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LONG LIVE THE KING!

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Anglophiles the world ’round are sad this week with the passing of Queen Elizabeth II.  I have had an interest in her life since 1960, when as a naive 9-year-old, I saw the headline banner on the newspaper my dad was reading that screamed, “QUEEN IN LABOR”.  My first thought was that the Queen of England had embarked on ditch digging.  But even at that age I knew that couldn’t be right, so I asked my parents what “labor” meant. I still recall the uncomfortable look they gave each other, as if to say, “Are you going to be the one to tell her?”  In any event, that is my first memory of the queen.  I subsequently studied English history in college and over the years I grew to appreciate the majesty that is the monarchy.  I know that we fought a war to separate ourselves from it, and I wholeheartedly support our divorce from the motherland, but given today’s bitter political infighting I sometimes think it would be nice to have a non-politician above it all who could say, “Stop your childish bickering and get on with the job.”

There is no better example of the benefits of a monarch than when Queen Elizabeth outfoxed Margaret Thatcher on the issue of apartheid. On several occasions during Thatcher’s tenure as Prime Minister, the Queen urged her take a strong stance against the apartheid laws in South Africa.  Thatcher dragged her feet, suggesting that the “time wasn’t right”.  For Thatcher, the time would never be right. By 1990, the Queen, frustrated with Thatcher’s inaction, took matters in hand by inviting Nelson Mandela, the foremost anti-apartheid leader, to the United Kingdom.  At the time, that was groundbreaking.  The apartheid laws were repealed the following year, in part due to the support exhibited by the Queen. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be seen with Mandela.  Even Thatcher, never one to miss a photo op, had her picture taken shaking Mandela’s hand.  Elizabeth and Mandela enjoyed a life-long friendship; he was the only person outside of the family that referred to her as “Elizabeth”.

I was very sad to learn of the Queen’s passing and I admit I shed a few tears.  She was part of the “greatest generation” who exemplified duty, humility and serving others, combined with some increasingly rare common sense. Elizabeth always understood that being royal was not about celebrity or attention-seeking, but about doing her best for her fellow countrymen.  In a time when slacking off has become fashionable, Elizabeth still stood by the virtues of hard work and commitment to one’s obligations. Not many 96-year-olds are still on the job, but the Queen stood by her promise to serve until her death.

Now we must forge ahead with the new King, Charles.  As a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel owner, I echo the sentiments I read from another owner that it is going to be hard to hear the words “King Charles” without wanting to add the word “spaniel” at the end.  Nevertheless, I am somewhat relieved at Charles’ accension.  For the past nine years innumerable people have stopped me and said, “Oh, you have a Prince Charles Spaniel.”  Perhaps now Dash the Wonder Dog will get his due respect.

 

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JUST QUIT IT!

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Well, here we are at Labor Day.  I know that because I saw the Christmas decorations up at Target this week.  I wish that we could celebrate one holiday – heck, one season – at a time but I suppose there isn’t any money in that.  Still, as a former Human Resources professional, I do give some thought to Labor Day and its origins.  Our annual honoring of labor dates back to 1894, when Congress declared that the first Monday in September would be set aside as a “general holiday for the laboring classes”. I think they assumed that a day off once a year might compensate for low wages and deplorable working conditions.  When I searched for Labor Day photos, I found this one of the Women’s Typographical Union float.  Ironically, our dad was required to join the typographical union when he first went into the newspaper business.  Fifty years later, when he went to retire, the Typographical union bosses had “mis-invested” his 50 years of contributions.  I have not been a fan of Big Labor since then, but regardless, I have enjoyed having a day off at the end of summer.

I like to follow the trends in employment, not because I’m considering re-joining the workforce, but because I am fascinated by the dynamic between employees and the companies they work for.  In the 80’s the trend to become an entrepreneur was popular, albeit some pretty wacky ideas stemmed from people who tried to out-invent each other.  That led to the “intrapreneur” phase, where people tried to be entrepreneurs within a corporate structure.  Let’s just say that didn’t go well.  In the mid-1990’s Fast Company published Tom Peters’ The Brand Called You.  The article became the launching point for the “Me, Inc.” phenomenon, whereby employees were encouraged to develop a personal brand that they could use to advance their careers.  Michael Jordon posed for Inc Magazine as the poster child for personal branding.  I’m not sure anyone working for a big company achieved the pinnacle of branding Jordan did and the idea died within a couple of years.

Now we are in the era of either “quiet quitting” or “quiet firing”, depending on your vantage point.  Quiet quitting is the act of doing the absolute minimum required to hold on to a job.  These people used to be known as “slackers” – expert at getting others to do all the work.  Today it’s been elevated to an art form.  There are several threads on social media discussing tips on how to fool your employer into thinking you’ve actually accomplished something. No doubt the COVID pandemic and the resultant “work from home” wave made it far easier to fool a boss into thinking work was completed when in reality the only work completed was the laundry. Perhaps as a natual reaction to that, employers have started “quiet firing”, whereby they withhold information, give interesting assignments to just a handful of people, and don’t provide a pay raise for years.  They stay just this side of “constructive discharge” to avoid lawsuits.

