Where are the Ukrainian Children?
By
Gerry Niskern
We’ve all heard stories about the Russians taking Ukrainian children during the fighting in Ukraine. According to a recent column by Kris Kristoff the Ukrainian government count at least 11,000 kids known by name taken in the Russian controlled territories. They estimate there are thousands more not identified, with less detail.
Sometimes the parents were told they were just taking them to a safer place and they would be returned. Many were removed from boarding schools and hospitals without the parents knowledge. The parents have tried unsuccessfully to get their children back. But the Russian authorities have demanded paper work impossible to provide as homes and records have been destroyed. Some have already been adopted into Russian families.
When I read these accounts I am reminded of stories I heard years ago during WWII when I was around twelve or so, Mom’s kid brother, Uncle Harry was an electrician on a tanker In the U. S. Navy. Tankers were giant floating fuel stations that serviced all the ships in the U. S. Navy. One German U-boat torpedo and the whole ship could go up in flames. When Uncle Harry was discharged he came to stay with our family before going home to W.VA. He told us about the many places he had seen during the Atlantic campaign and then the Pacific. When asked about the navel battles, he would just drop his head and shrug.
Normally I wasn’t paying much attention, but one day something caught my attention. He was pretty emotional when he told the story.
You see, his ship was the first ship to enter Russian waters after the war was declared over. They sailed into the harbor at Vladivostok in Siberia. Harry was designated the ship’s interpreter and was the liaison officer between the Russian officials and his ship’s captain. He had more freedom to look around and the sight that distressed him so much was the unloading of shipload after shipload of young children, alone without any parents. He cried as he talked about the hundreds of children herded off Russian ships. They had been picked up in Europe and brought around to Siberia. When they disembarked they were marched inland immediately. They were probably used for slave labor. I’m sure they never saw their homeland again.
So yes, Russia does kidnap children.
Stealing another country’s children is a war crime.

Hard times thanksgiving
By
Gerry Niskern
The best word to describe my earliest memory of Thanksgiving is tension, lots of tension.
Standing with our faces pressed against the cold glass of the dining room window, all Mom and I saw was a lacy curtain of swirling snowflakes. She twisted her apron round and round into a knot as she muttered to herself.
A few days earlier my Dad came home and announced he had invited his boss, who was going to be in town during Thanksgiving week, to our turkey dinner. I don’t remember their conversation, but I imagine it went something like this: “Why on earth did you do that? You know I’ve never cooked a turkey dinner!” Mom declared.
“Honey, I couldn’t get out of it. And he said he was bringing his rifle because he’s hoping we can get in a little hunting before dinner.”
“You can’t go. Your leg can’t take that right now. You know the doctor said to stay off of it as much as possible.”
“ I had no choice. I had to extend the invitation and if he still wants to go hunting, I’ll just have to take him. I’ll be careful.”
Dad suffered from a serious accident in his teenage years and had to stand on crutches doing his work as an industrial engineer. He didn’t want to let on to his supervisor and also mentor, on the new project, that he wasn’t in condition to do his job. It was the Depression and if you had a good job, you guarded it fiercely.
My mother had no experience with cooking turkey dinners because her family didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving when she was growing up. I remember the story she told us about rushing home to tell my Austrian grandma about the wonderful American holiday called Thanksgiving she learned of in school that day. “We have to celebrate Thanksgiving. You have to cook a turkey, and lots of good pies too!” she informed grandma. “ That’s how we give thanks for our many blessings in this country.”
Grandma agreed to cook a special big dinner, “but I no buy turkey. We have chickens.” She declared. “And you no give thanks for your blessings on one day, you always give thanks every day.”
So on that day of my earliest memory of Thanksgiving I helped my mother set the table with her best table cloth and brand new set of Fiesta Ware. The bright green, blue, yellow and orange plates waited patiently on the dining table to receive the turkey that was already getting cold, gravy too thick from simmering forever, and the mashed potatoes that had lost their fluff long ago.
As Mom and I stood at the window and strained to see through that West Virginia “white out” I remember vividly the tears in her eyes as she was saying, over and over, “If he’s got himself lost in this blizzard, I’ll kill him!”’

