Category Archives: opinion

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OUR ANNUAL USELESS GIFT-GIVING GUIDE 2023

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

It’s that time of year again, when we perform a public service by providing a list of “can’t miss” gifts for those you love.  Or hate.  You get to choose.

First up, for the narcissist, the Selfie Toaster.  It’s a toaster that puts your picture on every slice of toast.  Those of you who are long-term subscribers know my dislike for selfies and this gift seems to exemplify everything that is wrong about the constant need to see yourself.  Plus, the manufacturer recommends using white bread to get the best image.  I say people who need to view themselves on toast at the breakfast table deserve all of the bad nutrition white bread offers.

While we’re on food, for the pizza lover I suggest The Pizza Pouch.  It conveniently holds a slice, either between bites or, if they want to save it for later, it can be slid into the pizza pouch and worn around the neck until they’re hungry. Not only will it keep the pizza slice nice and fresh, but it’ll also keep their pockets from getting greasy from stuffing pizza slices into their pants pockets, like normal people do.

And continuing on the ingestion theme, why not get that wine lover on your list The Wine Bra? Although the one in the photo is for women, they also make a version for men that wraps around their waist, so it looks like a beer belly.  This gift is convenient, whether the person is at a party or simply trying to sit through a boring sermon in church.  Who doesn’t need a bra that provides a little lift?

Right about now you might be thinking I’ve lost my marbles.  You could be right.  But I know I’m not alone and if you have a friend like me I have the perfect gift suggestion:  their Lost Marbles.  The trick will be getting them to remember where they left their marbles.  That seems to be a growing problem.

And speaking of growing, how about tormenting the children in your family?  You can give the perfect stocking stuffer: Donut Seeds!  Imagine all the fun you will have watching them bury Cheerios in the back yard and expectantly waiting for donuts to appear.  Strap on the wine rack bra and you really have the perfect night of entertainment.

For the hirsute man in your life, I offer up the Beard Bouquet.  Just think of the chills that will run up your spine when you open the door and these flowers are offered. Personally, all I can think of is that the flowers and leaves add more bacteria to facial hair that is already harboring food particles from yesterday’s breakfast.  I wouldn’t accept these flowers even if they were adorned on one of the Kelce brothers.

Finally, a joke gift with a bit of sentimentality: The Inflatable Cow.  This gift may not be for everyone, but for me and one of my oldest friends, it is perfection itself.  Thirty-five years ago, we moved into houses across the street from each other, and became best friends.  We prided ourselves in coming up with funny practical jokes. One year she burned her Christmas Cornish game hens and they “ding dong ditched” us with them.  The next night we tied red ribbons around the game hens and hung them from the maple tree in their front yard. I could go on and on about all the goofy, fun tricks we played on each other, but one of the best happened on a dark December night when drove onto our street and found a huge plywood cow, adorned with twinkling Christmas lights, on our front lawn.  It was a priceless sight.  This year, Alan has died, and her husband just went into a memory care home.  We are a long way from those fun, stupid jokes.  But when I saw this inflatable cow, I couldn’t help but smile and think of all the fun from that wonderful time in our lives.

I hope some of these stupid gifts bring a smile to your face too.  If not, try taking a smiling selfie and put it on a piece of toast.

 

 

 

customized plates that ensure your face is successfully imprinted on every slice of toast it serves up.  Anyone ordering simply needs to upload a selfie (the bigger, the better) recommends white bread for the best imprint,

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THANKFUL

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

       Dash and Lilly’s date

Two important events happen in the latter part of November -Thanksgiving and Dash the Wonder Dog’s birthday.  I have much to be grateful for this year, but first things first.  Last Thursday Dash turned 11 and celebrated with his girlfriend, Lilly.  As you can see, he’s licking his chops because she is so darn cute.  She not only brought him a spiffy birthday toy, but she also paid for his breakfast! That made her even more attractive.  She will turn 11 next month and her owners, Bob and Dahl, and I hope Dash and Lilly will be celebrating for many years to come.

 

             Dash on my leg

I was talking about Dash the other day when someone commented, “You know, he’s got you well trained.  You need to treat him like a dog.”  I’m glad Dash wasn’t within earshot of that comment.  A dog, indeed.  I am well aware that he has the upper paw in this relationship, but it has been well-earned.  After all, he gained his nickname, “The Wonder Dog”, when on his first day in our home, he turned my husband, Alan, from an indifferent dog owner into a complete sap.  Over the years he became our loving companion, whether we were sitting on the couch or traveling hours in a car.  As long as he was with us, we were all content.  He brought joy to others when he worked as a therapy dog and has excited countless children who have approached him for a pat and the occasional lick.  In the past four months since Alan’s death, Dash has been my anchor.  He has provided structure for my day and a reason to get up in the morning.  He demands to be fed (on time!) and jauntily takes me outside for a walk each day.  His head resting on my leg is all the comfort I could ask for. At night, he curls up on a pillow next to mine, and as I nuzzle into his downy fur, he looks me in the eye as if to let me know everything will be okay.  His snoring can resemble a freight train, but mostly it is a rhythmic, soft sound next to my ear that lets me know I’m not alone.  He has a heart condition and eleven is getting up there for a Cavalier, so I don’t know how long I will have him.  But I do know this: as long as I am drawing breath, Dash will be spoiled rotten.