Lost in all of this “quitting” is that the people who actually do a lot of the real work in this country don’t have the ability to quit while still on the job.  They are the checkers at the grocery store, the truck drivers, the construction workers and God knows, the medical professionals.  So, I suggest that on this Labor Day we honor the people who do all the work that is often unappreciated and let the people in the corporate “quitting” wars throw their tantrums until finally, on some sunny day in the future, they learn to simply be quiet.

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ONE FOR THE HISTORY BOOKS

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Dr. Chapman – Bob’s mentor

Ten years ago, Bob and I changed the format of this blog from a poem-inspired take on the news to its current form of writing a narrative about anything that strikes our fancy.  Some columns have been better than others, but to our credit, in those ten years we have posted something every Monday morning without fail.  We both were inspired and encouraged to write by very good teachers. So, besides our genes and love for college football, we share one other trait: we both love to write.  I say that with some trepidation as one of my favorite writers, Fran Lebowitz, once said, “Anyone who says they love to write is generally not very good at it.”

Bob and I will occasionally have conversations about books and authors that we love.  One author we both admired was Pat Conroy.  We waited anxiously for each new book he wrote and then discussed how it compared to his previous tomes.  From The Water is Wide, to The Great Santini, from The Prince of Tides to Beach Music, Conroy took us on a voyage, sometimes wrenching, but always exquisitely written.  We were devasted when he died in 2016 at age 70 from pancreatic cancer.  No one since has been able to match his ability to take readers on a painful journey, yet enjoy the ride.

This week we lost another of my literary heroes, David McCullough.  If you are a history fan you may have read his best-selling biographies of Truman and John Adams.  But McCullough was more than a presidential historian; he had a wide-ranging scope of interest that led him to write about topics as varied as the Panama Canal and the Brooklyn Bridge.  For those of you who have never read one of his books (really, you need to put that on your bucket list), you may be familiar with his baritone voice narrating Ken Burn’s documentary, The Civil War, the PBS show The American Experience, or the movie, Seabiscuit. McCullough had a unique ability to ferret out interesting stories of previously unknown people and weave them into the type of book that is hard to put down.  He made American history both exciting and interesting.

I loved every one of his books, but I was also intrigued his typewriter and writing shed.  McCullough wrote all of his books on a 1941 Royal Standard typewriter, which he bought second-hand for $25 in 1964.  He thought it was quite an investment at the time but surmised that if he was going to be in the business of writing he needed to have good equipment at home.  He continued to use it for all of his books, long after computers made writing, and re-writing, faster. When asked why he didn’t make the switch to more modern technology he said, “I love putting paper in. I love the way the keys come up and actually print the letters. I love it when I swing that carriage and the bell rings like an old trolley car. I love the feeling of making something with my hands. People tell me if I used a computer, I could go so much faster. Well, I don’t want to go faster. If anything, I should go slower. I don’t think all that fast.”

McCullough’s writing shed, which he referred to as “the bookshop”, might be the envy of anyone who writes, crafts, or simply wants to spend time alone.  It measures eight-by-10 feet. There is no telephone or running water.  Its walls are lined with more than 1,000 books, and the only furniture is a desk, a comfortable chair, and a lamp.  He often said, “Nothing good was ever written in a large room.” McCullough started writing in the shed when his children were young because he didn’t want them to have to tip-toe around the house when he was writing.  Each morning he repaired to the shed for peace and quiet and from that tiny enclave, some of the best chronicling of American history was crafted.

I will miss the anticipation of a new McCullough book, just as I have mourned the loss of any further works from Conroy.  A counterpoint to Ms. Lebowitz, they both loved writing and were thrilled that they attracted a large legion of followers.  How lucky we are that such writers engaged us with stories of fact and fiction. We will not see the likes of them again.

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THE LOW DOWN ON SHOW LOW

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

              Torreon Golf Course

Twenty years ago, my husband and I ventured up to Show Low, Arizona, to play golf at the Torreon golf club.  We made the three-hour trip up and back in the same day.  I think we were younger then.  Since that trip, our summer vacations have entailed long car rides with overnight stays in roadside hotels.  The allure of those trips has faded, right along with my arthritic back, so this year we decided to plan for at least one of our summer trips to be closer to home. We were enticed by the idea of finding a summer getaway that was quick and easy. We remembered Torreon and, as luck would have it, I was able to secure a cute house for rent on Airbnb that was right in the heart of the community.  Only after I had rented it did I learn that Torreon had been bought out by the membership and outside play was no longer allowed.  I asked the pro at our club if he could wrangle a reciprocal tee time for us, but after he stopped laughing, he reminded me that summer is their “high season”.

