“What’s Christmas without music?”

By

Gerry Niskern

What would the Christmas season be without music? The majestic choirs singing Ava Maria and the beautiful music of the Nutcracker performed during the holidays are a special gift to all of us every year.

Actually, my earliest memory of Christmas music was not the traditional songs of the season. I remember going to my Grandma’s house every year, on January 7^th, the Catholic Orthodox Christmas.  I walked between my mom and dad over crunchy snow that smelled of cinders.  Although Santa visited our house on the 25^th, I couldn’t wait to celebrate “Grandma’s Christmas” with my aunts, uncles and cousins.  Polka music spilled through the kitchen door from my Uncle Paul’s accordion. After dinner we danced the night away as the old frame house shook with pounding feet.

We sang “Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Away in a Manger and O Little Town of Bethlehem” in the country church I attended as a child back East. The peaceful strains of “Silent Night” carried over the snowy hills at our Christmas Eve service.

After we moved to Phoenix, the same melody came back to my Girl Scout troop on a chilly December morning in l943, during WWII.

As our troop cooked our pancakes over an open fire in Papago Park, we sang Christmas carols. Just as we finished Silent Night, we heard the same melody, a German carol “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht”……echoing back to us by strong male voices. The chorus was coming from Hole in the Rock where some German POWs and their guards were resting after working in the park. We listened in awe. I think that’s when we  realized how small the world really is.

As soon as the war was over and gasoline was available again our family made a long awaited journey back to West Virginia for Christmas.  “How’d you like to spend Christmas on Christmas Island” played often as I took spins around the skating rink with my teenage cousins. On the long car trip back home to Arizona we listened  to “ Frosty the Snowman” and “The Old Lamplighter” over and over again on the car radio.  It was 4 degrees above zero as my Dad maneuvered the old Plymouth over icy roads lined with overturned vehicles lying in snow banks all the way across Texas.

“Jingle Bells” is one of the first songs our own kids learned. Then when the holidays got a little more hectic we turned to, “Santa Claus is coming to town…..he knows if you’ve been bad or good”. Those words used to scare me as a child but they didn’t faze my kids.

Then there were the years the kids inundated us with “All I want to Christmas is My Two Front Teeth, Grandma go Run Over by a Reindeer, and “I’m Getting Nuttin’ for Christmas”.

One song that evolved into books, movies and more was “Rudolph the Red-nosed Raindeer”. It caught everyone’s fancy, especially our grandkids. Our home on the mountain looks

over the city lights. When the red light on our oven reflected back on the living room window out

into the sky, they were sure they were seeing Rudolph. I didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise.

Men who have served in every war since l942 remember listening to Bing Crosby sing “White Christmas” and dreaming of being reunited with their family soon.

I don’t know what Christmas song our men and women stationed in the Middle East like best, but according to the Federal Chaplaincy Ministries “I’ll be home for Christmas” is heard over and over again.

Christmas Trees Galore

By

Gerry Niskern

All types of trees have come and gone over the years. How many do you remember?

Years ago,  enterprising tree dealers started flocking trees white for a little extra charge. Everyone had to have one of the “snow” covered beauties. I have a friend from the Philippines who remembers as a child trying to create a similar tree. They found a large branch, striped it, painted it white and glued little globs of cotton all over the “snowy” branches.

How about the trees that “snowed”? Snowflakes blew out the top of the tree and settled down on the branches. The extra flakes fell into a large cone at the bottom and were shot up inside the trunk  and out at the top, to “snow” again.

Then came the aluminum “put together” trees. They couldn’t take lights so they came with a revolving spot light. One was sent to a couple I know who were stationed in Saudia Arabia. When they invited an Arabian family to share their Christmas dinner, their little boys kept removing the shiny tree branches to play sword fighting.

Another couple told me of being stationed overseas and scuba diving often. One day they spotted a beautiful chunk of coral shaped like a Christmas tree. They managed to get it up and take it home where they soaked and cleaned it. They strung lights on it for Christmas. It went with them wherever they were transferred and the tree always remained part of their Christmas.

One friend who grew up here tells me that they couldn’t afford a tree, but the kids in the family always found a tumble weed to bring home and decorate with popcorn and homemade paper ornaments for their Christmas.

Some lucky longtime residents will remember taking their children to see the huge yuletide tree in downtown Phoenix in the middle of the intersection of Central and Washington Street. The magnificent fir stood atop a large box platform and the trolleys that traveled Washington passed by on either side.

