“Ask Mom”

By

Gerry Niskern

While sitting at a sidewalk cafe recently, I overheard two Middle Eastern boys explaining to another boy how to pronounce their Arabic word for bread.   One said, “Wait, I’ll ask my mother” but the other laughed, “No, I’ll ask my mom”.   How easy, just ask mom.

Moms know about everything. At least we thought she did when we were little.

Of course, when we became teenagers, mom didn’t have a clue; it was a wonder the woman didn’t need a keeper.

However, when 2,000 miles away at college it’s seems perfectly logical to kids to call mom and ask, “What do I use on my whites at the Laundromat?”

As we married and started families it was mom who we called to ask about a recipe or a petulant child. Or to try to help us understand men! Or women!

I asked several people whose mothers are gone this question: “Is there something you wish you had asked your mother when you could?”

Several said they would ask,  “What was your childhood like? Where did you and dad meet? What attracted you to him?

Another wants to know her grandmother’s stories about growing up in Germany; what her feelings were when she left? Who did she work for when she got here?

One friend who’s parents marriage was “arranged” in Iran would ask her mother what her true feelings were at her wedding.

A friend from the Philippines told me she grieved that there were no baby pictures taken of her and she wants to know why.

Several wondered what kind of day it was when they were born?

One would ask, “What happened to my baby brother; what did he die from?”

I would ask my own  grandmother about the sadness of leaving her infant in Europe when she immigrated to America.

My mother, an avid storyteller, loved our family and tradition. I would ask her thoughts the situation of our family today.

The mothers we see on greeting cards with the saintly smiles are perfect, but are they really mom? It’s through mom’s sheltering arms and the comfort of home that we learn to trust others and life itself. Mother is the twine that holds the family together.  And yet, she is a mysterious set of contradictions. It’s hard to sort out your feelings for her: frustration, anger, companionship, apprehension, love.

Speaking of questions, I ran across a suggested list of soul-searching questions for everyone to ask himself on Mother’s day.  I hope I fulfilled some of them when I had the chance. It read: When was the last time you visited your mom? What are the things that make your mom happy or sad? How many minutes do you spend in quality talk with your mom in a week? When was the last time you cooked for your mom? How much do you know about your mom’s mother? How well do you actually know your mother?

We can honor and show respect by trying to learn about the real person who we call mom. Have you asked your mother what she really wanted to do with her life, besides being your mom? What was her dream while growing up?  Did she achieve her life goals?  In other words, who was she, really?

I think one friend answered my question best. She said, “Well, the question wouldn’t really matter. Calling her would give me what I wanted: to hear the love in her voice, because more than anything, I miss her love.

So on this Mother’s Day, go ahead, ask mom now!

“Change of Vacation  Plans”

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone is thinking the same thing right about now, ‘Where will we go  on vacation this summer?’ In this land where we are free to vacation anywhere and with whomever we choose, have you thought of going some place different or taking a new person with you?

I’m reminded of many summers ago watching our great-grandson and a new friend building a sandcastle on the beach. After a while, the girl asked,  “Are you his grandparents?”

“No,” I replied. “ We’re his great-grandparents.”

“Whoa” she said,  “Well, isn’t  anyone else here with you all?”

“No, he’s just here with us.” I answered.

“Whoa”

That had been my reaction exactly back then when someone in our family asked our nine- year- old great-grandson if he wanted to go with my husband and I on our annual trip to California. His parents were expecting a new baby and I confess it took a while for the idea to grow on me, then I got busy and changed hotel and plane reservations to include a great-grandchild.

His Daddy delivered the youngster on our doorstep the evening before our flight.  My husband tried to lift his backpack. He couldn’t.  “What on earth do you have in here?”

“Some trail mix, an electronic fishing game, a gum making kit, three shell reference books, five story books, cookies (all melted together) and my world map.”

The trail mix, one shell book, and the world map were allowed to stay.

He played in the surf with a little boy from Russia. We had a world geography lesson back in the room while his great-grandfather helped him locate Russia on the world map. We were used to hearing different dialects spoken on the boardwalk, but our great-grandson was fascinated with the many languages he heard. One evening he saw a large group of women wearing beautiful long dresses with scarves covering their hair and part of their face. He asked their guide and learned they were from Jordan.  When we got back to the hotel that evening, out came the map again.