So good it has its own Facebook page

As for Thanksgiving, obviously I will have an empty chair at my table this year.  There have been some moments when I’ve thought about pulling the covers up over my head until January 2 and just let the holidays slide by.  But on reflection, I realized that although life will never again be the same for me, I am lucky to have had almost four decades with a wonderful husband.  Over the past four months I have been blessed by the warm embrace of family and friends, who have sustained me through a very tough time. What better time than the holidays to celebrate that?  So especially this week as we pause to give thanks, I want to express my gratitude to my family, friends and to so many of you who have reached out to me.  You have put the “thanks” in my Thanksgiving.  I wish everyone the very happiest of holidays this week.  Remember to have that second slice of pie!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in opinion

DON’T LEAVE THEM LAUGHING

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I was listening to a late-night talk show a couple of weeks ago when the host said, “Diane Feinstein died today.  How could they tell?”  The audience, primarily composed of young people, roared with laughter.  Of course, given her recent cognitive and physical health issues, their perception of her was of an older, feeble woman.  But I remember someone quite different.  Back in 1978 I was working in the financial district of San Francisco when George Moscone and Harvey Milk were assassinated.  This was long before shootings became an everyday occurrence, so everyone in the community was shocked.  Diane Feinstein was the president of the Board of Supervisors, so she became the acting mayor that day.  She immediately took charge of the situation; she was a steady hand on the tiller, bringing calm and order to the ensuing days and weeks.

Feinstein at Stanford

Feinstein was well-suited to the task; she had plenty of experience in navigating rough waters.  She was the daughter of a prominent surgeon and she and her two sisters enjoyed the privileges of an upper-class lifestyle. But unbeknownst to anyone outside the family, her mother, Betty, suffered from an undiagnosed brain disorder and was prone to angry — even violent — outbursts. She once tried to drown one of the girls in the bathtub. Feinstein later said that she and her sisters lived on tenterhooks throughout their childhood.  Feinstein eventually graduated from Stanford with a degree in History and began work at a non-profit foundation. She also married during this time and had a daughter, but the marriage was short-lived.  In 1960 Governor Pat Brown appointed her to the California Women’s Parole Board, on which she served until 1966.

A lost bet

In 1969 she was elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, a position she held until her ascension to mayor that sad day in 1978. Prior to becoming mayor, her most flamboyant act was to appear at the opening of Pier 39 in a bathing suit.  As Board president she had been dismayed by the lack of progress on the project.  The developer assured her it would open on time, to which she replied, “If it opens on schedule, I’ll wear a bikini to the ribbon cutting.”  To her chagrin, the project did open on schedule, although only half of the attractions and restaurants were completed.  So, her compromise was to wear a one-piece suit to the ceremonies.

 

The cable car restoration

Just a few months after the Pier 39 opening the assassinations took place and Feinstein was all business. She was the first woman and the first Jewish person to hold the position.  The all-male power structure in The City didn’t know quite what to make of her, but she forged ahead.  In 1979 she won the mayoral race by a slim majority and began to systematically work on improving the quality of life in the city.  Her accomplishments were significant.  In 1979 the historic cable car system in San Francisco, so symbolic of the city, was shut down for repairs.  By 1982 the system had to stop operations entirely.  Feinstein lobbied vigorously for Federal money and raised private funds to restore the system.  She instituted the modern Fleet Week, a celebration of Navy shipbuilding and Blue Angel air shows.  She and her husband, Richard Blum, donated a herd of twelve bison to Golden Gate Park to keep the “bison tradition” alive.  By the time she ran for reelection in 1983 she garnered 80% of the vote.

After leaving the mayor’s office she ran unsuccessfully for governor in 1990, and then in 1992 became the first of two women (Barbara Boxer being the other) elected as Senator from California.  She had a long – too long – career in the Senate.  Which brings me to my point.  The younger people who laughed at the late-night host’s joke about her only think of her as old and doddering.  They would not recognize the Diane Feinstein I remember when she was vital and accomplished.  The truth is, she stayed on stage too long.  One wishes that if she lacked the ability to retire, that someone close to her would have persuaded her to do so.  The same can be said for a lot of politicians.  I wish more would take the position of Mitt Romney, who said the following when he announced that he would not run for re-election: “I spent my last 25 years in public service of one kind or another. At the end of another term, I’d be in my mid 80s. Frankly, it’s time for a new generation of leaders.”  Romney realizes that it’s not always a good thing to leave them laughing.

