The First Goodbye
By
Gerry Niskern
( My creative memoir writing group recently wrote about their most difficult goodby. Here is my essay based on a letter I wrote to Ken on our 50th wedding anniversary.)

Right after our family moved to Arizona I saw a boy walking down the sidewalk in front of our house. He had dark, wavy hair and was wearing a funny little hat with lots of pins all over it. And he was whistling….there was something about that boy!
When I started to my new school that fall, he was there. He was in the other fifth grade class. Then he disappeared. He turned up later at the last of the seventh grade. I invited him to our Girl Scout square dance. I rode on the cross bar of his Schwinn bike.
Years later, after many dates, proms, and precious time alone, we chose each other and committed to a life together. I promised to love him forever and he gave me three beautiful babies and was a loving and kind father to each one.
Years went by and one day after many doctors and tests I had to go with him to the hospital to check in for open heart surgery. At age 57 he had to have quadruple bypass surgery and the surgeon painted a very black picture. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, getting in our car to go that day. I knew I could be saying goodbye forever.
But, we were very lucky. We went on to share memories of every kind over many more years. There were countless homes, cars, jobs, kid’s crisis, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, surgeries and motor homes!
Life was never dull. He taught me many things. He supported me in my Art career and advised me on how to sell and deal with gallery owners. Later, he helped me with valley history in my column for the Arizona Republic. In other words, I could count on him. He was an easy companion who shared his thoughts, interests and dreams.
Throughout our marriage there was one never changing constant…he was a kind, patient, gentle yet exciting lover.
I’m grateful for the years that we got to share after that first goodbye in the hospital all those many years ago because when the end came suddenly and without warning, I did not get to say goodbye to “that whistling boy with the funny little hat”.

I Never Looked Back
By
Gerry Niskern

No Vaccines! Lets take another look at l957 again!

When my five year old daughter dashed out and climbed into the Kindergarten van back in September, l957, I envisioned her bringing home lots of interesting things to show me and her little brothers. I was happy for her. It was going to be a great year.
Well, She brought things home all right. The first thing was Chicken Pox. First, she gave it to Mark her little three year old brother. Three weeks later the baby broke out. Kathy and Matthew, the new baby, only had a few pox, but Mark, the three year old, was totally covered. He became so sick with a 104 degree fever that we rushed him to St. Joes emergency one night and the ER doctor explained: “ when kids get this covered they have as many inside as outside!” Baby aspirin and trips to the doctor became our new lifestyle.
Next Kathy came home with the Red measles. The brothers caught it several days apart. Just as the first child was feeling better, the second one would come down. And so it went, week after week.
Later around Christmas time we took time off from our schedule of having all the childhood diseases to fit in the Asian Flu. In l957 the Asian flu emerged, triggering a pandemic. The whole family had that; me and Ken too. By that time I hadn’t slept for months, at least it seemed that way. Their daddy was trying to help, but still had to get to work every day.
Everybody, baby included, finished up with a case of Strep Throat in time to celebrate Easter. We had the usual Easter egg hunt at the crack of dawn in our yard to see what the Bunny had brought, then church, and afterward a visit to one set of grandparents for lunch. Of course, later we were expected for the rest of the day at the other grandparents.
I had developed a touch of Bronchitis and suddenly that holiday evening I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic and hyperventilate and managed to partially paralyze myself. Ken hurried me down to Good Sam and they called our family doctor who had been our constant companion thru that winter; so wouldn’t he want to join us on Easter too?
The nurses got me calmed down a little and then I saw Dr. Craig striding quickly down the hallway, the overhead lights glinting off his glasses. I kept saying over and over to him, “tell them what’s been happening!”
He pulled out his Lucky Strike, lit up, and glanced at the chart. He took one look at me and said “ Get her a private room.” Then he turned to Ken and said,
“She’s staying here for a while and getting some rest. Don’t let anyone know she is here, except her mother.”
I stayed five days in my own room in a blissful blanket of quiet and did nothing but sleep. A huge, ‘Mother of all vaporizers’ murmured soft puffs of moist air beside my bed as I slept. When Dr. Craig came to sign me out I remember him muttering to himself, between drags on his cigarette as he slowly studied my chart, “Lets see. How can I word this so the guys in the ivory tower will cover it?”
When my frazzled young husband came to take me home that morning he whispered to me, laughing, “ I’ve got to tell you this. When I was trying to talk to Kathy and Mark about you, and explaining that they should try to not aggravate you, Mark said, “But daddy, she’s the mom and if we want to aggravate her, we can aggravate her.”
I got home just in time for Kathy’s next big surprise. I noticed her jawline looking strange. As time went by I realized she was swelling up with the mumps. And of course, right on schedule, a week or so later Mark started swelling and then Matthew the baby. More sleepless nights with high fevers and lots of baby aspirin all around.
Bit the fevers weren’t going down. Guess what. The German measles had joined the mix. More days and nights of very sick kids.
Then days later as I was giving my very busy mother a “triage” report, I mentioned that everyone’s fever was gone and they were all playing and seemed okay; just a little funny looking with swollen, rash covered faces. “Their daddy says we have three ‘purple-people-eaters’!
I received a surprise call from Mom the next morning, a Friday. “Pack a suitcase. I’m coming over this afternoon and when Ken gets home you two take off and don’t come back till Sunday evening. The kids will be fine with me”.
When she arrived I “hit the door running” and never looked back.