He persuaded us to try different ethnic restaurants that we had always passed by.  He was willing to order and finish exotic new dishes. We found we all enjoyed the variety. Looking at familiar sights through the fresh eyes of a nine year old brought exhilarating sparkle to our yearly trip. We didn’t have our romantic get away, but we had lots of fun.

We explored the tide pools in early light of dawn.  We learned to chase the surf and quickly gather shells before another wave came crashing in. Our paddle ball skills were honed to perfection.  Luckily, I only had to explain once that each person washed the sand out of his own swimsuit and hung it out to dry. Best of all, we had someone always willing to go after ice!

The trail mix in his backpack came in handy when our return flight was canceled and we stood in line at the airport for two hours and missed lunch.

On the trip home I knew we had passed a kind of milestone when my great-grandson turned to me and asked, “Grandma, could we go to the Grand Canyon next July?”

“Well, maybe so. Haven’t you been there?”

“No, then we could take the trip.”

“What trip is that, Honey?”

“You know, the mule ride to the bottom.”

Lucky for me his family went on vacation the next summer

“Leave it to the Women”

By

Gerry Niskern

Do you remember the first scolding you received in school? I do.

We first graders were allowed to take home our reader with strict instructions, “You may read the next four pages only and remember to bring your books back tomorrow.” Well, I was so thrilled to know how to read I finished the entire book. My mistake was telling the teacher!

Speaking of reading,  the Carnegie Library building on West Washington is 107 years old and when I say, ‘leave it to the women”, I’m speaking of many of your great-great-grandmothers.  Back in the Arizona Territorial Days , the Phoenix Woman’s Club wrote a proposal that resulted  in a grant from the Carnegie Foundation for four new libraries for Arizona;  one for Tucson, Prescott, Yuma, and Phoenix.

I discovered the Carnegie Library when our family moved to Arizona in 1942.  I staggered out of the basement where the children’s department was located with an arm load of books every week. I attended readings by authors of the children’s books in the beautiful bandshell located behind the library.

I couldn’t wait to turn twelve and could then check out books upstairs in the adult section. A world of imagination and curiosity allowed me to visualize settings and characters in endless ways for the rest of my life.

The love of books runs deep in our family. We still laugh about the 2 year old granddaughter who, without her mother’s knowledge, re-packed her bag full of her books in place of her clothes for an overnight with us.

Our great-grandson, a recent graduate of  NAU, started exchanging adult books with me at age ten. He is one of many reading friends with whom I’ve had the pleasure of sharing books. Of course, there should be no surprise there. His daddy used to sit up in his crib and read his books by the glow of the space heater in his room. When the heater cycled off, down he flopped. Then back up again turning pages when it cycled  bright again.

The kindergarteners who started school this year will be expected to learn many skills, but the most important one they will master is reading. Thankfully, there are thousands of books available in the local libraries.

The old Phoenix Carnegie no longer functions as a library, but it will always have a special place in my heart. “Kudos” to the first Phoenix Woman’s Club in the Arizona Territory for their foresight and resourcefulness.

“Easter Day, Here in Arizona”

By

Gerry Niskern,

Easter 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. How could it not, with thousands of new residents of every ethnic group arriving in the Phoenix area each week?

Many families will go to church on Easter morning to thank God for their many blessings. Other whole families will give up their day to serve others in the various charity dining rooms.

In some families, grandmothers and grandfathers will serve their children and grandchildren a fine old-fashioned Easter dinner, complete with ham, potato salad and homemade hot rolls that melt in your mouth. The carving knife is already sharpened and the table linens are freshly laundered.

Perhaps this Easter weekend newlyweds around the valley will invite the clan to their home for a barbecue and a dip in their new heated pool. Regardless of where family or friends gather, some will argue politics, religion and or latest courtroom trial. Everyone will over eat and some will drink too much too.

Many, looking to do something different, will wrap their ham up tightly, put their sweet potatoes and gravy in heated containers and head out for a desert picnic. They’ll fly kites, hike and go egg hunting, just as our family did for many years. Just a reminder, leave real early. You’ll have to drive outside of Phoenix a long way to find a pristine desert site for your picnic this year.

Lonely residents of nursing homes will be served Easter dinner at long tables decorated with papier-mâché chickens and jaunty little bunnies. They will be remembering other Easter days when children sat at their table.