Posted in opinion

THE HOUSE THAT ROURED

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

For the past ten years Alan and I had an ongoing discussion about our house.  He loved it and never wanted to move.  I sought out smaller homes with less maintenance.  I told him that if he died before me, I would sell the house the very next day.  Not because I don’t love it – God knows I do – but the maintenance is a killer.  Fast forward to reality.  Shortly after Alan got sick, I decided that I don’t really want to sell the house.  We bought the lot twenty-five years ago and built our dream house. Now, it is a place of comfort for me.  But lest I give you the impression that it’s all sunshine and unicorns, I need to point out that I was right about the maintenance.  I have become the female equivalent of Tim “Tool Time” Allen.

First, two days after Alan died, the air conditioner went out.  This is not a good thing during the hottest July on record. The first technician told me that our condensation line was blocked, and the only fix was to run a new line over the roof.  Ka-ching! Luckily our regular guy was assigned a few days later to do the work and he determined the line could be blown out with nitrogen.  So… first home crisis averted.  Five days later I drove two miles to the UPS store to mail some documents and picked up a flange and bolt in my tire.  For those of you who are thinking, “Hey, cars have nothing to do with houses”, you are wrong.  Cars are house-adjacent. First of all, they are under the roof so that counts.  Second, the only time you love spending money on them is when they’re new.  After that it’s just a long string of “un-fun” money: oil changes, major tune-ups, tires. Just as with a house, once the rosy glow of the purchase is over, it’s just a lot of maintenance.  Anyway, I got the tire patched and went on my way.

I can see the pool again!

Next, a tree next to our pool obviously got ahold of some steroids because it grew exponentially over a two-week period of time. I watched our pool guy have to duck under a huge limb just to sweep the pool, not to mention the debris the tree dropped in his pristine waters.  So, I had a tree trimmer come over to cut off the offending limb.  The pool guy thanked me the next week.  So did the bank account of the tree guy.  The following Monday I watched our landscapers as they “worked” in our yard.  I’ve never paid much attention to them because Alan loved taking care of the landscaping. But on that Monday, I watched one crew member use a blower in the front yard while the second guy sat in the truck on his phone for 20 minutes.  When the first guy moved with his blower to the back yard, the second guy got out of the truck, strapped on a blower, and proceeded to re-blow what the first guy had just blown.  Clearly, something had to change, and I wasn’t hopeful that it would be their work ethic, so I fired them.  I hired a new landscaper, but that landscaper doesn’t work with the irrigation controller the old company used so I had to buy a new one.  Ka-ching!

The very definition of “unfun” money

The following week an icon on the refrigerator began to flash and I discovered it needed a new air filter.  Another day, another technician.  He also told me the panel on my oven needs to be replaced.  The price is the cost of a small car.  I’m waiting on that one.  The next day I went out to our patio and saw that the cushions on the furniture were fraying.  No use having a patio if you can’t sit out there. Not exactly home maintenance, but close enough. I called the Cushion King to get them recovered. I think he is a “king” because of his vast holdings. During this time I noticed that the air pressure in the tire that was patched was consistently lower than the other three.  After consulting my son-in-law, who knows a lot about cars, he told me I was borderline for needing new tires and for peace of mind I should just go ahead and get new shoes for the car.  Ka-ching, Ka- ching!

I’ve discovered that animal husbandry is also part of home maintenance. In the past two months I have had to dispose of two dead birds that did Kamikaze maneuvers into our windows.  I’ve picked two scorpions up off the bathroom floor. But the real challenge was, for the first time in 23 years, a Colorado River Toad appeared in our yard – in the dog run, no less.  These toads are very dangerous for animals, as their primary defense system is glands that produce a poison potent enough to kill a dog.  I wasn’t going to let that toad anywhere near Dash the Wonder Dog, so I got a shovel under him and hurled him over the wall.  I like to think of it as my version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Finally, last Wednesday I went to take a shower and there was no hot water.  The water heater is less than two years old so I couldn’t believe it had already given up the ghost.  After five minutes the water finally got hot, at which point I remembered that the water heater is connected to a circulation timer gizmo (not sure that’s exactly what it’s called).  Sure enough, a power outage the previous day had knocked out the timer and the programming.  I was not about to call another tradesman.  So I did what any reasonable person would do: I looked up how to program it on YouTube.  Admittedly it took three attempts to figure out the timer, the on/off programming, and the mode, but I did it! Plumbers must hate YouTube.

