Winter Concert Time
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you been to a Winter Concert this year? Perhaps you know it as the annual grade school Christmas program?
Do you remember attending your kid’s programs, or even better, do you recall getting your own chance to perform in school programs?
Eons ago, when I was in first grade our class played in the Christmas concert but not by singing. We were in a Rhythm Band. I remember different kids playing the bells, drums, tambourines, triangles, blocks and best of all, the symbols. I earned the position of the lone symbol player by being the tallest in the class. We wore red capes as we marched into the auditorium with me banging those brass disks together as hard as I could.
When my # one son was in second grade, years later, his class marched down the center aisle in their pajamas, wearing round tarboosh fi hats, and singing “This old man, he played paddy-wack on my thumb,”
A year later my #two, five year old son chose to be a mesquito in a play about (I’m not really sure) I had to make a pair of mesquito wings and he insisted on painting a pointed card board cylinder black and having it attached to his nose so that, in his words, “he could fly around and sting the rest of the kids”.
Now, this year, my great-great-grandaughter’s Winter concert was last Friday.She really wanted her Daddy to be there. This kindergartener loves to perform and we knew she had been practicing hard. Everyone in both families was hoping he could get off work, by everyone I mean at least four grandmothers! We knew if he got to attend then we would get to see a video at least. Then suddenly, on Friday evening, there it was . The video. Her classmates were filling up the risers to start their act. And there she was. top row, on the end. Our singer had turned director as she pointed out where each one was supposed to stand.
That’s our girl!

lor World
Memoir Interludes
By
Gerry Niskern
As we pulled in behind the gallery years ago, I was overwhelmed with tremendous joy. I walked in to delight at seeing my paintings lining the walls of both rooms. The soft murmur of patrons blended with the guitar riffs provided by my son flowing pleasantly by. I had achieved a goal and I sighed with pride. I was experiencing the opening night of my own one- man- show in one of the prestigious galleries in Scottsdale, at the height of the winter season.
When I saw my first professional watercolor painting, I was hooked. I loved the medium. I signed up for a class and was dismayed to learn we were required to paint on small quarter sheets like the hobbyist uses. Not for me! I insisted on using the best handmade A’rches paper from France and always a 22 x 30 or 25 x 40 sheet. And of course, the finest paper required the best paints, Windson Newton, always.
“Watercolor is a water medium, and should have a watery look.” I heard that rule repeated many times when I attended various classes and workshops given by visiting out of state artists.
Smoothing water over the paper with a sponge to just the right degree, and then waiting to start took patience. I learned to wait for the precise point to start laying the pigment on the pristine white paper. The paint is always mixed on the paper, never on the palate! The vibrant colors mingle together as they create vibrant passages. This transparent medium takes the artist by surprise to unimagined places. I learned to go with the flow. I became a purist, vowing to save my whites and never adding another medium to my paintings. I developed my own unique methods and creations using only white paper, paint and water.
I studied every book I could find on composition and design. You see, I was determined to be juried into the Arizona Artists Guild and also the Arizona Watercolorists Association, the measure by which every artist in Arizona was judged. I achieved success with both in the same year with five different submissions for each jurying.
I painted my way up from small art festivals and juried competition to purchase awards to attending the Dallas, Long beach and finally the New York Art Exposition. At the New York Expo I sold hundreds of prints of my images to vendors here in the united States and also Europe. I loaned images to publishers who wanted to “split the run” with me.
The Expo was open to the public on the last day and the wonderful people of New York came and bought my originals; always two, it seemed. One for their apartment and one for their home upstate. We laughed about the couple who deliberated at length over an “elephant size” (25 x 60), and then contacted us when we were back home. They wanted the painting and requested we ship it to their home on Bayshore Drive in The Hamptons!
I was invited by many galleries to have one man shows in California, Colorado, Santa Fe, and other states. It was all fun and exciting but nothing compared to that grand opening night in Scottsdale, years ago.