Of course, the trees you will remember best were the ones that when you woke up on Christmas morning and smelled pine in the chilly air, and  you knew.  You raced barefooted across the cold floor and there it stood in glorious splendor complete with twinkling lights, shiny ornaments and tons of icicles.

Sure enough, Santa had come down your chimney with presents and……a Christmas tree.

“How Christmas Wishes have changed”

by

Gerry Niskern

A funny thing happened on the way to Christmas one year. We had a party.

We had  been giving this annual party for thirty some years and most of the people attending had been coming to our house to celebrate the season since we started.

That year I decided that we would test their knowledge of each other with a “guess who that was” game.

I phoned to ask each one to tell me the one special thing that they had wished Santa to bring when they were a kid. Don’t tell me if you received it or not, just something special that you remember asking Santa Clause to bring.

In most cases, before I even finished my question, these “depression babies” named an item they remember vividly yearning for and declared, “And I didn’t get it either!”

A couple of the stories tugged at your heart strings a little more than others.  A lot of farm families used to gather at the grandparent’s house and all the toys for the various cousins would be placed under the tree. One little guy about four woke up before dawn and went down stairs to see if Santa had come. Yep! There was a train set all set up around the tree; just what he had wished for. When he came down later with his parents, his cousins were playing with their new train set!

Another Oklahoma  girl asked every year for a Shirley Temple doll. Year after year she saw other cousins unwrapping Shirley Temple dolls!

A little boy from Texas asked for any kind of airplane. His mother managed to buy him a little balsa wood flyer propelled by a rubber band. The problem was the first time he launched it, the little plane flew down the hill right into the hog pen. They pounced on it thinking it was food and ground it into the mud.

A Glendale girl always yearned for a pair of roller skates. She skated on friend’s skates once or twice, but Santa never had enough money for a pair of skates for her.

One Tennessee girl asked for  a Dionne Quintuplet doll, but more than anything she yearned for some clothes that weren’t three sizes too big, so she could “grow into them”.

There were wishes for Monopoly games, BB guns bicycles and basketballs. One young fellow found a basketball in the attic and assumed he was receiving it for Christmas. He and his friends built a backboard and hoop getting all prepared. Imagine his shock when a neighbor came to retrieve her son’s basketball that his mother was hiding for her.

It kind of blows your mind when you realize all of today’s children have to do is visit the nearest Toy r Us to make their wishes for Christmas known. Then they leisurely stroll the aisles and click the hand set to record their choices that are easy for grandmas, aunts and other relatives to consult and purchase for them!

“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, 2016, 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.

So, what do you say? Can you go “cold turkey” on Thanksgiving?

“Thanksgiving Day, Here in Arizona”

by

Gerry Niskern

Thanksgiving day, here in Arizona, is a day of traditions. It will be celebrated in many locations and the rituals will be as varied as the individual families.

Grandmothers and grandfathers will serve their children and grandchildren a fine old- fashioned turkey dinner, complete with dressing, gravy and homemade hot rolls that melt in your mouth. The carving knife is already sharpened and the table lines freshly laundered.

Some traditions, here in Arizona, will be started for the first time when the newlyweds decide to invite the clan to their home for barbecued turkey on the grill and a dip in their heated pool. No matter where they gather, some members of the family will argue politics, religion, and the latest courtroom trial. Everyone will over eat and some will drink too much.

Others will go to church to thank God for their many blessings. Whole families will give up their day to serve others in the many charity dining rooms, here in Arizona.

Native Americans on their reservations will gather together for mutton stew and fry bread. New immigrant families, like the one I saw shopping for a heavy roasting pan at the Goodwill store in my neighborhood, will buy their turkey and trimmings and try to prepare it the American way!

Other families will gather in hospital rooms or visit cemeteries, carrying pots of golden mums and try to remember why they are supposed to be thankful on this day.

Here in Arizona, people tired of formal affairs, will wrap their turkey up tightly, and put the potatoes, dressing and gravy in large thermoses and head out for a desert picnic. They will fly kites, ride go-carts and go rock hunting.

Lonely residents of nursing homes will be served their turkey on long tables decorated with papier-mache  turkeys and jaunty little pilgrim hats. They’ll be remembering other past Thanksgivings when children sat at their table.

Firefighters will cook their bird at the station. Policemen will grab a quick bite while on patrol. Emergency room personnel will eat their drumstick in the hospital cafeteria. Babies will be born and Mom and Dad will forget to eat, here in Arizona.