Family of Man
By
Gerry Niskern

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but we are losing something unique in our country.
I realized this change was happening last week when I was being challenged by the “woke police” during ordinary conversations. Yes. You read that right. Me. In my opinion, the most liberal, democratic person on earth was reprimanded for some innocent remarks.
No offense, all you activists, but since when is it forbidden to acknowledge someone’s ethnicity? We are a nation of immigrants and as Americans we have always celebrated our differences. I came from a family that was a mini United Nations. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Austria. As their family grew, Russians, Italians, Americans, Irish and Jews married into the family. As we celebrated holidays each one brought something of their culture to the gathering. We were a living example of the American Melting Pot.
Ken, on the other hand, came from a dusty little town in West Texas. He had no exposure to other nationalities, but in later years he loved meeting people from other countries, in school, church and later in his career. During our marriage we enjoyed many good times with friends from other countries.
Hey guys, there is a fine line that separates normal conversation and vindictiveness, but it is an strong one , not to be confused. We should be bringing everyone together; stop trying to prove how “correct” you are by correcting others.
Here’s an idea. Let’s all get off the “woke patrol”. We need to agree not to search for a reason to challenge everyone’s utterances for no good reason. It is impossible to imagine what America would be like without all the different races woven into the fabric of American life. Mentioning someone’s ethnic background in conversation is not a “slur”, it’s conversation. Let’s not lose the unique ability in our country to mix and share differences.
Remember, we are all the family of man.

“Do You Vote Like your Daddy?”

By

Gerry Niskern

This column ran in the Arizona Republic a few elections ago, but it bears repeating more than once! Most voters never change, but this year women voters matter!

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?

Anything Goes!
By
Gerry Niskern
A good question was posed online the other day. What should the cut off age be for kids trick or treating?
Some say it should be twelve or fourteen; and even then the tricksters should be in costume, in the spirit of the holiday. No one appreciates having the door bell ring at ten o’clock to find a group of teens, not even wearing a mask, holding out pillowcases to be filled.
In West Virginia where I grew up Halloween parties for school age kids in private homes were the order of the day. The most important aspect of the party was to be the last one who’s identity was guessed. Everyone went to great lengths to masquerade, arrive separately from the siblings, anything to fool the party-goers.
Back then, the older teenage boys took the “ trick” part seriously on Halloween. I can remember one late evening when our family arrived home to find all our porch furniture up high in our big oak tree. Another year the older farm boys actually dug up the pieces of cement that formed our walkway to the house. After our lights were out for the evening they proceeded to drop the large chunks onto the front porch. It sounded like a bomb and our little frame house shook violently. On other years they would throw handfuls of dry corn at the windows after dark. “That’s nothing” my mom used to say. “When I was a kid the older boys used to roam the town turning over out-houses!”
So actually, if the teens don’t want to go with the little kids and are not invited to the elaborate adult parties, where does that leave them? Back to a crazy tee shirt and a pillowcase. They better go trick or treating earlier because due to the Pandemic and supply chains interruptions, there is a shortage of candy this year. Candy companies are struggling to meet their customers demands.
I couldn’t even find my favorite, candy corn. Everyone was sold out!

THAT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN

The heavy wind storm and tornado that affected part of Arizona last Monday reminded me of a “tornado that wasn’t” several years ago in Phoenix when the insurance companies insisted that they didn’t happen here.

When you read about all those tornados that hit the south and Midwest every year aren’t you glad we don’t have tornados in the Phoenix area? Tell the truth. Do you think, a little smugly, “Well, we might have horrific heat in the summer, but at least we don’t have tornados?

Actually, one day in the late l970’s, my # 2 son, a teenager, and I were standing at the kitchen window looking out in amazement. We thought we were just having a super size dust storm, but something different was happening. The house was shaking. At around five-thirty the sky had turned an eerie green. Large sections of shingles were swooping by, followed by huge wood structures hurtling past. I remember trying to yell above the roar that sounded like a freight train was bearing down us, “I think we should get in an inside doorway. Something weird is happening!” We headed for the inside pantry.