All the books that I was allowed to finish
By
Gerry Niskern
“I read the whole book. It was so good. I liked the little dog best”, I happily announced to my teacher. Surprise! I received an embarrassing scolding for reading ahead of the two pages assigned.
Looking back, I realize we didn’t have any other books in the classroom and Miss Mary Jane Crow was planning on spending a lot of time on that first grade reader.
At home I read the comics in the newspaper, and of course, everything else I could make out too. When we passed the library building down in town I was fascinated to learn that it was full of books and you could borrow them! I was too shy to ask to go in.
I was ten when we moved to Phoenix and I discovered the Carnegie Library on West Washington. It was only ten blocks from our house but Mom was hesitant to let me go alone. I begged my older sister to go with me, but she had just discovered the teenage boy down the street.
Children were not allowed in the main room. I was directed to go around the side of the big red brick building to the entrance to the basement, the children’s department. The red side door welcomed me and I began my adventures of reading every single book in that huge basement. There is no other way to describe the feeling of pure joy each time I looked at those shelves of books.
I staggered home with armloads of books every week. In the summer I walked over in the cool evening. I didn’t realize that I was acquiring knowledge of the world and its traditions. My imagination was developing and creating my own images of the stories. I was developing empathy, creativity and gaining vocabulary too.
I read every book in the girl’s section, and of course my favorite was the “Little House” series. I started on the boys area and finished it too. Then, all I could do was wait; wait until my twelfth birthday. Then I would be allowed to take out a card in the adult section upstairs.
The quiet room was overwhelming. Beautiful polished hardwood floors called for tiptoe. Looking up, “I’m twelve now and I would like to have an adult library card, please.” I whispered to the little while haired lady sitting at the high counter. At last, I could read any book I wanted and I carried several volumes home that day.
I was thirteen when the war was over and many heart wrenching books were written by people who actually experienced the war. I read those books and learned more about history than any movie could have shown.
Of course, later on, after I was married, I was still voraciously reading. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that as a young mother I balanced my current book on my lap along with my babies as I fed them.
My great-great-granddaughter is in first grade and has fallen in love with reading. At Christmas I gave her the complete set of the “Little House” books. I Think the poor kid already knows she is only going to receive books from this grandmother.

(FAVORITE BOOKS: When I started w/c painting my bible was a book on composition and design by Whitney. And as with any class, I learned you need to “Hit the books” if you really want to excel. My go -to book for writing was called “The Elements of Style” by Stroud.

Ask the Kids
By
Gerry Niskern
NOTE: In my Memoir Writing Workshop this week we wrote about how our personalities had changed since childhood. Lots of interesting essays. Here’s mine.