ater Color World
Memoir Interludes
By
Gerry Niskern
As we pulled in behind the gallery years ago, I was overwhelmed with tremendous joy. I walked in to delight at seeing my paintings lining the walls of both rooms. The soft murmur of patrons blended with the guitar riffs provided by my son flowing pleasantly by. I had achieved a goal and I sighed with pride. I was experiencing the opening night of my own one- man- show in one of the prestigious galleries in Scottsdale, at the height of the winter season.
When I saw my first professional watercolor painting, I was hooked. I loved the medium. I signed up for a class and was dismayed to learn we were required to paint on small quarter sheets like the hobbyist uses. Not for me! I insisted on using the best handmade A’rches paper from France and always a 22 x 30 or 25 x 40 sheet. And of course, the finest paper required the best paints, Windson Newton, always.
“Watercolor is a water medium, and should have a watery look.” I heard that rule repeated many times when I attended various classes and workshops given by visiting out of state artists.
Smoothing water over the paper with a sponge to just the right degree, and then waiting to start took patience. I learned to wait for the precise point to start laying the pigment on the pristine white paper. The paint is always mixed on the paper, never on the palate! The vibrant colors mingle together as they create vibrant passages. This transparent medium takes the artist by surprise to unimagined places. I learned to go with the flow. I became a purist, vowing to save my whites and never adding another medium to my paintings. I developed my own unique methods and creations using only white paper, paint and water.
I studied every book I could find on composition and design. You see, I was determined to be juried into the Arizona Artists Guild and also the Arizona Watercolorists Association, the measure by which every artist in Arizona was judged. I achieved success with both in the same year with five different submissions for each jurying.
I painted my way up from small art festivals and juried competition to purchase awards to attending the Dallas, Long beach and finally the New York Art Exposition. At the New York Expo I sold hundreds of prints of my images to vendors here in the united States and also Europe. I loaned images to publishers who wanted to “split the run” with me.
The Expo was open to the public on the last day and the wonderful people of New York came and bought my originals; always two, it seemed. One for their apartment and one for their home upstate. We laughed about the couple who deliberated at length over an “elephant size” (25 x 60), and then contacted us when we were back home. They wanted the painting and requested we ship it to their home on Bayshore Drive in The Hamptons!
I was invited by many galleries to have one man shows in California, Colorado, Santa Fe, and other states. It was all fun and exciting but nothing compared to that grand opening night in Scottsdale, years ago.

What was your favorite Christmas present?

By

Gerry Niskern

Can you think of the favorite Christmas present that you received in your whole lifetime?

Of course, all of Santa’s surprises were wonderful when you were a kid. I remember rushing down on Christmas morning and finding toys under the tree. Nothing was wrapped. They were just there, right where Santa dropped them!

Then as I got older I became more aware of the true spirit of giving gifts to loved ones at Christmas. In my teens I couldn’t wait to exchange gifts with my girl/boy friends. Then it happened. That special boy gave me a small beautifully wrapped package. Inside was heart shaped locket made of gold and embellished with rose gold. It opened, and inside on either side was a space for two tiny photos.

Years later, at Christmas, my new groom, the Locket Guy, brought a large box home. He shut the bedroom door and tried to quietly wrap the contents of the box. When I heard something clanging and banging on the hardwood floor, I immediately thought, “If he bought me a vacuum cleaner, like some HOUSEWIFE, I’ll kill him!”

On Christmas morning, when I opened his gift to me I found a tiny FeatherWeight sewing machine. I loved it.

Other totally surprising and thoughtful gifts come to mind. : a beautiful silver coffee/tea set for my ladies group meetings, a luxurious Aqua blue gown and robe that he let the kids pick out on their own, Best of all, right after baby number three was born he brought home the latest kitchen item, a portable dishwasher. This tired young mother felt like she had a maid!

Years later, when they first came out, he surprised me with a microwave. I was not happy! I had read too many stories by all the skeptics that they were dangerous and could cause all kinds of health problems. Now, think about it. What would we do without our Microwaves?

