering my things and slowly getting out I heard him shout loudly, “No!No!No! That is her cart!” I looked up to see two women, eyes as “big as saucers” hastily drawing their hands away from the cart he had pulled out and scurrying away. It wasn’t funny to the women, I’m sure, but actually, It was funny! That driver was an exception. He was very enthusiastic about his job, unlike many others.
A good example would be the first Uber I ever called. Several years ago after knee surgery I couldn’t drive and texted my first Uber. I just barely had time to get to a specialist who was squeezing me into his schedule. After expressing my concern about the unusual long wait for the ride, I expressed my concern as I got into the car. Suddenly, the large Black man driving, pounded his fist on the ceiling of the car and declared, “First of all, we need an attitude adjustment!” as he started down the street.
I made the mistake of mentioning the time again and he slammed on the brakes, pounded the ceiling and said, “Do you want me to turn this car around or continue and get you there on time?”.
I was driving myself for several more years until recently when I had to give up my car and totally rely on rides. Both of my sons take me often, but many other times I take Uber. The phone app has improved, and I’ve had many interesting conversations with drivers from every country you can name.
I like to ride in front and my conversations with drivers from other countries has been amazing. I remember an Irishman comparing his country’s holiday to ours. I loved listening to his lilting Irish brogue. He carried my bags full of presents to the door and wished me a Happy Christmas with my family.
One Senior driver from Romania told me he had spent many months in a Refugee camp in Austria after I told him that my grandparents had immigrated from Austria many years ago. “So you have some good cooking,” I remarked, when he said his wife was here too. “Oh yes, we never go to your American restaurants” he replied. “We stay at home and have good food.”
I’ve had drivers from Morocco, Pakistan, South Africa, Thailand. You name it. They almost always tell me they are married and have young children. They also are usually working another job. They work long days to provide a better life for their families. It is not an easy job