I was almost three when my dad lifted me up to stand beside the pulpit of our church and announced, “Gerry is going to recite the Methodist’s Creed.” And I did!
I wasn’t shy because that wasn’t the only time I was encouraged to recite from memory. My uncles in my mother’s family were all coal miners and they delighted in standing me on a chair when my Republic dad came to pick me up and getting me to shout “ Yea, Roosevelt!” or “Vote FDR”, back in l935.
Then for some reason, I became extremely, painfully shy the rest of my childhood. Even thru high school, I remember taking a lower grade in classes that required giving a report in front of the class. I worked hard to overcome that personality trait. Even as a stay-at-mom I volunteered to give the program in organizations I joined, even though I dreaded it. I pushed myself to overcome the trait.
Eventually I took some drawing classes and also became interested in painting. I concentrated on design and composition in watercolor and created unusually large pieces. I worked hard building a successful career dealing with gallery owners. After many one -man shows and Art Expos I realized I had dropped the shyness somewhere along the way. Of course, many experiences over the years as a mother had helped, but I’m sure it was the personal achievements in the art world that boosted my self- esteem.
As I wrote this chapter and tried to pin point the changes in my personality I realized something. I would ask the people who knew me best, my kids. I asked them to tell me in a sentence or two what change they had noticed in my personality over the years.
My younger son said, “That’s easy. You became more liberal.”
My older son said, “ You haven’t changed. You’ve just become more of what you were.”
Then I asked my daughter, the oldest, to give me a comment or two. She said, “Oh, you’ve changed so many times.” She said she would get back to me. As time was getting short to write something I reminded her a couple of times and she finally said, “I don’t think I have 400 words but here goes. I think you were born to be a mom. When I was younger I didn’t think so, but now I know you really were. Then when you started selling your paintings I saw a big change in how you acted. You were so assertive!”
When I asked her why she wrote 400 words, she said she thought she was supposed to, like my writing group. We had the best laugh we’ve had together in a long time over that mistake!
But this oldest child, a woman, had been paying attention over the years. She went on to say “I remember one change, after you began writing your column for the Arizona Republic. You came home one day, got out of the car and marched over to the For Sale sign in our yard, yanked it out and flung it into the garbage can. Then you announced, ‘We are not moving anymore.’
Dad didn’t know what hit him!” she laughed.
Little girls always pay more attention to the family dynamics.

“Make your Ethical Will now!”

By

Gerry Niskern

We’ve just celebrated the beginning of a new year and our country is getting ready to swear in a new president.
What better time to stop and consider the ethics and morals that your family has always believed in and practiced

HAVE YOU MADE YOUR ETHICAL WILL YET?

Actually, ethical wills have been around for a long time, but are becoming more popular. The Hebrew Bible first described ethical wills 3000 years ago. References to this tradition are also found in the Christian Bible and in other cultures, including Islam.
Ethical wills are a way to share your values, not just your valuables. You can communicate your hopes and dreams for the future generations of your family. Your morals, regrets and yes, your opinions, are included. . The wills are usually written by people at a turning point in their lives. Such as when they are facing challenges or transition periods.
It is not a legal document; rather it is a record of your nonrepresentational wealth. Although parents would like to see their children financially provided for, they also would like to leave some philosophical provisions as well. After all, what else can we give our children but who we are?
Of course, I’m sure you are thinking, as I am, of the many phrases uttered by parents or grandparents you heard while growing up. One of my mother’s favorites comes to mind, “Be kind and respectful to the elderly; life is hard”. When I would argue, “But Mom, what if they are not nice to me”, she always replied, “That doesn’t matter, we still respect the old.”
Or perhaps one of my grandmother’s admonishments, “Don’t go where you no belong”. Her command of English was not good, but her advice still serves a purpose in our family. These samples are not exactly an ethical will, but certainly the makings of one.
Writing an ethical will does not require enormous learning or wisdom. It’s what you have to give. Every will is as unique as the person writing it, but there are common themes. Personal values are important to mention, as well as “life lessons learned.” Families are mentioned again and again in the samples I’ve read. “ Take care of the family, value the family, and even instructions on how to maintain the goodness of the family.”
Some people may have trouble creating their ethical wills. Here are four suggestions. The first is to make a list and use an outline. There are both software and books that can provide these outlines and resources.
Second, you might write down your thoughts and opinions, knowledge and insight you learned from significant people in your life.
Third, start keeping a journal, over a period of time, themes will emerge that you can use in drafting your ethical will.
The fourth involves getting professional help. An experienced writer can help you express your thoughts, feelings and beliefs in writing. For a modest fee, they can explore your values and opinions with you and provide a document for your approval.
Many newlyweds sit down and share their values in ethical wills. It doesn’t matter whether you are an engaged couple, new parents, divorcing, empty nesters, or end of lifers; there’s no time like the present. Not everyone can pass along a financial legacy, but everybody can transmit some of the richness of life by creating an ethical will. You have lived and learned and have feelings to pass on. Just be yourself. Open your heart and write.
It will be a gift that your family will cherish.