Firefighters will cook their Easter meal at the station. Policemen will grab a quick bite while on patrol.

Other families will gather in hospital rooms or visit cemeteries, carrying pots of flowers and trying to remember why they are supposed to be celebrating on this day.

Families of all nationalities will talk about Easter to their children. They might explain how the egg came to be associated with Easter. It seems that in the Middle Ages it was forbidden to eat eggs during the 40 days of lent. However, the hens kept laying and out of the resulting glut, the Easter egg tradition was born. All the different countries around the world eventually developed unique ways of decorating eggs.

Hopefully these same parents will remind their families that there are moms, dads, and even grandparents who are hungry and homeless on this Easter day, here in Arizona

They’ll tell the kids that we have the freedom to celebrate out traditions or change them as we wish. They will remind them to nuture and cherish those traditions.

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

“The Big Apple”

By

Gerry Niskern

The busiest intersection in downtown Phoenix in the mid 40’s was at 2^nd Avenue and W. Washington. The Wells Fargo building stands there now, but back then the old Ford hotel occupied that space. The corner newsstand at the hotel was a popular stop for the streetcar passengers waiting to take the Eastlake car to Sixteenth Street or the Capitol car heading west on Washington all the way to 22^nd Avenue. If you had to transfer on your nickel ride to the Brill or Kenilworth line heading north; sometimes it was quite a wait.

The heavy set man who owned the corner newsstand, sat high above his display, smoking cigars and keeping an eagle eye on his merchandise.  He carried newspapers, magazines, comic books, cigarettes, cigars and candy bars. However, the items that I remember coveting were the huge, shiny red apples he kept by the cash registrar. Those enormous apples that were marked ten cents apiece fascinated me.

On many Saturday mornings, when I was twelve, during seventh grade,  I had to transfer to the Brill streetcar. I rode it north to East McDowell Road where our dentist was located in the Grunow clinic.  And every Saturday as I waited for the northbound trolley I paced back and forth in front of that newsstand and agonized. You see, I usually had the dime but I also had a voice in my head. That was the indignant voice of my mother declaring, “ Ten cents for an apple…who ever heard of such a thing? Why, you can buy a loaf of bread for ten cents” You see, our family had recently moved here from a little farm in the East that had a large apple orchard and I missed that luscious fruit.

So every Saturday, I went to the dreaded dentist and then agonized while waiting  for the Capitol trolley to take me home again, always without a huge,  scrumptious red apple.

“Growing Pains”

by

Gerry Niskern

The northeast corner of 1^st Avenue and W. Washington in downtown Phoenix is now part of Renaissance Square. Pink granite pillars with brass trim adorn the premises.

When I was growing up in Phoenix in the l940’s, Newberry’s five and ten cent store stood on that corner, always bustling with shoppers.   Regardless of your mode of transportation, streetcar or bus, everyone who went uptown eventually dropped into the variety store that carried everything. Newberrys was an early version of K-Mart or Target for shoppers in the valley, only on a smaller scale.

My cousin worked behind the candy counter after school.  She remembers the Native American women who sold their pottery and jewelry on the sidewalk along Washington coming in to buy the orange marshmallow cookies by the pounds. They were a favorite of mine too.

Walking home from Phoenix Union we stopped in  Newberrys to buy sheet music from the lady in the basement who was playing the piano to demonstrate the latest hits.

A few years later we went back to  Newberrys to purchase Christmas tree ornaments for our first tree. I also found a small crèche that still graces our living room all these years later during the holidays.

My resident historian and I also went to Newberrys for our baby’s first little  pair of shoes. The infant department was in the basement too. If it hadn’t been for a kind-hearted saleslady showing us the right method, we would have never managed to get those white high tops onto those stubborn, little feet. Hint: You have to go at it sideways!

My resident historian always said that  Newberrys  carried the best selection of model airplane kits in town. He loved to tell the story of once, when he was around ten years old, he had saved two dollars for a new airplane model. He didn’t spend a nickel on the streetcar, and walked uptown instead, in case he needed every cent for the long awaited purchase. He clutched his two dollar bills as he browsed the model counter. If he was lucky, he could find one there with Balsa wood. During the war it became scarce and the model companies started substituting harder woods. It was really a banner day when the five and ten had a new shipment of hard-to-get straight pins to use in your model building.