Who knows what is next?  I do know this: it will be something and that something will be expensive. In all the years we’ve lived here we’ve never had this many issues in so short a period of time. I’ve had thoughts that Alan is orchestrating this to prove to me that I can take care of this house.  I have reflected that we were both right – the house is a keeper, and the maintenance is a killer.  But I’m going to keep plugging away.  I’m not going to trade it in for a smaller version unless that house comes with a built-in handyman who can make a mean margarita.

Posted in opinion

THAT DAY

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It’s been twenty-two years since “that day”.  September 11 is a date that remains indelibly imprinted in the minds of those of us who watched it unfold. I can still remember almost every minute of “that day” – watching the aftermath of the first plane crash and listening to the TV announcers speculate that it was an errant private plane.  Shortly, of course, we knew it wasn’t an errant plane, but a deliberate attack.  It is still difficult to think about the people who perished that day – people who left home for work on a bright, blue-sky Tuesday morning and never returned.  The very notion of that was – is – frightening.  I don’t think we can collectively sleep quite as soundly ever again.  We learned on “that day” that there are people in the world who wish us harm.  My brothers and I grew up benefiting from the goodwill America garnered from the Second World War.  The notion of being hated was unthinkable.  But September 11 showed us that we can no longer assume that we are perceived as the “world’s good guys”. Now we live in the shadow of “that day” and the impact it has on us continues, especially when we travel.  Before September 11 we could book a flight at the last minute, run through the airport to our gate, and hope the door didn’t hit us on the rear as we boarded our flight.  Now we have to get to the airport hours early, remove our shoes as we enter a security check, and limit the amount of shampoo we carry.

Socially, it brought on a lot of change too. In fact, I’m not sure we yet fully understand the toll that it took on us. Surely our national mindset was altered after watching all of the carnage and grief of “that day”. In the immediate aftermath of September 11 we managed to put our differences aside, but that fraternity has since dissipated.  Contentious elections, warring political extremes and social media have altered how we behave.  The COVID-19 pandemic placed even more strain on our psyche, and it shows no sign of abating.  Just this morning I read about people arguing over vaccines and mask mandates at a local forum.

As someone who recently experienced loss, I have a new appreciation for all of the September 11 families, who, without warning, lost a loved one on “that day”.  None of us can truly understand the void they were left with when their loved one perished so suddenly and in such a violent manner.  But I do know this: we all suffer some residual grief from those attacks.  The losses and changes from the pandemic have only added to it.  So many people now are short-tempered and it’s showing up in our everyday encounters.  Last week the local news reported that 81% of Arizonans have been the recipient of road rage.  That is a huge number, but based on my personal observation I suspect it is correct.

Lifting a middle finger on our roadways, or getting angry at a store clerk, or making demeaning comments on social media is not a sustainable construct for our society. So, what do we do?  I don’t think we throw up our hands and say it’s too large of a problem to solve.  My suggestion is we each try to make a small dent in the problem. If we acknowledge that we all have all experienced trauma since “that day”, then we should treat everyone we meet as we treat someone in grief: with kindness. 

Today the National September 11 Memorial and Museum is airing a documentary featuring first-person accounts of the attacks and their aftermath.  One of the survivors said in her interview, “It’s important that we remember the kindness, and that we take care of ourselves and other people, as we did that day.”

Kindness.  What a wonderful legacy of “that day”.

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LIVE WITH JOY, CHEER THE TEAM, EAT THE CAKE

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Finally, it is college football season once again.  I have waited almost eight months for the season to begin, and yet, it is tinged with some sadness.  The conference realignment – and the collapse of the Pac 12 – has made this season bittersweet.  Almost all of the traditions and rivalries will end this season and the Pac 12 teams will scatter to the winds.  Or the Midwest.  The advent of NIL (name, image, likeness) has forever changed the landscape of college sports.  The notion of a “student athlete” has been reduced to a money grab.  A few months ago I suggested to a friend that the major colleges stop providing academic scholarships to the big-time sports stars so that deserving students who actually want to attend college for an education might use those slots.  The major conferences in football and basketball could develop semi-pro programs, intended for the sole purpose of providing a pipeline of players for the pros.  No pretense of attending those pesky classes would be required, just play ball and collect the money. Regardless of how all this shakes out, college football has changed forever and we either go with it or give it up. I’m not ready to give it up.