       Our Little House in the Pines

Undaunted by the prospect of not being able to play bad golf, we decided instead we would use this trip to explore the area.  We were hopeful that if we liked it, Show Low might become our “go to” vacation spot.  Easy drive, no overnight stays, and a twenty degree drop in temperature from Scottsdale.  So off we went, Dash the Wonder Dog in tow, for a week of rest, relaxation and exploration.  The house was as advertised – clean, cute and nestled in the pines.  What they had not made clear was that they had no cable or satellite television hook-up.  So, no live tv, including news or, more critically, sports.  We could log into apps to get clips of events, which was better than nothing, but not ideal.  You may be wondering why no live television was such a big deal, when the purpose of our trip was to explore the area. Well, there were two good reasons.

         Downtown Tahoe city

First, the town of Show Low was a bit of a disappointment.  I grew up spending summer weekends in Tahoe City, where we strolled the main street, enjoying the cute shops and restaurants.  As an adult, my husband and I have spent time almost every summer in Mammoth Lakes and Sun Valley.  Again, quaint mountain towns with charm that provide an escape from big city living.  Show Low, on the other hand, was like visiting a suburb of Phoenix.  Every big box store imaginable is there – Walmart, Home Depot, Lowe’s, CVS – as well as a plethora of car dealerships. The main street in town is Highway 60, so there were no nice sidewalks to amble down.  Instead, it was a series of strip centers followed by one of those ubiquitous “big” stores.  The number one rated restaurant in town is Cattlemen’s, which is fine if you’re into eating half a cow “with all the fixin’s”.  My husband also observed that some of the people we saw could possibly be distilling their own liquor.

                           Pinetop

Absent any charm in Show Low, we ventured 20 minutes down the road to Pinetop-Lakeside.  Both my niece and a good friend had recommended the town, and they were right.  It had much more charm that Show Low, some good hiking trails and a semi-private golf course that looked beautifully kept.  However, even Pinetop has suffered the effects of the economic downturn – there were many closed stores and restaurants in town.  We would have spent more time checking out some of the lakes and trails except for the second factor that interfered with our vacation: the weather.  The temperatures hovered near 90 degrees; a full 10 degrees hotter than normal for July.  At an altitude of over 6300′, the sun felt like it was four feet away.  Hiking mid-day was out of the question.  More importantly, the combination of altitude and heat proved to be too much for Dash.  He paced and panted, without relief.  We spent as much time as possible indoors (thus the need for some television entertainment) but finally, when the temperature was forecasted to reach 95 degrees, we gave up the ghost on Wednesday and went home.

The old adage is true, there is no place like home.  Dash was instantly better when he was returned to his air-conditioned surroundings and his cooling mat with a fan blowing on him.  My husband had the golf and hockey channels to watch, and I resumed cleaning out closets and watching Brit Box dramas.  Fortunately, the weather at home has been below normal, so we can even venture out for walks every morning and could sit outside in the evenings. It was good to get away for a few days, but sadly, our quest to find a nearby summer escape continues.

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CHIRP!

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

               It looks so innocent

The summer doldrums are in full effect here in Arizona.  With temperatures soaring well over 100 and the nightly lows in the mid-80’s, it’s an optimal time to be indoors.  Apparently, it is also the perfect time for our smoke detectors to set off in the middle of the night.  We are no strangers to problems with smoke detectors – they seem to have an almost human-like sense for the most annoying time to go off.  Kind of like the neighbor who blares heavy metal music on the very night you retired early to read a good book.  Last year we replaced all of our smoke detectors and inserted long-lasting batteries.  We were under the naive illusion that we would be spared any problems for the next ten years, by which time we would either be dead or have moved.  Not so fast.

                  Sadly accurate

I’ve had plenty of experience with chirping smoke detectors.  As a new homeowner, I once thought the chirping was a sign that fire was imminent, so I grabbed the dog and ran outdoors in my nightgown, sure that I had evaded a fiery demise.  The neighbors got a good laugh out of that one.  I have also set the smoke detectors off numerous times while attempting to cook dinner.  Most of the time it was simply my inept frying skills or a forgotten pot of soup that set off the alarm, although once I actually did set fire to the oven while cooking a roast.  As the fire trucks rolled up to my house the neighbors got a kick out of that one too.  In our current house the smoke detector in our living room went off one August night.  The problem is it is a 16-foot ceiling, and we don’t have a ladder tall enough to reach it.  Long story short, we ended up calling the non-emergency line at the fire department and three hunky firemen came to fix it.  I thought the response was so gracious (and they were so cute) that I’ve tried to think of reasons to call them back ever since.  Eventually we ended up taking the battery out of that unit, which I later discovered, has rendered it useless.