When he finally made his big decision he realized he didn’t have the two dollar bills in his hand. He searched the entire store, to no avail.  Needless to say, he walked home too.

Years later he was driving by as they were demolishing the old Newberry store building. He always laughed and  said he felt like stopping and telling the construction crew, “Hey, if you guys find two dollars under those floor boards, they’re mine!”

Make New Friends, but Keep the Old

By

Gerry Niskern

A friend is a person you meet who likes you for what you are, not what you have done. They see beneath to outside shell to the real you, and they like you, anyway!

I lost my best friend last year. After 62 years, he can never be replaced. Many long time friends are gone too  and I  need to make new ones,  but it is HARD!

I think back to some friends that I had as a kid and how easy it was. In first grade I spent all  my recesses  See-Sawing with a little boy named Matthew. Unlike most of the other boys in our little country school, he was quiet and easy-going. He had rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and blond curly hair. Years later, when my third child was born I saw rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and a a wisp of blond hair. I knew immediately his name would be Matthew.

In Junior Hi my best friend was an early bloomer. Much to my mother’s dismay, she introduced me to the latest hit songs, the current dance steps, and boys! Since her mother worked, she had lots of chores to do. We cooked all kinds of food and she let me bake my first cake. Scariest of all, she helped me lay out a pattern on material I bought with baby sitting money and taught me how to sew a dress.

Our best friends are the ones who encourage us to strive and achieve. They bring out the best in us. The great comfort of a true friendship is that you have to explain nothing. You just know.

Lucky is the parent whose adult children have grown into adult friends. They talk in an easy shorthand, breaking into each others thoughts, without having to clarify or explain.

I’m thinking of the old Girl Scout song that goes,, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, the other gold” I couldn’t say it better myself!

“History is not a Blank Canvas!”

By

Gerry Niskern

There’s a street in our city that calls to you. It’s a place where we all feel comfortable. The old trees and stately homes that line N. Central Avenue beckon now just as they did when I was growing up here in Phoenix. Our Sunday drive always ended with our pleas of “Dad, drive up North Central!” The old trees on both sides of the boulevard met in the center forming a tunnel. The cool green shade gave us the feeling of being underwater in this desert town.

New homes in the suburbs are built to fit the budget and dreams of their buyers, but sometimes the buyer longs for a place that reflects another time. They want some connection to the past so they get it through location. More and more homebuyers are attracted to the green setting of North Central.

That means different things to different people. The houses on N. Central reminds some buyers of their grandparent’s house, front porch or yard.  Today, as modern life presses in everywhere, they like the idea of returning to the old home place.

Do you recall a couple of years ago the city passed an ordinance creating an overlay to protect the old olive trees on either side of central, the bridle path and the street too?  The ancient Olive trees were protected. There could be no more selling of the large estates in order to build multiple new homes on one piece of property. And not a moment too soon.

Now, however, each morning when I walk the dirt bridle path, along with the sound of water gurgling in the irrigation ditch and the chirping of birds, I hear the sound of hammers and drills. The smell of fresh lumber, fills the air. A different type of change is taking place along the  avenue.  One by one the older homes a being totally remodeled. They are stripped down to foundation and possibly the fireplace.

Ninety per cent of the home is demolished and then new floors are added, expansive new configurations are formed. Some parts of the homes now even have a second floor. New owners want their three car garages and deluxe master baths.

North Central Avenue has always had a variety of style homes, from luxurious Spanish Colonials to sprawling Ranch varieties. The one- of -a -kind properties were loved and cherished, sitting quietly among trees, flowers and solitude. The old Olive trees and bridle path were protected, but not the homes.

The homes nestled along North Central are unique. The people who buy these homes are really guardians of history. But is history a blank canvas?

Arizona Valenine

By

Gerry Niskern

We all know the only sight more gorgeous than the golden glow of an Arizona sunset is a delicate desert sunrise of silvery pinks.   But did you know that our beautiful state is celebrating its 103^rd  birthday this month?  On Valentines day, February 14^th, 1912, President Taft signed the bill granting statehood to Arizona.

The Spanish claimed this land until the Gadsden Purchase created the Arizona Territory. Way back before then, the only inhabitants of Arizona for thousands of years were the Native Americans. They were Navajo, Apache, Zuni, Hope, Pima, and Papago, to name just a few of the many tribes.