Finally, he settled into the tradition of a generous gift card from Barnes and Noble that warmed the heart of this “Book Worm” wife.

So, what was your favorite Christmas gift that you ever received? If I had to choose, I know that I will always treasure the gold heart locket with our tiny photos inside, but I think
the portable dishwasher won, hands down!

Is this the year that you will give someone their all time favorite gift ?

Serenity Found
By
Gerry Niskern
“Okay, are you ready?” my husband yelled as he released our baby at the top of the rapids. The churning, clear water rushed our one year old sitting a raft downward into my arms. The baby was still chortling with delight with his wild ride as I picked him up. Riding the rapids right behind him came his brother and then his sister in their small innertubes.
Our little family was at Red Rock Crossing on the lower Oak Creek. We were there alone for two whole days with the beautiful area to ourselves. Not one ranch truck came thru the crossing. We set up our tent in a grassy area close to the creek. Grand old oaks, cottonwoods and willows surrounded us, casting down their shade. I can still smell the scent of the fallen dew covered oak leaves outside our tent as we stepped out each morning.
I don’t remember what part of the summer it was, must have been late May or early September when Ken came home one day and said, “ Hey, let’s go camping for the rest of the week.” This invitation was highly unusual because he was a guy who preferred nice hotels with room service. But he knew how much I loved the outdoors and I had had a rough year with every childhood disease you can name going thru all the kids. So we loaded up his gold and white Ford pickup with the tent, chairs, playpen, firewood , supplies and headed north.
Cathedral Rock stood watch from a distance as we spent two days riding the rushing water as it hurtled down from the north over the red sandstone formations forming a long chute thru the fiery red rock. The water spread out to cover the crossing road and then dropped down on its journey into a deep pool below the road. The ice cold water was numbing but the hot rocks warmed us right up. Our almost six and almost four year old, brother and sister, scampered up over the sandstone and delighted in the glorious water ride.
We roasted hot dogs and toasted marshmallows and then tucked three sleepy kids into their sleeping bags for the night and zipped up the tent opening. We let the fire burn down to glowing coals and relaxed. All my tension and stress had melted away.
On our last night, The night sky was dazzling with stars and then a perfect full moon came out and the image reflected in the deep pool below. We gazed at the peaceful night scene. “I hate to leave tomorrow, “ I sighed. That’s when Ken got up and checked the sleeping kids and said, “Hey, let’s go skinny dippng”.

NOTE: I can only return to Red Rock Crossing in my memories because a large area of land was purchased by the State of Arizona and the contour of the stream was destroyed. The centuries old massive sandstone formations that created the wonderful chute were removed. The stream was widened considerably. Red Rock State Park was dedicated in October, l991. and our crossing was gone forever.