In any event, our latest foray into the vagaries of smoke detectors has been the smoke detector in our master bedroom (naturally) that has not just chirped but sounded the alarm several times over the past few weeks.  Not a constant blaring, just one scream. Enough to give you cardiac arrest at 2 a.m. in the morning.  Since the unit is only a year old, I knew it didn’t need to be replaced.  The green light was going on and off every two seconds, which I learned means it needs to be reset.  So up on the ladder we went, disconnected the unit, pressed the test button for 20 seconds, and then reinstalled it. Done and dusted!

But it got me to wondering WHY they always go off in the middle of the night.  I did some research with the smoke detector company, and here is what I learned.  The chirping is caused by the relationship between the battery’s charge level and a home’s air temperature.  As a smoke alarm’s battery nears the end of its life, the amount of power it produces causes an internal resistance. A drop in room temperature increases this resistance, which may impact the battery’s ability to deliver the power necessary to operate the unit in an alarm situation. Most homes are the coolest between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. That’s why the alarm may sound a low-battery chirp in the middle of the night, and then stop when the home warms up a few degrees.

Okay – whatever you say.  But in Scottsdale, where the A/C is running at a constant temperature day and night in the summer, I’m not buying it.  This week, a unit on the other side of the house has started chirping periodically – like every 10 hours or so. Always in the middle of the night. I still say there are gremlins built into every unit, intent on ruining a good night’s sleep and triggering anxiety with every “chirp”.  At this point I feel a bit like Bill Murray and the gopher.  Explosives may be my only option.

 

 

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HAPPY 4TH – SMOKE ‘EM IF YOU GOT ‘EM

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

John and Abigail Adams

Happy Independence Day!  We’ve been celebrating this day for a long time – 245 years to be exact.  The first Independence Day celebration took place in Philidelphia on July 4, 1777 — one year after the Declaration of Independence was adopted by the Continental Congress.  It was none other than John Adams who wrote to his wife, Abigail, that he hoped the anniversary of independence would be marked for years to come by “guns” and “bonfires” and “illuminations.” Because the first July 4th fireworks display happened in the middle of the Revolutionary War, some historians believe they were supposed to be a morale booster for the troops.  The celebrations at the time would have also included the firing of cannons, adding to the explosive nature of the festivities and, no doubt, innumerable cases of hearing loss. When the war ended, coinciding with an increasing concern for public safety, those “big guns” were phased out and replaced almost entirely by fireworks. Major cities and towns often sponsored the fireworks displays, in the hope of drawing citizens to public celebrations instead of more dangerous private firework shows.  I’m not sure even 245 years later that we have cracked that nut.

                          Tahoe fireworks

As I have said in previous years, when I was growing up, I thought the 4th of July was one of the greatest holidays.  Each year we went to our cabin at Lake Tahoe to watch the glorious fireworks display.  The fire department was in charge of setting off the fireworks, which were placed on a barge in the middle of the lake. It really was magical to watch the lights from the fireworks reflect on the lake.  It was almost as if there were two shows at once – one, clear and crisp against a dark, night sky and the other echoing those lights over rippling water.  I was mesmerized by it each year and fireworks “on the lake” continue to be one of my most treasured memories.

               A laser light show

So, it was with some sadness I read that when the Lake Tahoe fireworks resume tonight, after a two year pause due to Covid, the traditional fireworks display will be replaced by drone laser lights. According to the north Lake Tahoe civic group sponsoring the show, the shift aligns with the region’s commitment to sustainability and stewardship, and addresses community concerns related to fire risk and environmental impacts. In addition to eliminating the risk of fire and environmental pollution, another significant benefit is the reduced audio impact on domestic pets and local wildlife. It will be a 15-minute show, incorporating over 100 drones, and choreographed to music.

         Happy 4th of July

I’m sure the kids of today will think those lasers are magical too.  I certainly understand the need to reduce the fire risk and Dash the Wonder Dog would appreciate the lack of booming noises that scare the bejesus out of him. But I’m just old school enough to think a laser light show is to fireworks what Cheez-Whiz is to Camembert.  So, this will be the first year that I’m not longing to be at Tahoe on the 4th of July.  Instead, I may resort to something I did for several years in my misspent middle age – light up a cigar and celebrate our wonderful country.  Happy 4th!

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IT’S A GRAND OLD FLAG DAY

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last week was Flag Day, our annual celebration of the stars and stripes.  Did you miss it?  I almost did but my Google calendar conveniently reminded me. I’m not sure the day gets its due, given that it falls between Memorial Day and the 4th of July.  In fact, I’m not even sure how Flag Day got its start or how we are officially supposed to celebrate it.  Unlike the two aforementioned holidays, I don’t see people laying wreaths on graves or barbequing hot dogs on Flag Day.  So, in preparation for next year, I decided it was high time for me to find out what the day is about and whether it will require a trip to the grocery store to properly prepare for it.