The Great North Phoenix Jewelry Heist
By
Gerry Niskern
Suddenly, they were gone! My inter-locking Diamond engagement and wedding rings were not on my finger.
“No worries,” I thought. I always put them on the bathroom counter when I showered and put them back on before I got into bed. But when I forgot they would be there in the morning.
I’d had a hard time going to sleep the night before because I kept hearing little rustling sounds when I started to doze off. So I just decided to go have a cup of tea and watch TV for a while. Of course, the tea called for a cookie too. Mine were hidden away in the freezer; Pepperidge Farm oatmeal and raisin. When TV lulled me back to sleepiness I went back to bed.
The next morning when I went to put my rings on, they were gone! “That can’t be!” I thought. “that’s where I always leave them. This can’t be happening!” I frantically searched the house, over and over and then I remembered something!
A few years ago, at my other house on the mountainside, around the corner, I had a little pack rat carry off one of my hearing aids that I’d left on a low table in the living room. My exterminator found it under the couch, the tiny wire almost chewed into. We’d only had mice occasionally, but as he explained, pack rats are drawn to shiny objects.
So now I just knew my rings had to be in the house, hidden away in some little pack rat’s hideaway.
My son, came over brought traps and did a thorough search of the house and trash container too.My landlady came and checked some special places . After a few days, veryone said you might as well turn the loss into your insurance company.
It was a monetary loss, but more importantly, an intrinsic loss. You see, my mother’s diamond ring and mine had been combined to form a beautiful, meaningful set. And I hated to give up on them. I started to call my insurance, then I decided to console myself with a cookie first and think about it.
I opened the freezer door, took out the Pepperidge Farm bag and started trying to reach down to a cookie past the annoying paper holders they used in those bags. And, felt something, pulled it out, and I was staring at my rings.
So, evidently, they had come off when I had the first cookie a few nights earlier. And when I noticed them gone that night I mistakenly thought, “Oh, they are on the bath counter.”
So the little pack rats in this mountain side neighborhood need to know “You are always guilty until proven innocent!

“Try to go COLD TURKEY for Thanksgiving?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Millions of kids will miss out on the fun over Thanksgiving weekend. Grouchy or misguided grownup spoilsports will put a damper on the day. When asked to “Please pass the potatoes”, they will send the dish along with a generous helping of politics.

Here’s a suggestion. Tell your guests “We’re going “cold turkey” on politics today.” Remind them that the election is over, and today is the day to count their blessings. Appoint someone to be your political police. Give them authority to immediately banish from the table political junkies who mention the recent election.

Ask your guests to name something for which they are thankful. Tell everyone that we have the freedom to celebrate our traditions or change them, as we wish. Advise them to nurture and cherish that freedom. Mention that the pilgrims celebrated their freedom in their new country with the Indians who helped them survive their first winter. Remind the cooks that at the Pilgrim’s first Thanksgiving, Governor Bradford invited Chief Massasoit to share the settler’s first Thanksgiving feast. The chief brought ninety warriors with him and they stayed and celebrated for three days! Makes cooking for ten or fifteen seem easy, doesn’t it?

Actually, the first official Thanksgiving in the United States was proclaimed by Abraham Lincoln on October 3, l863, as the Civil War raged in this country. The thought of the Pilgrims and Indians once sitting together in harmony was comforting to this nation during that time of war.

Our ancestors started the tradition of sharing food and games with family and friends on the first Thanksgiving and I think you will agree, it’s up to all of us to keep and cherish those family customs. I promise you the investment of precious time and borrowed energy will set in motion a chain reaction of harmony for years to come. It’s a celebration of life with a group of people more precious than life itself.