Thanksgiving memories Revisited

THANKSGIVING, LET’S KEEP IT

By

Gerry Niskern

Everyone knows the “Grinch” stole Christmas, but I would like to know who made off with Thanksgiving. You remember Thanksgiving, the American holiday of feasting, fun and reflecting on our blessings?
Lately, I’ve been hearing many younger couples saying things like, “It’s too much trouble, who needs it, or I’m not getting stuck in the kitchen on my day off.”
I’ll admit just thinking about turkey and all the trimmings for eight or ten extra people can be overwhelming. Look at it this way. It could be worse. At the Pilgrims’ first Thanksgiving, Gov. Bradford invited Chief Massasoit to share their feast. The chief brought ninety men with him and they stayed and celebrated for three days.
Our forefathers started the tradition of sharing food and games with family and friends on the first Thanksgiving, and it’s up to all of us to keep and cherish those family customs.
Traditions, the bonding material of families are held firm by repetition year after year. The special holiday ceremonies are woven into the fabric of a family, stability of a community and the strength of a nation.
For those of a generation who can’t see the point of preparing the annual feast of gratitude, I promise you the investment of precious time and borrowed energy will set in motion a chain reaction of harmony for years to come.
When I slip that bird into the oven this year, the first rays of a pink and silver dawn will be glowing behind the mountain. When we return from breakfast, the aroma of turkey roasting will serenade us up the steps. Later, pungent notes of onion and sage from cornbread stuffing will mingle and blend. Soon the symphony will build to a crescendo with the yeasty tones of homemade rolls.
The lilting giggles of our granddaughter being teased by male cousins will join the tinkle of ice as she fills the glasses.
The new groom and his bride will arrive late. She’ll bring her famous tofu casserole. The soft murmur of women’s voices will blend with the deep male tones as we join hands and give thanks…well, maybe not for the tofu casserole.
Dessert will be the teenage grandson’s mouth-watering apple pie.
During the rest of the day, some will hike up the mountain behind the house. The clickity-clack of Ping-Pong balls will be heard downstairs and a football game will be on for the die-hard sports fans.
Later, we’ll set up the board for our annual Win, Lose or Draw game tournament. The teams range in age from five to eighty-five. Aunt Elsies’ giant size canister of golden homemade caramel corn will disappear as the contest warms up. The guys’ team will lie, cheat and make all kinds of excuses. The girls’ team will win.
A few hardy souls will head for the kitchen for another plate of turkey and dressing. The aroma of a fresh pot of coffee will energize others to finish the pie.
Thanksgiving Day is more than just a day I might spend extra time in the kitchen. It is a celebration of life with a group of people more precious than life itself.
Send dad out to one of the local delis for a roasted turkey if you don’t like to cook. Let someone bring the rolls or a pie or two. Use paper plates. Serve buffet style in from the kitchen counter. Put away the “solitary” Nintendo games and play something everyone, young and old can share together.
That’s what memories are made of. In today’s world, we need those bonds more than ever before.

“PUMPKINVILLE”

By

Gerry Niskern

Do you live in Pumpkinville or is this your first visit? That’s right, Pumpkinville, as Phoenix was called in the early days of our town. Actually, the little town known as Pumpkinville has grown from the first settlers of around 100 families to the 1,625,000 metropolis that is it today.
You see, Phoenix was called Pumpkinville way back around l867 because of all the pumpkins growing along the canals. Who planted them, you might wonder? Well, Jack Swilling planted them. And who was Jack Swilling? Many historians call Jack Swilling the Father of Phoenix.
If the pioneer children of Pumpkinville had wanted to dress up on Halloween, they couldn’t have picked a more notorious character to imitate. Just about every story about early Phoenix starts with Jack Swilling.
Jack Swilling arrived in the Salt River Valley in 1867. He’s been described as a deserter from the Confederate army, visionary, Indian fighter, entrepreneur, scam artist, dope addict, and reported murderer. Some stories circulated that he had killed at least ten people in his lifetime.
He was fascinated with the ancient Hohokam ruins, especially the extensive network of canals the ancient Indians had dug to irrigate their fields. Hohokam, is a name that comes from the Pima word for “people who have gone before”, The Hohokam discovered 2,300 years ago that the miracle of water in the desert can be augmented by human hands.
The Hohokam diverted water from the Salt River through an intricate series of hand-dug canals. Using only the most rudimentary tools, Hohokam builders were able to maintain true grades within their canals. The largest engineering complex located about twenty miles from Phoenix, led from the south bank of the Salt River toward what is now Chandler. The canals along the Salt River are best interpreted at the Pueblo Grande Museum. They cultivated cotton, corn and beans in the irrigated fields, establishing more than 300 miles of canals.
Swilling returned to view the canals several times until one day he realized the farmers could use them. Shortly afterwards, he and his partners began clearing and rebuilding the long-abandoned irrigation canals of the Hohokam. He raised capitol and started Swilling irrigation and Canal Company to bring Salt River water to the valley. Within a short time, the Swilling and Duppa team had water flowing in the canals. Jack Swilling planted pumpkins everywhere he worked. These actions led to the birth of Pumpkinville in 1870. Nowadays the Salt River Project traces its origins to Swilling’s efforts.
The army at Fort McDowell had irrigated an experimental farm using a reconstructed Hohokam canal a year earlier. Later four officers from the fort staked out a water claim on the Salt River. Swilling’s area, known as Pumpkinville of over 100 pioneer homes had been built by this time.
The town may have remained Pumpkinville, but around that time Darrell Duppa, Swilling’s partner in the canal business, suggested the name of Phoenix. The early settlers like the idea of their new city rising from the ashes of the ancient Hohokam ruins, just as the mythical phoenix rose from its own ashes.
Jack Swilling died in Yuma Territorial Prison of natural causes, accused of a stagecoach robbery and murder he didn’t commit.
Due to the efforts of Swilling and Duppa, there were around 100 pioneer families growing wheat and barley in the valley. The pumpkins that grew all along the irrigation canals provided a great supply of Jack-o-Lanterns. If Halloween was celebrated it was most likely to have been a social event involving the whole family.
The goal of most social events was geared to the courting of singles. You could hear the twang of strings and the sound of fiddles sawing coming from parlors around town. Everyone joined in the dancing. Waltzes, Schotisches and muzurkas. If there were any Irish families present, you could count on some scary ghost stories to fit the occasion.
However, most children of the west were far removed from goblins, trolls and spirits from European ghost tales. Who cared about gnomes when real wildcats padded nearby? Fear of Halloween witches gave way to real life encounters with small bands of renegade Apache Indians, as children tried to manage their fright.
Arizona children, according to historian Elliot West, waited until dark to play “all the tigers are gone”, in which the tiger-child would slip off among the boulders while the others spread out through the dark, squealing, “all the tigers are gone”. The tiger, also fearful of the dark, would skulk along close to the others, selecting a victim to pounce upon and tag. Games, like frontier life, called for vigilance.
Today, Phoenix is still a work in progress. Historians are quick to point that never in the world’s history has a metropolis grown from “nothing” to attain the status of Phoenix in a relatively short time
“Pumpkinville” is after all, the world’s largest small town. Every year, in October, the vacant lots around Phoenix are stacked with huge mounds of pumpkins from which the children choose their perfect Jack-o-Lantern.
Pumpkinville has come a long way from the little settlement of 100 rugged families along the Salt River back in the 1800’s.