Betsy, showing her handiwork to Washington

President Woodrow Wilson officially proclaimed June 14th as Flag Day in 1916.  June 14th was chosen because the original adoption of a national flag was June 14, 1777.  In 1949, National Flag Day was established by an Act of Congress.  That could possibly be the last time Congress passed anything on a non-partisan basis.  In any event, it was good to have a national flag.  Up to that point, states had their own flags and George Washington felt it was important to rally the troops around a single flag.  History books tell us that he approached his personal seamstress, Betsy Ross, to sew the first flag.  Note, she is not credited with designing the first flag.  In fact, it has since been confirmed that Francis Hopkinson, a delegate from New Jersey who signed the Declaration of Independence, designed the American flag. But when charged with bringing the design to life, Betsy did make one significant change.  The original plan was for the thirteen stars, representing the original colonies, to be six-pointed.  However, Ms. Ross, being efficient and most likely anticipating her future workload, decided to make the stars five-pointed because she could fold the fabric in half and cut them out in one swath.  I like to think of her action as the beginning of the industrial revolution.

Bernard Cigrand

In any event, once our freedom from the British was secured, we didn’t pay much attention to the flag itself.  It wasn’t until 1885 that the flag got its own day.  That year, Bernard Cigrand, a small-town Wisconsin teacher, originated the idea for an annual flag day, to be celebrated across the country every June 14. That year, he led his school in the first formal observance of the holiday.  From that point on, he devoted his life to promoting the observance of Flag Day.  He became president of the American Flag Day Association and later of the National Flag Day Society, which allowed him to promote his cause with organizational backing.  With that backing, many cities and towns organized parades and picnics to celebrate the day.  I’m sure food was involved but I don’t think there is anything official.  I see an opportunity to declare cake the food of choice for Flag Day.

Another interesting fact about Flag Day is that it has to be proclaimed by the President each year.  Seems rather odd that they just can’t issue a permanent requirement to observe it every June 14.  Then again, isn’t it perfectly fitting that the government works in such an inefficient manner?  I checked on this and, sure enough, President Biden issued a proclamation for Flag Day 2022 on June 10. People may have been too distracted by inflation to notice.  Plus, I think the flag gets a bad rap in general these days.  Too often people confuse patriotism and love of country with politics.  People employ the flag to signify how patriotic they are, even when they are really just trying to send a political statement.

“Captain America” no more

This conflation of patriotism and politics is often seen in the sports world, by both players and fans.  Perhaps no better example of someone who “uses” the flag is the golfer, Patrick Reed.  He was so over-the-top patriotic at the Ryder Cup a few years ago that he was branded “Captain America”.  That was then.  This is now: Reed signed on with the new LIV golf tour, sponsored by the Saudis, for a lot of money. So much for his patriotism.  Or maybe he just needed gas money. Regardless, I doubt we’ll see Mr. Reed sporting the red, white and blue when he tees it up in his first LIV tournament next week.

So now you might know a bit more about Flag Day.  You’ve got plenty of time to go buy a flag, organize a parade, or better yet, bake a cake in preparation for next year.

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THEY WERE SOLDIERS ONCE, AND YOUNG (2022)

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This is my annual Memorial Day piece, written in remembrance of the soldiers from my high school who died in the Vietnam war After I first published this in 2014, I heard from many people who related similar stories about the loss suffered in their hometowns or, worse, their families. Readers have also let me know of two additional casualties that attended NHS. So, this weekend, as you commemorate the holiday, please take a moment to remember all of the brave young men and women we’ve lost in conflict. 

Five boys from my high school were killed in the Vietnam War. For a small town like Novato, that was an enormous number. We were such a close-knit community that even if we didn’t know one of them personally, we knew a sibling or friend. So when I planned my trip to Washington D.C. last month, I scheduled time to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to see their names on “The Wall”. To refresh my memory, I pulled out my high school yearbooks and found them all – smiling for a formal portrait or posing for a team picture. Each image reflected a boy, fresh-faced and full of hope, his life stretching out before him. I looked at those young faces and found it hard to believe that their lives ended so soon after the bucolic days captured in the photos. None of them reached the age of 22, their dreams extinguished on the battlefield. While we, their classmates, lived long enough to enjoy the internet, smart phones and streaming movies, most of them didn’t live long enough to see color television. I reflected on the stories I’ve read of WWII vets who speak so reverently of the “boys who didn’t come home”. As I perused the yearbooks, I finally understood their sentiment. It is only when looking back through a 50-year lens that one can appreciate just how young these soldiers were and how many of life’s milestones they missed. So, on this Memorial Day, I’d like to pay tribute to “The Boys from Novato”.