Last week, buried in the headlines about conference realignments, was an uplifting story about Sister Jean, the team chaplain for the Loyola Ramblers men’s basketball team.  The sister turned 104 on August 21 and she is still going strong. The Sister was born Jean Dolores Schmidt, in 1919, the same year as our mother.  She was raised in San Francisco, so I like to imagine that Sister Jean and our mother crossed paths at some point, although I suspect Sister Jean was much more serious than our mom, who loved a good gin rickey when she saw one.  Sister Jean attended St. Paul’s High School in the beautiful St. Paul’s Cathedral in SF and played on the girl’s basketball team.  After graduation in 1937 she entered the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary convent in Iowa.  She eventually returned to California to further her education, earning BA and MA degrees.  She taught school in California until 1961, when she moved to Chicago to teach at Mundelein College. She was hired by Loyola in 1991 when it merged with Mundelein.  She planned to retire in 1994 but was asked by the administration to stay on as the team chaplain to the men’s basketball team to help student athletes keep up their grades so they could maintain their eligibility to play. Imagine that.

Sister Jean cheering on the team in 2018

She steadily provided counsel to the students and cheered on the basketball team without fanfare. In 2018 she became a household name when the team made a Cinderella run to the national semifinals — the farthest Loyola Chicago has made it in the NCAA Championship Tournament since 1963. Sister Jean’s spirited antics on the sidelines attracted national media attention and won over the hearts of viewers across the country.  Afterwards she quipped, “It only took me 98 years to become an overnight sensation.” In March 2021, after getting vaccinated against COVID-19, and at the age of 101, Sister Jean traveled to Indianapolis to watch Loyola beat the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets and eventually make it to the Sweet Sixteen.

Sister Jean celebrating her 104th birthday

Today Sister Jean still keeps the door to her office open for students to drop in and chat. She is still active as the team chaplain, emailing scouting reports, encouragement and advice to each of the players after every game. And she still opens every home game with a prayer, in which she urges the refs to make good calls, the players to share the ball and God to nudge the Ramblers to a big W. Last year, at the age of 103, she published a book, Live with Purpose!,  filled with her trademark sense of humor and good-natured observations about her century of life.  On her birthday last Monday, she celebrated with the students and CAKE!  I love this woman!  Today she will throw out the first pitch at the Cubs’ game against the Brewers at Wrigley Field and on August 31, Sister Jean will be honored with a block party at Loyola’s Water Tower Campus.

What’s not to admire about a woman who lives her life with joy, cheers on college sports teams and eats cake?  She is my new role model.

 

 

 

Posted in opinion

WALKING A GOOD MAN HOME

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

My dear husband, Alan, passed away on Friday.  He has had a tough year, diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s, tongue cancer, c diff, COVID, hospitalization for a second bout of c diff, and heart rhythm problems.  Yet through all of that he kept an upbeat attitude and his wonderful sense of humor. In February he had successful surgery on his tongue, but oral cancers are usually aggressive and by mid-July he began having problems swallowing.  On July 19th a scan showed the cancer had recurred and there was wide-spread metastasis.  No further treatment was possible.  He went into Hospice on July 25th and died July 28th.

Indulge me in writing a bit about him.  He was born in the Philippines just prior to the outbreak of WWII; his father was a Scottish businessman stationed in Manila.  When the war broke out, Alan, his parents and brother were all interned in a Japanese prisoner of war camp.  It was as grim as you might imagine, in the end living on one cup of rice for the family and sheltered only in a lean-to shanty. They were rescued in February 1945 and chose to immigrate to the United States.  They settled in Pasadena, California, where Alan grew up and was involved in sports, achieved Eagle Scout rank and according to his mother, excelled in creating general mayhem.  He always had a twinkle in his eye and an ability to schmooze that served him well over the years.  His profession was in marketing for large commercial insurance companies, and he was well-suited to the job.

Alan had two children he adored: a son, Colin and a daughter, Wendy.  He considered Wendy’s husband, Steve, to be like a son. Alan loved being a “Grandpa” to Wendy’s two boys, Matthew and Jake.  They held a treasured place in his heart and they had him wrapped around their tiny fingers from the moment they were born.

He explored many hobbies over the years, but in 1990 began playing golf and in it he found his passion.  When he retired, he spent a lot of time playing, but he also enjoyed practicing.  He was a true “range rat”.  He visited the PGA Superstore so often that I once suggested he get a job there. He loved watching hockey, particularly the Montreal Canadiens and the Washington Capitals.  But mostly he was a rabid USC football fan.  And I mean a fan.  Every fall he asked me to mark the SC games on the calendar and woe be to me if I scheduled any social engagements that conflicted.  Our friends would gently suggest that there was such a thing as a DVR, but Alan insisted (and I kind of agreed) that nothing beats watching sports live.

He was a loving, devoted dog dad to Dash the Wonder Dog.  In fact, I coined the “wonder dog” name because for 20 years Alan did not want a dog.  When he finally relented and we got Dash, Alan became putty in his paws.  In almost every photo I have of him he is holding Dash.  They created a special bond and Dash turned an indifferent pet owner into a complete sap.  Dash truly did wonders for him, especially during his trials this past year.