My husband was on his way home when from the West valley when he heard on the car radio that a funnel cloud was moving toward the central Phoenix area. Breaking all speed limits, he reached our neighborhood in time to see the entire roof of my parent’s house under construction, down below our little mountain, lying on the other side of the street.

He raced up our steps and burst in the door. “Hurry, hurry” he yelled. “Upstairs!”
We ran up behind him and suddenly, we were looking at bare sky. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I was numb with shock and told myself, “This is not happening. This must be a dream.” We were standing in our bedroom and rain was stinging our faces!

My husband raced back downstairs to go purchase large plastic tarps to stretch across the rooftop. He carried up his extension ladder and climbed up on what was left of the roof and started nailing the cover down. My son was still numb with disbelief when his dad yelled down to him, “get on up on the ladder and grab the ends and nail them down.” He looked at me and yelled, “But, mom, what if the son-of-a bitch comes back?”

The next morning, when assessing the damage, we saw that the funnel cloud had totally lifted the roof structure from my folks house and all the framing inside was swirled like a giant spoon had stirred it. We learned later that the tornado had destroyed a large building on Seven Ave, South of Camelback, swept north and ripped apart the condos on a little mountain right off Twelfth Street and then slammed into our house on top 14th street. It swooped down and destroyed my parent’s construction site and moved on out to Paradise Valley where it uprooted some trees.

Later on, the insurance companies and the weather bureau debated long and hard if it was actually a tornado. Most insurance companies finally reluctantly paid homeowners for damages, still arguing that “the Phoenix area doesn’t have tornados.”

Home Sweet Home, Not!
By
Gerry Niskern
Do you know a young couple or family new to this country who would like to buy a home, a simple starter home?
Buying a starter home in 2022 is almost impossible. Thinkng back and comparing the ease of buying our first home in 1954 to the herculean task for first time buyers in today’s world is shocking; and it is so unfair.
Back when “the dinasours” ruled the earth, as our grandkids like to say, we bought our first, brand new, three bedroom, two bath home for nothing down, and $375 closing costs! We had one child and another on the way. The wage owner’s monthly salary had to be $300 a month or higher. Ken asked his boss to fudge on the numbers on the application, but he refused. Instead he raised him up to $300!
I know, in today’s world, those numbers are laughable. Our new home cost $4,500 and our payments were $45 per month, in cluding taxes. Our builder, in Phoenix, also built a grade school for the sub-division and a community swimming pool. It was a modest Public pool, but a welcome addition to the area.
While we waited for our new home to be completed, Ken worked many side jobs to save up for our appliances which did not come with the house; while I sewed pleated draw drapes for the windows.
We were the first ones to have grass and with a ton of effort, Ken dug up and replanted two mature orange trees in our front yard, from a orchard closing down.
He fenced the back yard and soon added a ranch style porch across the front. Then we paved the carport and driveway.
Our little house came with dark brown tile throughout. Ken covered it with new carpet as jobs permitted. When we moved in we had a card table and chairs in the kitchen, a hand-me-down couch and two lawn chairs in the living room, our brand new box springs and mattress in the master bedroom and our toddlers crib in her room.
How’s that for a “starter home”? It wasn’t easy, but it was exciting and fun too. Millions of young people would like the same chance to own a home today, but the opportunity is not there.
As recently as the l990’s modest three bedroom houses were selling for $99,000 to $l25,000. Our grandson bought their first home for $89,000 in 1994, but no one’s building those today. The economics of the housing market and all the local rules have squeezed out starter homes. Communities passed laws that ensured builders couldn’t construct smaller, more affordable homes. Also the cost of land, building materials and government fees are to blame.
Communities need to allow the building of more starter homes. The supply has been slashed by more than half over the last five years. There is construction for the rich and the poor, but nothing in between.
Cheaper older starter homes are nearly as hard to find. Families who desperately need them are edged out by investors who buy them to rent them out. Sooner or later the laws and regulations on corporations owning huge amounts of small hommes will have to change.
Sadly, those starter homes are now occupied by renters who cannot afford to buy them.