Robert Johnson
Bob Johnson joined the Army in the fall of 1965, in what would have been his Senior year in high school. I remember him as a quiet guy, but very nice. Before he enlisted he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him – it would give them both something to hang on to while he was gone. His entry into the service occurred just as the war was escalating. He was sent to Vietnam in March of 1966 and three weeks later he was killed by enemy gunfire during “Operation Abilene” in Phuoc Tuy Province. As his former classmates excitedly anticipated their Senior prom and graduation, Robert had already made the ultimate sacrifice. In the 1966 yearbook, where his senior portrait would have been, his mother placed this photo of him in uniform along with a tribute. He was the first Vietnam casualty from Novato.

 

Mike Tandy

Mike Tandy graduated from NHS in 1965. His sisters, Sue and Sarah, also attended NHS. Mike was very smart and participated in the first swim team our high school fielded. He was an Eagle Scout and according to his friend Neil Cuzner, “he was highly intelligent, a great guy and an excellent scout. He was in the Senior Patrol and a young leader of our troop. He lead by example”. After graduation Mike joined the Marine reserves and was called up in January, 1966. He was sent to Vietnam shortly after that. On September 8th he was on patrol in Quang Nam with another soldier when his footfall detonated a landmine. He was killed instantly. He had celebrated his 19th birthday just five days prior. His classmates had moved on – either to college or working – but the Tandy family was left to grieve the loss of their son and brother. In 2005 Sarah posted to the virtual Vietnam Wall: “Thanks to all of you who come here and remember Mike. All of our lives were changed and I thank you for not forgetting.”

 

Allan Nelson

Allan Nelson played football at College of Marin with my brother, Bob. Allan’s sister, Joanne, was in Bob’s class and his brother, Steve, was in mine. So we were well aware when Allan was drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam in July, 1966 at the age of 20. Five months later, on December 1, we were devastated to learn he had been killed by gunfire during a battle in Binh Dinh Province. I still remember the day Steve came to school after Allan’s death; red-faced with tears streaming down his cheeks. He had always been such a happy guy but was now changed in ways that were hard for 16 year-old kids to understand. As I look back now, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to go home from school each day and face parents who were shattered by grief. Joanne posted the following on a memorial page and perhaps sums it up the best: “Allan was my brother, not just a brother, he was my best friend. All I know is December 1, 1966 was the saddest time for me and my family. My family loved each other so much, but when Al was killed the joy died in my family. Allan had his whole life planned. He had just turned 21 on Oct. 20th. When we were young, he couldn’t wait to be 21. I am so sorry for all the families that lost a son and a brother. It will be 33 years in Dec. The everyday sad feelings of loss are gone but on special days it still hurts.”

Jim Gribbin
Jim Gribbin graduated from NHS in 1966. He was on the football team, very active in school clubs and was well-liked by everyone who knew him. He joined the Army Reserves and when called up, became part of the Special Forces where he rose to the rank of Captain. He served two tours of duty in an elite MIKE unit. In March 1970 his unit was on a night defensive mission in Kontum Province when they were ambushed by enemy troops. Jim sacrificed his own safety by running into open territory – twice – to aid and retrieve wounded soldiers under his command. He was shot both times and taken to a rear medical facility where he died from his wounds. Ironically, for this affable Irishman, he succumbed on St. Patrick’s Day. He was awarded the Silver Star and the Bronze Star for Valor. Jim’s dad was a veteran of WWII. When he died in 2011, he requested that he be buried in Jim’s grave, with his name and vitals carved on the back of Jim’s headstone. One can only imagine the grief that he carried all those years. Hopefully he is at peace now that they are forever reunited. A complete stranger paid tribute to Jim in 2018 on the date of his death. You can read my post about it here: https://fromabirdseyeview.com/?p=7111

Wayne Bethards

Wayne “Ed” Bethards was in my graduating class, but I didn’t know him well. His family moved to Novato just before the start of our senior year. His mother, Betty Bethards, was the author of the international best-seller, “The Dream Book”. Again, Neil Cuzner has provided a bit more insight: “Wayne was a good person. He had a great love of baseball and had actually started a small league while over in Nam. He was sharing his love of baseball with the Vietnamese children.” Cuzner went on to say that Wayne was a religious person and did not want to kill anyone; he struggled greatly with his deployment. He was drafted into the Army and was sent to Vietnam in October of 1970. In January, 1971, he was killed while on patrol by the accidental detonation of a mechanical device in Quang Tin Province. He was the last boy from Novato High School to die in the war.