This is a very sad time for our family.  Dash is confused and keeps looking for him, which breaks my heart.  I know our lives will never be the same.  But I have tried to look for bright spots along the way these past few days.  First, and most importantly, the whole family was able to fly here the weekend following his diagnosis to spend time with him.  They were able to tell him how much they loved him, and he could do the same in return.  He told Matt and Jake how proud he was of the young men they have become, and that is a gift they can treasure for the rest of their lives.  He and I were able to spend time saying all the things we wanted to say to one another.  He knew how much I loved him, and I know his wishes for me as I go forward.

The second gift was the friends who gave me support and comfort this past week. My friend Debbie brought me support in innumerable ways, not the least of which was being here when the hospice transport came, and Alan left the house for the last time.  My friend Marge drove down from Idaho in hopes of saying goodbye to Alan.  After a two-day drive she arrived at our house at the exact moment they were transporting Alan to hospice.  She went with me to hospice each day and to the mortuary to make final arrangements.  My niece Shelley came up from Tucson for a day to spend time with me and give me a much-needed hug.  I am so blessed to have such a loving family and friends, all of whom have offered support and love, both in person and from afar.

I know I have a difficult road ahead of me, but I am trying to be grateful for the time we had together.  Next month we would have celebrated 36 years of marriage.  Many years ago, someone asked me why I thought Alan and I were so happily married, and I told her that he made me laugh every day.  I think that was our “secret sauce”, as no matter how irritated we might get over something, we always ended up making each other smile.

I am also grateful for the way in which he passed.  It was not sudden, nor was it drawn out.  He had the opportunity to tell all of us how much we meant to him, and he heard how much we all loved him.  Not everyone gets that experience at the end of their life.

I stumbled on this phrase from Ram Dass a few months ago that struck a chord then and has resonated a lot this week:

Sharing our love and our gifts
With any who join us on our roam,
Enlightenment comes to let us know
We Are Just Walking Each Other Home.

Rest in Peace, my sweet angel Alan.  It has been my privilege to walk you home.

Posted in opinion

WHINE COUNTRY

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

While my brother’s post last week was about his adorable grandchildren (and, yes, they are that cute and talented!), I was drawn back three generations to do more research on our great-grandfather, John Hoever (pronounced “Hoover”).  My interest in him was renewed last week when I read an article originally published in the Napa Valley Marketplace magazine about the history of the Napa State Hospital.  In 1900 John Hoever died there for reasons yet to be discovered.  Napa was no ordinary hospital; it was more commonly known as the Napa State Asylum for the Insane.  Well…that goes a long way in explaining our family peculiarities. Like many of you, I have passed by the hospital on my way through wine country, but never knew its history…or how dangerous it is today.

Napa Hospital at the time of John’s residency

The hospital was opened on November 15, 1875.  The original main building known as “the Castle” was an ornate and imposing brick building. By the early 1890s, the facility had over 1,300 patients which was more than double the original capacity it was designed to house.  A majority of the patients were foreign born, like my grandfather.  He left Germany in 1875 and immigrated to San Francisco.

The Napa Asylum treated patients for a variety of ailments; many of the early residents were admitted due to alcoholism or homelessness. This was a time in Europe known as “The Long Depression” when many people immigrated to the United States in search of a better life.  But the U.S. was also in an economic downturn, so one can speculate that some of the immigrants ended up without work and homeless.  Women admitted at the end of the 19th century were often diagnosed with acute mania, melancholia, or paranoia. The hospital treated everything from epilepsy, paralysis, and syphilis, to jealousy, masturbation, and even disappointment in love.  Pretty much covered the gamut of social ills of the time.  

In the early years of the hospital, work therapy was used as a common treatment for patients. The routine and predictability of asylum life were thought to aid patients. The grounds contained a large farm that included dairy and poultry ranches, vegetable garden, and fruit orchards that provided a large part of the food supply consumed by the residents.  Growing their own food and using patients for labor also kept the costs down – and the profits up – for the directors of the hospital.

         Napa Hosptial today

Over the years this bucolic site changed, as did the residents.  Up until the 1920’s, patients were either self-admitted or sent there by their families.  Slowly, as psychiatric care became more sophisticated, many of the ailments that confined people to the hospital were able to be treated on an outpatient basis.  The facility was re-named, Napa State Hospital, and served as a traditional psychiatric hospital until the 1990s when it started taking court referrals. Despite being filled with perpetrators of violent, often heinous crimes, it was still considered to be a hospital, not a prison.  The patients were committed, but not locked up. Police officers were posted at hospital entrances, but uniformed guards did not patrol the halls of even the highest-risk units. So, over time the most violent patients were left to terrorize the others freely, with only doctors and nurses to stop them.  In 2010, a nurse was murdered by an inmate, which prompted the hospital to hire more police officers and the staff were outfitted with personal alarms so they could call for help if they felt threatened. So, today it is safer, but about 90 percent of the patient population is funneled into the hospital through the criminal justice system. I don’t think Napa State Hospital is going to make anybody’s “Top Ten Places to Work” list, no matter how many improvements they make.