“Have you been to a Real Football game Lately?”

By

Gerry Niskern

The quarterback on these teams doesn’t make 20 million a year and the halfback on the team didn’t receive a huge signing bonus when he joined. They are required to sign on for workout during the summer. That’s a Valley of the Sun summer of 110 degrees, not a couple of weeks in cool Flagstaff.
.Down on the turf at the high school near us the jerseys were wet with sweat every evening. The slap of pads hitting pads and grunts when spikes hit skin filled the air. One young player said “the wind sprints at the end of practice are the worst”. Then it’s hit the showers and homework time. That’s the scene at every high school in the valley. They might be thinking of the pros, but mostly, those kids just love the game.
One of my earliest memories as kid back East was sitting between my parents at the high school games with the snow piling up on our blanket. And I remember my mother screaming, “They’re piling on our boys!” Of course, after we moved to Arizona, she did that every year at Phoenix Union, too.
The big game in Phoenix was always on Thanksgiving Day between the Phoenix Union Coyotes and their rivals the Mustangs of North High. The red and black against the red and blue was the best game of the year.
Think about taking your family to one of the playoff games at your neighborhood high school. The Vikings are great. So are the Cardinals, the Panthers, Eagles, Knights, Cobras Rockets, Demons, and you name it. The list goes on.
Most games start around 7 on Friday night and are over early. The tickets are reasonable. Maybe you can show your kids the plays you used to make or their mother can teach them her old high school cheers. And as you walk along the side lines, you might feel the tension of the parents who have taxied their sons to their practices year after year, starting with Pop Warner They’ll be the ones secretly praying, “Don’t pile on our boy”.
When the band marches onto the field you’ll find yourself joining in the school song and believe me, you will see a real football game!