Some Mothers and Fathers will read to their children about the first Thanksgiving. They’ll tell them about the Pilgrim’s Thanksgiving when Governor  Bradford invited Chief Massosit to share their feast. The chief brought ninety men with him and they stayed for three days. The pilgrims celebrated their freedom in their new country with the Indians who helped them survive their first winter.

Maybe these same parents will ask their offspring to name the things they are thankful for. Then, hopefully, they’ll remind their families that there are Moms, Dads, kids, and even Grandparents who are hungry and homeless in Europe on this Thanksgiving day.

Today’s parents will tell the kids that we have the freedom to celebrate our traditions or change them, as we wish. They’ll remind them to nurture and cherish that freedom.

All these things will happen on Thanksgiving day, somewhere here in Arizona

“Homecoming”

By

Gerry Niskern

Veteran’s day is Friday. A day we honor our country’s war veterans with parades, speeches and memorials. In other words, a day for memories.  Many  people will remember not a whole army, but one boy, because that’s what most of our soldiers are when they leave home.

Before a young man knows fear, his mother does. It strikes her heart when she hears the words, “Mom, I’ve enlist

I was around ten when my dad and mom took me down to Union Station in Phoenix to see the train bringing in a very brave young man. Army infantryman, Sgt. Selvestre  Herrera, Arizona’s first living Congressional Medal of Honor winner.

The train slowed to a stop. We were pushed forward as the excited crowd surged toward the first car. I heard people shouting, “There he is.     I see him. I see him!” The band struck up another rousing march and the man in the red and white shirt had to scream “peanuts, popcorn” in order to be heard.

The conductor shouted for everyone to “please, stand back”.  He placed the extra step for the train passengers to step down, and then looked up with pride.

One step at a time, a soldier in full dress uniform backed down the steps. He was lifting one side of a wheel chair. Before the soldier holding the other side of the chair could reach the pavement, the occupant was grabbed by many anxious hands. They hoisted the young soldier atop their shoulders. “But Dad, Dad” I shouted “Why is….my voice was drowned out as the jubilant throng passed him along from man to man. I thought he looked like a volley ball bouncing on top the crowd.  Finally, they placed the returning hero on top the back of a red convertible, with a banner on the side reading, ‘Read Mullen Chevrolet”

The bright chariot started slowly up Fifth Avenue. Men, women and kids shouting  and waving American flags as they  scrambled to keep up with the car when it turned East on Washington. The driver picked up speed and suddenly I was separated from mom and dad. Phoenix was a small town then.  A kid  couldn’t become lost in the few short blocks to the designated uptown celebration site.  I was swept along with the throng towards Central Avenue beside the band.

The procession stopped in front of the Republic and Gazette building on north Central.  Some kind of temporary platform was draped with red, white and blue bunting.

The state senators and representatives were on the stage. The people cheered for the governor. They clapped for the mayor.

“On behalf of the people of Arizona, I’m proud and happy to welcome you home, Sargent  Hererra,” the governor shouted.

“This is indeed a glorious day” declared the mayor. “You must be very proud to be the first Congressional Medal of Honor winner from the State of Arizona. “

I pushed up close to the speaker’s stand trying to see the war hero. I ducked in front of some adults.  The legs of the young warrior’s pants  were carefully folded back above his knees with large shiny safety pins.

Finally, the speeches were finished and everyone on the platform jumped to their feet and clapped furiously. Then,  I couldn’t see Private Hererra anymore. He was hidden by the politicians.

NOTE: Sargent Herrera was not a citizen of the United States. He was brought from Mexico as a child by an uncle who raised him. He was married, with two small children when he enlisted in the U. S. Army in World War II.

“Do You Vote Like your Daddy?”

By

Gerry Niskern

I remember when I entered politics. I was three and FDR was running for his second term. I gave my first stump speech while standing on one of my Grandma’s kitchen chairs. My mother’s younger brothers, all strong UMWA members had coached me well. When my dad, a staunch Republican, came to pick me up after a day at Grandmas I greeted him with a rousing, “Vote for Roosevelt!”.  It was all in good fun, but my dad was a guy that believed his politics were his private affair. My mother, of course, was a registered Republican too.

Back then, most women were expected to register with the political party of their fathers or husbands, with no discussions about the issues. Of course, there were exceptions. Some were influenced by studies in college. Later on their employment affected their choices and sometimes marriage did too.

Mom used to laugh when she told about the first time she voted in Arizona. Back in 1942 when my family moved here, it was a blue state. Yes. You read that right, blue. The Democrats had dominated from the inception of Arizona’s government. The state had nine Democratic and three Republicans governors from l912 to l950.