Annie, with her three children. Our grandmother is on the right.

As for our great-grandfather, I still have no idea why he was committed to Napa.  Perhaps my great-grandmother, Annie, kept the reasons to herself, as neither my grandmother or father ever indicated they knew anything about his time there or manner of death.  In the July 1900 census, he was listed as having been in Napa Hospital for 12 months.  Annie gave birth to a daughter in February 1900, so he must have gone in shortly after she found herself pregnant.  He died in September of that year and his obituary said that “his funeral had the largest crowd ever seen in town, which bore testimony to the esteem with which this good man was held.”  So, I don’t think he had been the town drunk.

As for Annie, she was a remarkable woman for her age and time.  After John’s death she took over managing the jewelry store they owned and was described in “The History of Colusa and Glenn Counties” as someone who had “demonstrated her ability as a businesswoman and won great success through her own efforts”.  That was quite a compliment to be given a woman in business in 1918! I have inherited the diamond from her engagement ring and whenever I think I’m having a hard time I look at it and know that I have it easy compared to her.

I’m not sure I’ll ever find out why John was committed to Napa.  Several years ago I wrote the hospital asking if they had any records of him, but I never heard back.  Now that I know more about the current situation, I think the staff has enough on their hands just to stay alive without having to answer emails about someone who died in 1900.  All I know is I will never pass that hospital again without thinking about him and vowing that if I’m ever up on a violent crime charge, I’ll plead guilty rather than risk going to Napa!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Holiday observations • opinion

LOYALIST OR PATRIOT?

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

As I have previously mentioned, probably ad nauseum, I am a committed Anglophile.  Give me a good BritBox mystery show and a cup of Earl Grey and I’m in my element.  I have often wondered what side I would have chosen in the Revolutionary War.  One can’t assume that the people who resided in “the colonies” were automatically revolutionaries, or “Patriots”, as they were known.  It is estimated that 15-20% of the British people living here remained loyal to the crown.  Thus, they were known as “Loyalists”.  Probably most notable among them, ironically, was William Franklin, the son of Founding Father, Benjamin Franklin. Many families at the time had divided loyalties, but none were as prominent – or as interesting – as the Franklins.

Flying the kite

William Franklin was born in Boston in 1730 and was Benjamin’s acknowledged illegitimate son.  He was raised by Franklin and his common-law wife, Deborah Read. Wouldn’t you have loved to be a fly on the wall when Franklin had that discussion with his wife?  In any event, Franklin saw to William’s schooling and taught him the printing trade. William helped Benjamin publish Poor Richard’s Almanac and also assisted his father with many of his scientific investigations including his famous kite and lightening experiment.  Benjamin obtained a military commission for William during the French and Indian War, and later used his influence to help William be appointed to positions such as Controller of the General Post Office and Clerk of the Pennsylvania Assembly. In other words, he was a nepo kid. When Benjamin’s government role took him to England, William accompanied him and formed many relationships with the British aristocracy.  When George III became King, William was appointed Royal Governor of New Jersey in 1862 and Benjamin could not have been prouder.  However, in the more than ten years that William served in that position his views diverged from his father’s, leading to a rift that would never quite heal.

Benjamin, sometimes referred to as a ‘reluctant revolutionary’, hoped at first that differences with the British could be resolved. When he did join the revolutionary cause, though, he was fully committed. He expected William would do likewise. In August 1775 Franklin traveled to New Jersey to convince William to join the rebellion. He told his son he would be accepted with open arms by those opposing the King and could easily win a generalship in the army forming under George Washington. But William believed America’s best chance to succeed lay in remaining with Britain. He firmly believed most Americans would not support the rebellion. He gave his famous “two roads” speech to the New Jersey legislature urging them to refuse to endorse the newly formed Continental Congress and take the road to prosperity as part of England rather than the road to civil war and anarchy. His efforts were to no avail.