 

Jerry Sims

In April, 2017, I heard from a former schoolmate, Dennis Welsh, about Jerry Sims, a boy who died in the conflict whose hometown was listed as Novato. I found in my research that sometimes the Novato “hometown” designation were for those affiliated with Hamilton Air Force Base, not graduates of Novato High School. Since there were no records of Jerry at NHS I assumed Jerry was from Hamilton, but that was not the case. Dennis told me that Jerry moved to Novato from Texas in the Spring of 1966 to live with his sister. He tried out for the football team during spring training and made the squad. But despite that automatic inclusion into a social group, he was unhappy living in California and being the “new kid” going into his Senior year. Dennis said that he never saw him again after football tryouts and didn’t learn of his fate until he spotted Jerry’s name on “The Wall”. The fact is that Jerry left Novato and joined the Army in June, 1966 and was sent to Vietnam in November. On February 6, 1968 he and several others in his unit were killed by small arms fire in Gia Dinh province. Jerry was 19 years old. His former platoon leader said this on his memorial page: “I was Jerry’s platoon leader on the day he died. He didn’t have to be there, since he had a job elsewhere in Vietnam, but he requested a transfer. He had already spent a year with the Wolfhounds, but for reasons all his own, he wanted to come back to this unit. He died doing his job as a squad leader in my platoon.” It would seem Jerry finally found his home – and some peace – with his Army brethren.

Jim Wright

Update May 2022: Each year this annual tribute receives a lot of viewings around Memorial Day.  This year I was fortunate to hear from Bill Sauber, a 1966 graduate of NHS, who told me just yesterday of Jim’s passing.

Jim celebrated his 18th birthday in January 1966 and was drafted into the Army shortly thereafter. I suspect that he had dropped out of school, as he was in his sophomore year in the spring of 1966, so would not otherwise be eligible for the draft.  After basic training he was sent to Vietnam in May of 1966, as part of the 27th Infantry, known as the Wolfhounds. On November 5, 1966, he was killed by enemy gunfire in Darlac province. He posthumously received a Silver Star. His official records indicate that by the time Jim died, his father was not living in Novato, his mother could not be located, and he had married a woman named Linda.  It is hard to imagine that in the space of one year Jim celebrated his 18th birthday, was drafted, married, and ultimately, killed.  As with Bob Johnson and Jim Gribbin, he lies at rest in Golden Gate National Cemetery. I am hopeful that someone reading this post knew him and can provide more insight into his time at Novato High School.

When I visited “The Wall” I found the boys from Novato, each name etched on that long expanse of granite. I thought about their families and the sorrow they endured. It was overwhelming to realize that sorrow had been replicated 58,286 times. Each of the names on that black, shiny surface represent a family forever destroyed. As I walked along the pathway I looked at all of the mementos that were left as tributes to the fallen – notes, flowers and flags mostly. But then I spotted something different – a tribute from Jim Dart to his brother, Larry. It was a Kingston Trio album (pictured left), along with a note about the good times they shared learning the guitar and singing songs together. I was overcome with emotion reading Jim’s note. My brother, Bob, owned that same album. He and his best friend, Don, often entertained our family playing their guitars and singing songs from that record. Bob was a Naval officer in Japan during the Vietnam war and was safely returned to us. I wept as I stood looking at the album, realizing that but for the grace of God – and military orders – how easily it could have been Bob’s name on that wall and me leaving a Kingston Trio album in his memory. I can’t imagine what our family would have been like without him. I ached for Sue and Sarah and Joanne and Steve and all the other siblings who never got to see gray hair on their brothers’ heads; their family gatherings forever marred by a gaping hole where their brothers should have been. When I stooped down to take the photo I noticed that several other visitors had stopped to look at it too. As I glanced at those who were of a certain age I could see my own feelings reflected in their eyes. We know how much of life these boys missed. We mourn their loss – and ours.

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HITTING THE BULLSEYE OF FRIENDSHIP

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I learned this week that I have enough friends.  Well, that’s a relief! Apparently, they might not be the right type of friends, but the number is spot on.  Not that I socialize with cheats, liars and thieves, but there are categorizations of friendship that I was previously (blissfully) unaware of but now can’t get out of my head.  I don’t know why there is such a focus on friends lately, but in the past two weeks both The Wall Street Journal and the New York Times have run articles about analyzing friendships. If two newspapers as divergent as those pick up on the trend, I think there’s something to it.

The notion of analyzing how many people we can maintain friendships with started in Britain in the 1990’s with a study done by anthropologist Robin Dunbar.  He suggested that there is a cognitive limit to the number of people with whom one can maintain stable social relationships.  The number he came up with is 150.  His theory has stood the test of time and is now referred to as “Dunbar’s Number”. In typical British fashion, Dunbar synthesized his theory down to the local pub so that people like me could understand it. His definition of identifying your closest 150 friends is that they are people that you would not feel embarrassed about joining uninvited for a drink if you happened to bump into them in a bar. Man, when I think about it that way, I’ve had a lot more than 150 friends at some points in my life.  I’ve struck up conversations with perfect strangers if they looked like they were having fun – or would buy me a drink.  But I get his point.

 Bob definitely makes my Top 5!