Our neighborhood polling place was at the state capitol. The tables were set up in the rotunda. After my mother gave her name to the election official, the fellow waved her ballot high and yelled down the line of tables   “Hey guys, here’s a Republican.” That drew a raucous chorus of hoots and hollers.

Red faced, she took the ballot and quickly retreated to the niche to vote. What the room full of Democratic workers didn’t know was that she probably voted right along their party line. You see, she might have been married to a Republican, but that coal miner’s daughter from a strong union family was a Democrat at heart.

Today women have access to 24 hour news programs, the internet; all the sources to help them keep informed on both sides of the issues. They are free to make wise decisions that will impact their own future and the future of their daughters.

Women have taken charge of their lives. How about you?

Do you vote like your Daddy?

For the first time in the history of our country we have a woman candidate of a major party running for President of the United States. This is a personal look back in history.

“You want me to do what?”

By

Gerry Niskern

Back in the l950’s, the women in the Installment Loan Department at the Valley National Bank had to take part in a little tradition on payday. When the vice-president in charge of that busy office came around with the pay checks, he demanded a kiss on the cheek before he handed you your hard-earned money.

The first thought that ran thru my mind when I saw the payday ritual going on was ‘no way!’ When the old boy came up to me at my station, I really can’t give you a description of the expression on my face, but I can tell you he took one look and he meekly handed over my check. That particular vice-president was the brother-in-law of the owner of the bank so he had a little clout. I guess I was too naive to consider the possible consequences.

I worked in the Security Building on the corner of Central Ave and Van Buren. Our loan department had a filing system called Soundex and I was hired specifically to learn the system. You took the first letter of the name and quickly translated it into numbers and located the small card in waist level bins.

The bank was just starting to build branches around the state. The managers called in from the branches to check on the credit of a person who had applied for a loan and we would translate the name into “Soundex” language and give it to them instantly. That was our “computer” system. I have to laugh when I remember that we worked in heels all day scurrying among those files. And we ran all over downtown shopping on our hour long lunch hour in those heels too!

Another young woman, a little older than me, was hired to learn the system the same day that I was. She was married, with a child, and her husband was in Korea. While on our coffee break one day I learned to my dismay that she was being paid more than I was. The first chance I got I marched over to the personnel office and asked why the difference in our wages. They calmly replied that she her husband was overseas, she had a child and she needed more money.

The bank was generous in many ways. They had an employee’s cafeteria that was inexpensive and had delicious food. They also gave each employee a week’s paid vacation after one year. And they added another week’s vacation for each year you worked. Everyone received a Christmas bonus of a week’s salary and again, another week’s salary was added to the bonus for each year. I started a week before Christmas, but I received my bonus like all the other girls. They also had a very elegant Christmas Tea in December and the wife of the bank’s owner “served” from her beautiful silver tea service. The room was beautiful and the food was delicious.  The same old vice-president went around handing out the Christmas bonus checks and demanding the usual gesture in return.

We delivered the requested credit records for the Phoenix department to one particular lady’s office. Her office door was at the end of a line of vice-presidents offices, and I was curious as to why her door didn’t say vice-president since she seemed to be doing all the work.  When I inquired about that I was told by my lady boss, “Oh, she can’t be a vice-president. She’s a woman.”

During Rodeo Days the Phoenix Jaycees held a Kangaroo Court downtown to try anyone who was out on the street and not wearing something Western. They would drag the lawbreaker over to the court, have a trial, and fine them, much to the amusement of the crowd. When one of the “cowboy deputies” spotted one of the girls from the bank not dress western, they would come after them; right up the elevator and into the women’s restroom and pulled them out!

I worked there until I was expecting our first baby and even allowed to stay on in another department for a while longer than normal because I was working downstairs where I wasn’t seen by the public. Otherwise, I would have had to quit because you couldn’t work after you started to show. And, of course, the employees insurance, which the bank provided, by the way, covered the wives of the men employees for childbirth, but not the women employees.

I was very lucky to have that job. The pay was more than average and the atmosphere was relaxed, friendly and flexible in many ways. When I look back I realize that although some things have changed, some haven’t.

“Are you sure that was you?”

Ken, my husband, loved cars. He kept an eye out for unusual cars and he had many unique vehicles over the years.  Like all car guys, he wanted to have something that nobody else had. Among the exotic cars in his lifetime  collection was a little English Morris Minor, A P l800 Volvo, a tiny red GarmaGia convertible, a black fin- backed Cadillac, a Sunbeam Tiger convertible, and a 65 Mustang convertible and a Rover, to name a few.