We know the early settlers arrived in covered wagons; but do you know how your first family arrived?  Our family, on the other hand, came to Arizona in a 41 Plymouth. We piled into the car in Moundsville, W. Va,  and crossed the United States, taking time to see America on the way.  In that wartime summer of 1942 Dad often stopped to pick up young soldiers, sailors and marines on leave who were hitching their way home across the country or back to their base. We stopped to see an uncle stationed at an Army base in Texas.

Everything was fine until we came through the mountains of Eastern Arizona.

Then my dad said, “We’re getting close to Phoenix”. Then we stopped fighting in the back seat and sat up and paid attention.  First we came to Globe. Our hearts sank. We dropped down through the little mining towns of Miami and Superior and our hearts sank even lower. Is this what Arizona towns looked like? Soon we were on the hot desert floor in the middle of an Arizona August and on the home stretch. We prepared for the worst.  Finally, we were on Van Buren Street in Phoenix.  There were Palm trees and orange trees. And  cute motels, parks and grass, lots of grass! It was wonderful!

Ken  used to tell  a different story about his family’s introduction to Arizona.  His family traveled from Texas to our great state of Arizona in a 1933 Ford on Route 60 also.

“As we descended down the mountain, instead of putting the car into second gear, Dad rode the brakes. By the time we reached the bottom, they weren’t holding and smoke was pouring out.  It’s a wonder the whole car didn’t burn up”.

He always concluded, “If you are ever up that way on highway 60 look down into the canyon below. You will see remnants of the old highway we traveled in the l940’s. It is quite a sight.”

Both our families, like thousands of others, came for health reasons, as did the family of a friend of mine. She was five when they rode the train from Arkansas in 1942. She remembers an uncle meeting them at Union Station in Phoenix.  “ He drove us to Mondo’s farm out in the Glendale area where my dad was going to work. It was on 67^th Ave, South of Northern. When I got out of the car the first thing I saw was a huge mound of carrots. I ran and jumped right in the middle of them. Imagine my surprise when I sank to the bottom of an irrigation ditch full of water. Vegetables were routinely thrown in the ditch for cleaning.  If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of a farm lady who was hanging out her clothes, I wouldn’t be here today. I don’t remember that woman’s name, but thanks goodness she saw me and jumped in to pull me out!”

Almost everyone remembers how they arrived in Arizona, but, whatever your story and  reason for coming, don’t you love it? Happy Valentine’s Day Arizona!

“Cookies, Cookies Everywhere!”

By

Gerry Niskern

Guess what? I found the cookies! Or I guess I should say, I found the Thin Mints, Smores, Tagalongs, and all the other sweet delights and the Girl Scouts selling them.

When cookie selling season started I started dreaming that maybe, just maybe some ambitious girl would make it all the way up to my street, like they used to years ago. But it was not to be. So I started watching the grocery stores hoping to see their table set up on Saturday. They are refused many locations these days because of “liability” concerns.

You see, I have a special spot in my heart for the Girls. When I was in the fifth grade at Jackson School a Girl Scout troop was formed; called troop # Eleven. Our leaders name was Miss Curlee, a second grade teacher. I’m sure the poor lady got the short straw, but lucky for us, she was young and pretty. All the other teachers looked to be over 100 to this fifth grader. Our dues were 2 cents per week.

My main Christmas present that year was a Girl Scout uniform. They cost a whopping three dollars.  And since I was the only one lucky enough to have one first, I got to represent our troop in the annual Rodeo Parade that year. We all stood on a wagon trying to keep our balance on a very bumpy ride down Central Avenue.

I enjoyed all the scouting experiences, but the thing that I was most excited about and really my main reason for joining was that I was going to get to sell cookies door to door. They were plain vanilla, with the Girl Scout emblem on the top.

When I took my boxes home and my mother heard the price, (25 cents), she said, “Absolutely not! I wouldn’t think of letting you ask the neighbors to buy a box of cookies for 25 cents when they can buy the same for ten cents at the grocery store”

In those days, that was that. CASE CLOSED!

Sure you can find less expensive cookies, but that’s not the point, is it? Why not support the organization that develops girls of courage, confidence and character worldwide? The Girl Scouts don’t ask for donations. They get out and hustle.

The girls promise “to help other people at all time:, and THAT YOU WILL LOVE THEIR COOKIES!