Mr. Dunbar published new research last year, written just before the pandemic, that seems to winnow down, or perhaps better define, what we need from friendships in today’s world.  As I noted, it was written before the pandemic but seems to foretell our need to limit our social interactions.  In his recent book he writes that friendships sift themselves into concentric circles, like a bull’s-eye. The innermost ring comprises our closest friends and family members. This “support clique” numbers around five people and is so named because it consists of all the people who would unstintingly give you support or help if you needed it. The next ring, at 15 people, forms what he calls the “sympathy group,” which he defines as “the people you invite round for a quiet dinner or an evening at the pub.” Then comes a circle of 50 “good friends,” and on and on in multiples of three, with 150—his famous Dunbar’s Number—marking the upper limit of how many friendships you can realistically maintain. Eventually we reach the ring of 500, which he said comprises acquaintances you know through work or a social group, but who are “unlikely to bother turning up to your funeral.”

The gist of both the WSJ and NYT articles was that the past few years have diminished our tolerance for uncomfortable or unfulfilling social interactions; the ones that excessively drain our social battery. Both articles highlight the idea that we have scaled down the number of people who are in our “good friends” circle because at first, we had to, and then we wanted to.  I think that I had already started to think about relationships and friendships before the pandemic hit.  Maybe it’s an age-related phenomenon. I realize that I’ve rounded third base, so I have become a lot pickier about how – and with whom – I want to spend my time.

Not my knitting group, but it could be

I’m not close to becoming a hermit – although if I watch much more nightly news it might become a distinct possibility. I still enjoy socializing and being with friends.  I have coffee with one of my closest friends every two weeks.  We enjoy an hour of catching up and solving world problems. My knitting group is an especially close group of women.  When I mentioned the friendship articles to them, we started a discussion about why we have formed such close ties.  We concluded that each week we spend hours together simply talking.  We aren’t hitting a golf or tennis ball, or choosing the next card to play at bridge, we simply spend time talking with each other. Over time, that has caused us to know a lot about each other’s lives, families, opinions, and every once in a while, we even talk about knitting.  We have formed a close bond because we have had the time to develop them because it is uninterrupted quiet time to simply enjoy being with each other.

Of course, Dash the Wonder Dog is still my #1 friend.  If you have the love of a dog, you don’t need much more. But I am lucky to have my close 15. I even think they would show up to my funeral.  Especially if there is good food and an open bar.

 

 

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THE GREAT POTATO CHIP CAPER

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Well, by now I’m assuming everyone has not only heard about the food shortages and supply line problems but has experienced them first-hand.  We’ve seen empty shelves since the pandemic started, but I sensed it was easing a bit until a few weeks ago.  Now, once again, going to the grocery store has all the certainty of placing a bet on the crap table.  Pundits on TV have blamed the war in Ukraine, but it seems to have started long before that.  This morning when I perused the pasta aisle I was met with a lot of blank space.  I grabbed the last bag of sweet potato fries and cinnamon graham crackers from their respective shelves.  I secretly applauded myself as if I had won the lottery.  But still, I haven’t been able to get the sugar-free wafer cookies that my husband loves in almost a year.  I think they are imported from Canada so I’m sure there is a customs problem at the border.  Too bad they don’t come from Mexico so they could sail right through.

In any event, the other item that has been very hit and I miss are Lay’s Baked potato chips. They are the brand that my husband’s cardiologist recommends (well, to the extent he recommends potato chips at all) but they have been impossible to find.  Obviously, I scour the shelves at our local Safeway once or twice a week, but I’ve been skunked at all of the other local markets as well. I’ve tried Target and CVS pharmacy – no dice.  Finally, last week I was in Walgreen’s when the Lay’s rep had just been there.  There were four bags on the shelf.  I furtively looked around, hoping no one was watching, and put all four bags in my cart.  I normally would never take the last of something.  Our mother always taught us that you never take the last cookie or the last piece of cake.  Advice which seems ridiculous.  Of course we wanted the last piece of cake! She never said, “Don’t take that last Brussel’s sprout!”.  Upon reflection, I realize that there was never just one sprout left.

Anyway, as I walked around Walgreen’s picking up the rest of my necessities, I ran through what excuses I might offer the check-out guy as to why I was depleting their entire stock of Baked Lays.  A graduation party?  Or, more appropriate for my age, a celebration of life? In the end, I just put my goods on the counter and proceeded to check out.  I didn’t look the check-out guy in the eye, lest he pose the dreaded “why?” question.  I felt guilty as I drove home, certain that a seven-year-old somewhere is Scottsdale was going to be deprived of potato chips in his lunch pail.  But when I walked in the house with my ill-gotten gains my greediness was rewarded.  My husband looked at me like I was Olivia Newton-John (his girl crush).  I can’t remember the last time he looked at me that way.

I’ve heard that we’re in for even more food shortages this summer.  What’s more, because fertilizer may be in short supply, they are going to spray manure on the crops, including potatoes.  Perhaps I need to tell my husband that, thus reducing his desire for the chips.  And, unfortunately, me.