“Who is that masked stranger?”

by

Gerry Niskern

I woke to the sound of something running overhead. How could that be? Was it mice in the attic? If so, they were a new species weighing at least 50 pounds each. I convinced myself the sounds were probably a cat on the roof and I drifted back to sleep.
we’d purchased a home in the North Phoenix foothills. Every morning in the silver-pink light of dawn we delighted in watching the abundant wildlife. We could see rabbits nibbling on the dewy clumps of desert grass. In the middle of the day orange and black chuckawallas were usually “catching a few rays” on the gray shale rocks above the house. More exciting was the occasional bronze king snake curled up inside our garden hose. In the evening, as the safety of twilight settled over the mountains a fox, coyote or raccoon, followed by two smaller ones, might be seen traveling quickly and quietly down our street and disappearing into the darkness.
We loved entertaining our friends with stories of finding raccoons in our swimming pool area. We watched them slapping at the water in the Jacuzzi; obviously thinking there were fish at the bottom when they saw the movement of the self-cleaning spouts popping up.
We were often awakened at night when our wrought iron gate clanged as they squeezed their fat bodies through. If that didn’t wake us, the sounds of the squeaky voice of the mama communicating to the young that “they had five more minutes and then out of the pool and dry off”. If my husband went down to shoo them away, they just raised up from the deck and stared at him.
Later we learned It’s that direct look right at you with the cute mask of black around the eyes that convinces people raccoons are friendly, adorable creatures. Wrong! The delightful sight of a raccoon stopping two feet away and gazing steadily at you is not a friendly gesture.It is an act of aggression; they want you to back down. An adult racoon can do great harm to a human. I also learned that their droppings carry a type of leukemia devastating to humans.
One day at noon I saw one of the furry invaders peering intently at me from our roof top. I realized something was wrong. Raccoons are nocturnal and wouldn’t be out at noon unless…of course…..the footsteps at night…. They were living in the attic of our house!
I immediately embarked on a futile search for a city, county or state agency to come and get rid of them. There are all kinds of organizations who deal with wildlife, but none is interested in catching an adult raccoon for a homeowner. If there is a litter of kits they will come for them, but if it’s older raccoons, you’re on your own, always with the stern instructions, “don’t harm them.”
After days on the phone I finally reached a state biologist who assured me that I probably had a mama raccoon returning to her place of birth to drop her kits. That is their custom. She explained how they reach through the large vents on the end of your attic and rip the protective screen off with their human-like paws. They only need six inches to shove their head between the vents and then squeeze their chubby bodies into your home, soon to be theirs. No qualifying and nothing down.
I soon developed a close friendship with the State biologist as we tried her daily suggestions on how to rid our home of these squatters. We baited a cat trap with tuna tied in a bag in the cage. We papered over the vents so we would know if they left. We spread flour on the roof below to check for footprints every day. Each morning I tapped on the ceiling of the corner of each room to see if they were still up there. To my dismay, I’d hear the shifting bodies as I disturbed their sleep under the rafters.
After tiring of uninvited revelers partying in our attic every night, my husband decided pay a visit to the guest quarters. Armed with his weapon of choice, a large can of insect repellent, he crawled on his stomach as far back towards their cozy nest as he could and emptied the can. A large raccoon ran toward him. He threw up his arm, yelled and it veered off and away.
After a few days of checking the trap and vents, we covered the vents with hardware screen. It became obvious the raccoon and her relatives had moved out of our penthouse apartment.
Several evenings later, while watching TV in another room, I heard the screen door to the balcony rattle. Checking, I found it slid open about five inches. I saw a very pregnant mama raccoon and two young ones scurry away. The mama then stopped and stared at me. Later she opened the screen door again.
My husband went outside and gave her a surprise soaking with the hose. She seemed to accept the fact that she was not going to drop her kits inside our house this time and waddled laboriously down the steps.
We still saw her and her little ones at dusk from time to time; and later that year we heard that the next neighbor down the street was having terrible time with raccoons.