They Carried
By
Gerry Niskern
When our family moved to Phoenix in 1942, we stayed in an auto court on West Van Buren while searching for a house. Mom sent my sister and me to the little Chinese grocery down the street every day to buy some items for dinner. The two teenage sons waited on us and what I remember most was how the young guys joked with us. They kept us entertained in our new town. The crackling of the paper bags blended in with our giggles as they sacked up our groceries.
Actually we soon learned that there were several Chinese grocery stores in little neighborhoods in Phoenix. They employed local kids for deliveries, sweeping and stocking. My husband worked for one down on West Lincoln and 19th Avenue. Turned out, my new best friend’s dad owned one of those grocery stores. Their’s was on West Madison and the family lived in the back.
Immigrants to this country have always found that starting a little grocery was a way to start earning a living. My mother used to tell about the Greek man, Mr.Darwishe, who came to town with a sack on his back selling small house hold items to the homemakers. Later on he had a good size grocery on the main street in town. As a child, my mother was sent to the store often. My grandmother refused to buy anything from the “Company Store”, with their bug infested food items, even though Grandpa’s pay was part vouchers for the company store.
When she was only six or seven years old, my mom would gather her items on the counter, climb up a ladder and take down the small receipt book with her family’s name and write down everything she was taking. Mr. Darwishe trusted her completely. Then when payday rolled around on Saturday her dad would go in and settle up with Darwishe.
Every year during the strike (the coal miners “went out” every year) Mr. Darwishe “carried “them, sometimes for three or four months. This was common practice in all the different ethnic grocery stores during those years around this country.
Years later, I remember as a new bride complaining when my young husband swung by Henry’s Chinese store to pick up some items. I wanted to do all our shopping at the big Safeway supermarket. Bult my spouse carefully explained, “Henry “carried” my folks when we first came to Phoenix and once during the Building strike. That’s why we should always come by Henry’s to pick up a few things.”
With the major strikes taking place right now in our country, I’m reminded of those many small grocers of all nationalities of years past. When asked, they almost always answered, “Yes, we carry.”

How Great is That?
By
Gerry Niskern
I sensed someone was watching me as I slept. I opened my eyes to see an excited little face peering down at me. “Hey Grandma Gerry, do you remember that game?” It was 5 A.M! My three-year-old grandson was referring to the game I had introduced him to the night before. Hi Ho Cherries. I think it’s safe to say that was the beginning of the long tradition of playing board games in our family.
I watched the adults play lots of card games when I was a kid, but I was introduced to my first board game, Monopoly, when I was around eight. It belonged to a friend. I loved it. My sister and I asked for that game for Christmas many times. It is still the most popular board game “world wide”. Years later, my youngest grandson loved it too, but I’m sorry to say that if he didn’t get to buy Boardwalk, the board, dice, markers and properties were launched into space!
As time went by we added many other games like Taboo, Scrabble, Gestures, etc. If our kids, grandkids or eventually great-grandkids brought a friend on a holiday and they liked to play games, that was good. We had a lively game called “spoons” and if a new girlfriend lost a fingernail and continued to play, well, she was a “keeper.”
Games were always a wonderful way for family members of all ages to connect. Ages eight to eighty sharpened their social skills and learned to get along together. Games lost favor for a long time, although not with our family. Everyone played on birthday celebrations, and every holiday. Then in the l990’s board games were discovered and became popular with the public again.
Of course, as our family grew and changed, new games were added, but games became less frequent. Covid was a major roadblock for get togethers but I still looked forward to a game or two on the big holidays.
A few weeks ago my great-granddaughter called. “Hey Grandma, we’d like to come over some Sunday and have a game day with you.” She and her older brother, (the off spring of the munchkin who woke me up to play Cherry-O’s all those years ago) and their significant others came over and we played game after game after game.
Those twenty-somethings included a part time Plastic Surgeon Tech, part time ambulance driver currently sending out applications to Med school, a Landscaper, an office administrator and a Physical Therapy student. They want to do it again soon.
How great is that?