When our kids and grandkids look back on thanksgiving, 2024, I hope they remember everything good about the day. They will remember the heavenly smell of the bird roasting in the oven, the taste of sweet potatoes and who really won the game, the guys or the girl’s team.

“NOTHING FAIR ABOUT STATUES”

By

Gerry Niskern

A wise author once said, “You can only write about war by writing one soldier’s story.” I’d like to go back in Arizona history and tell you about two Arizona war heroes. Lt. Frank Luke Jr. and Sgt. Sylvestre Herrera, who both received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Luke’s was awarded posthumously after WWI and Hererra, during WWII, was the first living Arizona Congressional Medal of Honor recipient.
When I was a young girl, my friends and I used to wait for the streetcar in front of the State Capitol. While we waited we gazed up at a statue of the handsome Frank Luke Jr. and fantasized about the history of the young flying Ace. Frank was looking upward into the sky, his flying cap and goggles in hand.
Surprisingly, I was not taught in school about Luke’s heroic skills as a “balloon buster” during WWI. He flew his planes thru such punishing enemy fire that five were written off after his missions.During two weeks in September, l918, in only ten missions, he destroyed fourteen heavily defended German surveillance balloons and four airplanes. He was only twenty years old when he gave his life in an air battle near the village of Murvaux, France.
I finally learned more about Lieutenant Frank’s life from the fascinating and factually correct book, “Terror of the Autumn Skies” by Blaine Pardoe.
Different vivid memories of Silvestre Herrera take me back to Union Station on 4th Ave in downtown Phoenix in August, l945 during WWII. One evening when I was a little girl my parents took me to see a brave young hero’s return home. When the train stopped the crowd surged forward and many hands plucked him from his wheelchair. I was distressed to see that he had no legs as he was passed from shoulder to shoulder of the cheering crowd. Finally Sgt. Hererra was placed on the back of a red convertible for a parade up Washington.
History tells us that when his platoon was pinned down by Germans in a forest near Metzwiller, France, he charged the enemy and captured 8 enemy soldiers. That same day, to draw enemy fire away from his comrades, Hererra entered a mine field and in two explosions lost both legs. He continued to fire upon the enemy which allowed his platoon to skirt the field and capture the enemy position.
Both young men came from completely different backgrounds. Frank was one of nine children from a prominent Arizona family. The statue of Luke is in front of the Arizona State Capitol on l7th Ave, facing down Washington.
Sylvestre was an orphan, born in Mexico, and raised by an Uncle in Glendale. He was 27, married with three children when he volunteered and answered this country’s call. You won’t find a statue at the capitol erected in his honor.

“NOTHING FAIR ABOUT STATUES”

By

Gerry Niskern

A wise author once said, “You can only write about war by writing one soldier’s story.” I’d like to go back in Arizona history and tell you about two Arizona war heroes. Lt. Frank Luke Jr. and Sgt. Sylvestre Herrera, who both received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Luke’s was awarded posthumously after WWI and Hererra, during WWII, was the first living Arizona Congressional Medal of Honor recipient.
When I was a young girl, my friends and I used to wait for the streetcar in front of the State Capitol. While we waited we gazed up at a statue of the handsome Frank Luke Jr. and fantasized about the history of the young flying Ace. Frank was looking upward into the sky, his flying cap and goggles in hand.
Surprisingly, I was not taught in school about Luke’s heroic skills as a “balloon buster” during WWI. He flew his planes thru such punishing enemy fire that five were written off after his missions.During two weeks in September, l918, in only ten missions, he destroyed fourteen heavily defended German surveillance balloons and four airplanes. He was only twenty years old when he gave his life in an air battle near the village of Murvaux, France.
I finally learned more about Lieutenant Frank’s life from the fascinating and factually correct book, “Terror of the Autumn Skies” by Blaine Pardoe.
Different vivid memories of Silvestre Herrera take me back to Union Station on 4th Ave in downtown Phoenix in August, l945 during WWII. One evening when I was a little girl my parents took me to see a brave young hero’s return home. When the train stopped the crowd surged forward and many hands plucked him from his wheelchair. I was distressed to see that he had no legs as he was passed from shoulder to shoulder of the cheering crowd. Finally Sgt. Hererra was placed on the back of a red convertible for a parade up Washington.
History tells us that when his platoon was pinned down by Germans in a forest near Metzwiller, France, he charged the enemy and captured 8 enemy soldiers. That same day, to draw enemy fire away from his comrades, Hererra entered a mine field and in two explosions lost both legs. He continued to fire upon the enemy which allowed his platoon to skirt the field and capture the enemy position.
Both young men came from completely different backgrounds. Frank was one of nine children from a prominent Arizona family. The statue of Luke is in front of the Arizona State Capitol on l7th Ave, facing down Washington.
Sylvestre was an orphan, born in Mexico, and raised by an Uncle in Glendale. He was 27, married with three children when he volunteered and answered this country’s call. You won’t find a statue at the capitol erected in his honor.