Two Princesses
By
Gerry Niskern

When I heard on Thursday that Queen Elizabeth had passed away one thing popped into my mind……Paper Dolls!
Many years ago my sister and I shared a wonderful big book of paper dolls (look it up) of the two little English princesses. We were in seventh heaven. Imagine! Two little princesses who were sisters and best of all, they were almost our ages. Elizabeth was two years older then my sister and Margaret Rose was two years older than me.
We punched out their cardboard figures and carefully cut out each wonderful outfit they were to wear. Our imaginations took over as we played with the dolls. Many scenarios took place as we imagined their lives and acted them out. Coronations, Royal Weddings, Baptisms; we did it all.
Just one thing though; I never got to be Elizabeth, the future Queen, because as my sister told me repeatedly, “She’s my age, the oldest, so I am Elizabeth and you have to be the little sister, Margaret Rose.” Big sisters have to make tough calls, I guess. We played dress up and pretended, dreamed of being a princess ourselves some day. We heard bits and pieces about the English princesses lives during WWII on the radio, in news reels at the movies, and in anything we could get our hands on to read. We learned that as a toddler Elizabeth had some reins attached to her crib so she could sit and pretend she was riding her pony anytime she wanted. We also learned that her nanny of many years was instructed to always wear brown or grey so she wouldn’t detract from the sisters costumes in public.
We knew that the girls stayed at Windsor, just outside of London during the bombing. Their parents stayed at Buckingham Palace. We heard the broadcast by Elizabeth to the many English children who were sent away for safety by their parents.
Later, we read all about Elizabeth and Phillip’s wedding and then when she became Queen we watched her Coronation on television. At last we could see her life in real time. We watched it all as we were growing up and became mothers just as she did. As the years went by, we were aware of her children’s marriages, divorceses and the heartbreaking rifts that occurred in her family as they do in the lives of all little girls who dream of being princesses and grow up to become mothers too.
Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, lived their life in public view. Elizabeth served her time as Monarch with propriety and steadfastness and had to make some tough calls. She didn’t allow her younger sister to marry the man she loved, Peter Townsend. He was a divorced man and as the Queen she couldn’t allow it according to the church. She took a ton of flak for that call. When England recently celebrated her Platinum Jubilee and the Royal family appeared on the balcony of Buckingham Palace she didn’t allow Prince Andrew, Prince Harry and Megan to appear there with the other “working Royals”. Another tough call by the older sister.
Margret Rose’s big sister died this year and my sister did too

“Labor With Love”

By

Gerry Niskern

Labor Day was the signal of the end of the season at my parents business each year. They started their small manufacturing plant and retail store where they produced evaporative cooler pads and sold new coolers and parts here in the valley in l950.
At that time, the majority of residents used evaporative coolers.
When they opened, my dad, a time study engineer, had everything planned down to the last detail. The retail store was in front and in the large back facility he positioned work tables, the rolls of cheesecloth and bales of shredded aspen needed. Every motion was planned down to the last detail.
When they placed the first ad for “unskilled” seasonal workers, only women applied. Some were Anglo and one was Mexican, the first of many Mexican women who worked there. No one cared if they were illegal, had green cards, or were born here.They exchanged ideas on life and families as they worked together making the pads, laughing and talking. Heating and Cooling service men would stop by for parts and pads and kid around with the workers. Of course, they had to keep it quiet down if the Spanish program was broadcasting the daily soap opera.
Ernestina, the original Mexican lady returned to work year after year. In the off season she worked at Phoenix Linen supply. Her husband worked a seasonal job at Anderson-Clayton cotton gin. They were raising four children in a home with a dirt floor and outside shower. All four kids eventually graduated from ASU.
Most of the Anglo women who applied only worked one season for something special they wanted to buy for their home. Nellie, the second Mexican lady, came the second year. She worked at a bathing suit factory in the off season. She made fresh tortillas every morning for her family and always brought some to share.
One Black lady was their shaker for a few seasons. She shook and fluffed the damp excelsior so the women could grab loose handfuls more easily. They never had another shaker as good.
Mom hurried from the customers up front to the back room helping and supervising the women. She made them fresh coffee at break time which she served with liberal doses of her views on morals, democracy and whatever she had baked the night before.
As years went by the Anglos went on to better jobs and more Mexicans women answered their ads. Mom eventually learned some Spanish and they learned English.
By Labor Day, the season was over. Come the New Year, the help wanted ad ran again and the chance for honest labor was offered: No matter what your ethnic background or legal status. No one cared