He always had his work vehicle, and I had my car, first a beautiful gold and white Ford Fairlane and then a white Ford Station wagon as our family grew. However, there was always an extra beauty sitting in our carport that he was tinkering with. That was his hobby and it was fine with me; but I have to acknowledge that it took us a few years to negotiate that arrangement. Specifically, his car money had to support itself and he had to keep his “car money” in a separate account and away from our household expenses.

When I think back to the first time I put my foot down on a car purchase, I have to ask myself, ‘Was that really me?’ We were newlyweds and money had been very tight during the first few months. I had a saving account when we tied the knot. My new husband did not. But since I married a super-salesman and we were both working, I agreed to us buying  a new Black Ford Coupe on the installment loan plan at the bank where I worked.

The payments were $90.00 a month. Everything went along fine for a while and then my new husband’s work came to a halt as the building industry suffered some long strikes. We ended up using all my savings to make those car payments each month. It was a struggle but we finally did it.

Soon afterwards, he had changed jobs and was learning a new trade. He had to drive up North Central to the job, where all the used car dealers were located back then. That’s when it happened. He spotted a two-tone Ford Crestliner. He was smitten.

“You want to do what?” I whispered, in disbelief, that evening. Surely I had heard him wrong. I couldn’t believe my ears as he explained the bargain he had worked out with MONEY BAGS KLEIN, the car dealer. He wanted to trade in our new “paid for” car, on a really “neat” different car, a couple of years older.

Thinking I just didn’t understand the importance of the deal he had made, he patiently explained. “But Honey, its RED AND BLACK .and we would have the only one in town. Our payments would only be….”  I can’t remember what the amount was because at that point, I had stopped listening.

“I don’t care if it’s the only one in the whole world!” I yelled. “We are not going to give MONEY BAGS KLEIN our new, paid for, car. No, No, No!”

Over the years, our kids always enjoyed hearing that story because they thought I could never say no to their dad. They always asked again, “Are you sure that was you?”

“Trick or Treat time in Pumpkinville”

By

Gerry Niskern

All the kids in Pumpkinville are busy gearing up for the big night. They have been busy discussing and planning their choice of costume for a couple of months now. After all, you have to think ahead about life’s more important decisions.

For all you newcomers out there who are wondering where Pumpkinville is, Phoenix was originally known as Pumpkinville for the first years of its existence. The first pioneers found pumpkins growing profusely along all the canal banks in the valley.

Who planted these all those pumpkin vines? Well, Jack Swilling, of course. Who was Jack Swilling? Settle back, and let me tell you about Jack and then you can pass along a little of the valley’s history to your munchkins who are getting ready for Halloween.

Jack Swilling arrived in the valley around 1867. He was an Indian fighter, deserter from the Confederate Army, and most of all, a visionary. He was fascinated with the ancient Hohokam (the Pima word for “people who have gone before”) ruins, especially the extensive network of canals the ancient Indians had dug to irrigate their fields. Swilling realized the farmers could use the canals. He and his partner began clearing and rebuilding the long-abandoned irrigation canals of the Hohokam.

Within a short time Salt River water was flowing in the canals. The farmers were growing barley, alfalfa and other crops. Jack Swilling planted pumpkins everywhere he worked. That lead to the settlement being called Pumpkinville, approximately around 1870.

The pumpkins that grew along the canal banks provided a great supply of Jack-o-Lanterns for the pioneer kids.

Halloween night, dating back to around A.D. 830 when Pope Gregory 1V proclaimed No 1 All Saints’ day, has by tradition been a kids night for fun.

If Halloween was celebrated at all in Pumpkinville, it was most likely a social event for the whole family; an excuse for singles parties and courting. You could hear the sound of guitars and fiddles coming from parlors around town. If there were any Irish families around the kids could count on hearing some scary ghost stories to fit the occasion.

Most children of early Phoenix were far removed from goblins, trolls and spirits in European ghost tales. Who cared about gnomes when rattlesnakes, coyotes, when real bobcats padded nearby? Fear of Halloween witches also gave way to real life encounters with small bands of renegade Apaches.

Now, this October in Pumpkinville the kids can choose their pumpkins from stacks in corner lots around town. On the other hand, they might get a trip to one of the “Pumpkin Patches” around the valley to pick their own.

That brings us back to the costume dilemma..

Here’s an idea. How about dressing them up like Indian Fighter, Jack Swilley?