A Loyalist being tarred and feathered

Ever a Loyalist, William secretly informed the British of revolutionary activities. Unfortunately for him, a packet of his letters was intercepted by the rebels who passed the information to the Continental Congress. They requested William be exiled from New Jersey. He was sent to Connecticut where he was jailed and placed in solitary confinement in a cell for prisoners about to be executed. Shocked at his harsh treatment, he wrote to Governor Trumball of Connecticut, “I suffer so much in being buried alive, having no one to speak with day or night…that I should deem it a favor to be immediately taken out and shot.”  Being shot was actually more humane than the normal punishment for Loyalists, most of whom were tarred and feathered. William’s wife became gravely ill and died while he was imprisoned. During all his travails, Benjamin exerted no effort on his behalf, leaving William to face the consequences of his decisions. In 1777, suffering from ill health, he was exchanged with another prisoner and allowed to go to New York. From there he departed for England where he would live in exile for the rest of his life.

William attempted to reconcile with Benjamin while the latter was in Paris as one of America’s peace commissioners, but Benjamin rebuffed William’s overture. The two would never mend their differences, each remaining true to his convictions.  They never saw each other again.

So, tomorrow, if you find yourself with family or friends with whom you have divergent views, don’t be the Franklins.  Find a way to compromise…or just chug another beer and agree to disagree.

 

Posted in opinion

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

For a variety of reasons, we will not be taking trips to our usual summer haunts this year.  The primary reason is that Dash the Wonder Dog cannot be at an elevation above 7,000 ft.  We love spending time in Mammoth Lakes each year, but at a whopping 8900 feet, it is out of the question.  So, I’ve been spending time looking for some alternative destinations and during my quest became fascinated with the nicknames people have given states. Each of America’s fifty states has multiple nicknames that have been adopted over the years, though the origins aren’t always clear.  As I read some of the more unique nicknames, I began to wonder how they came about and if there is any logic to them.  We humans usually get a nickname based on something about our physical being – “Stretch” for a tall person or “Lefty” for a left-handed person or a golfer who gambles.  And while it is true that many states developed nicknames based upon things that they identify with or that set them apart, some of the names are so quirky that no one can agree on how they came into being.  I’m looking at you, Indiana. What exactly is a Hoosier?

As it turns out, some of the state nicknames are just like their human counterparts, based on a physical or historical event.  For example, Maine is known as the “Pine Tree” state, while Delaware is known as the “First State”.  Many states adopted animal names that are common to the state, such as the badgers in Wisconsin or the Hawkeyes in Iowa.  California is known as the “Golden State”, not for the Warriors, but for the gold rush.  Today the slogan might be the “exodus state”, but hopefully they can turn that around.

Tennessee is known as the “Volunteer State.”  I knew the name was coined when an abundance of men volunteered to join the army, but I assumed it was during the Civil War.  Turns out it stems from the Mexican American War from 1846-1848 when the Tennessee governor asked for 2,600 volunteers and over 30,000 volunteers responded!  Today, the University of Tennessee claims “Volunteers” as its nickname but since 1956 it has used a Bluetick Coonhound dog as the official mascot.  I don’t know how they went from army volunteers to a dog, but anything with a dog is a good thing.  Maybe they wanted to compete with “Uga”, the bulldog mascot for their arch-rivals, the University of Georgia.  If the football teams stink at least they have cute dogs to watch.

Some state nicknames are a bit harder to pin down.  Florida can’t make up its mind about what it wants to be called (insert joke here).  Over the years it has been known as the “Sunshine State,” the “Peninsula State,” the “Alligator State,” the “Everglade State,” the “Flower State,” the “Gulf State,” and the “Orange State.” The official nickname for Illinois is the “Prairie State”, but the state slogan, “Land of Lincoln”, is the more popular moniker and is on their license plates.  That probably reads better than “Murder Capital of the US”.  Some names are bit more derogatory in nature.  Missouri’s nickname, the “Show-Me State”, is not official, but it’s widely used and has a unique origin story. In an 1899 speech, Congressman Willard Duncan Vandiver said: “Frothy eloquence neither convinces nor satisfies me. I am from Missouri. You have got to show me.” This became a self-deprecating shorthand for Missouri stubbornness, which can be a somewhat endearing quality – until it becomes toxic.

As for those Hoosiers, while many people think of the wonderful 1986 movie by that name, there are no definitive answers as to how the nickname originated.  Among the theories are a popular greeting to an unexpected knock on the door with “Who’s yere?” turning into Hoosier.  Another theory is that it came about from the nickname of Indiana rivermen – “Husher”. The Indiana Historical Bureau says the prevailing theory on its source is that Samuel Hoosier, a contractor, preferred to hire laborers from Indiana. So we’ll probably never know exactly what a Hoosier is.

My own state nickname is rather boring – the “Grand Canyon” state.  And while it’s beautiful, I think a more apt name might be “Hotter that Hell”, “Fry an Egg on the Sidewalk”, or “It’s Like Living in a Microwave Oven”.  I don’t think the Chamber of Commerce will be calling me anytime soon.