Country roads, take me home to Moundsville
By
Gerry Niskern
Before the car pulled away I was already sitting on my Grandma’s front step strapping on my roller skates. I tightened them with my key and off I sailed.
Dad usually dropped my Mom, sister and me down in Moundsville at my grandma’s on Fridays in the summertime. I loved skating on the smooth, endless sidewalks instead of going round and round in our basement at home.
Besides my grandma, three of my Aunts and Uncles lived on the same street and I was soon gathering cousins( the best part of coming to town) as I raced along. I was free to roam the town, but admonished “don’t go around to Paulines”. Of course I sneaked right around the corner to Aunt Pauline’s. She made the best donuts in the world and I always came away with a large, warm donut fresh out of the kettle, covered with sugar.
Someone usually said, “Let’s go down to the mound.” Off we raced, left our skates at the bottom and climbed the path up to the top of the mound. We made up all kind of games racing round and round and up the sides of the mound. Little did we realize that one of our favorite places toplay was a national treasure. The mound was the largest burial mound in North America. It was created by a prehistoric Native American culture called the Adena, over 2,000 years ago. In later years the mound was declared a National Monument and given greater respect. A museum was built detailing the creation and interior of the ancient mound.
Back at grandma’s we looked for arrowheads in the her large garden. They were easy to find in the rich, black, sandy soil. It was said that many a battle had been fought over the precious Ohio river valley between the Blackfeet, Shawnee, Seneca and many other tribes.
After a quick lunch of my grandma’s daily freshly baked bread, spread with sour cream, I skated over to Jefferson Avenue, the main street, to the drugstore where I spent my nickel on a two-sided cone of the tangiest, tastiest double scoop of orange sherbert. On the way back to Grandma’s everyone I passed was asking each other only one question. “Are you going to the Playground tonight?” Of course they were!
The Playground was actually an outdoor community center carved out of the hillside, with large cement tiers cascading down the slope for seating. At the bottom there was wonderful playground equipment, but also three swimming pools, a skating rink, and a bandstand with a giant movie screen behind.
After dinner people from all direction could be seen walking towards the Playground. They carried blankets and pillows for the little ones to sleep as they found a place to sit on the steps. The band was playing lively John Phillips Sousa marches and the kids were gathering on the skating rink to march in patterns led by high school girls. The parents watched the marching demonstration below and the kids were rewarded by the leaders with a piece of candy. Then the band swung into some old favorites as the large crowd sang, “Daisy, Daisy”, “Ka,Ka,Katy”, and “When Johnny come marching home again”. The community sing always ended with “God Bless America”. I’m sure the energy of the voices carried the melodies to towns on down the valley. By that time it was dark and the movie of the week started playing on the giant screen.
Later Dad’s Black Plymouth carried us home ten miles up thru many switchbacks to our house on top and the pure, fresh air of the country side . It would have been much easier for my dad, an industrial engineer for the Fostoria Glass Company, if we lived In Moundsville, especially in the winter when he drove those winding icy roads. He was adamant that his family was going to grow up in clean, fresh air out in the country.

BRIEF HISTORY OF MOUNDSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA: In 1886 two small settlements, Mound City and Elizabethtown were consolidated into the town of Moundsville. It was on the banks of the Ohio River in the Ohio River Valley that eventually contained many coal mines, steel mills and other factories. Moundsville was a pleasant place to live but the air was highly polluted. Black soot from the many industries covered everything. When I visited around thirty-five years later after many regulations had been imposed to curb the industrial polluting, I was pleasantly surprised to see how fresh, colorful and clean it was everywhere.