Hopefully you all had a wonderful Independence Day celebration. Because this was the 250th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence there has been a lot written in the past few weeks about those early days. It got me to wondering – since the population of the American colonies was largely British, and the English language became the predominant language throughout what is now the eastern U.S., why do we not speak with British accents? When did we evolve from speaking the King’s English to our own version of the language? Did it change early in our history or did the likes of George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and Abigail Adams sound like King George III, William Wordsworth, and Jane Austen?
It turns out that the answer is almost certainly no. “American English” had come into common use by the time our Founding Fathers declared independence. But how? It is logical to assume that because Britain is extraordinarily rich in accents, one of those versions would have prevailed in the New World. In fact, in the Old World you only have to travel a few hours for the accent, and often the dialect, to change in very notable ways. Back in colonial times, as now, someone from London sounded quite different from a person from Yorkshire, Devon, or Liverpool — and accents were even more distinct in Scotland, Wales, or Ireland. And because people didn’t travel very far from home, many people spent their entire lives hearing just their local accent.
But when people from all regions of Great Britain began landing in the American colonies, they started mixing with each other. What resulted is a phenomenon known as “dialect leveling”. Dialect leveling is a phenomenon that occurs when a variety of different ways of speaking come into contact with one another, and the features that are most common — including accent and pronunciation — tend to overtake others. The outcome is a smoothing out of differences, thus eliminating distinct regional or social linguistic elements and creating a more standardized form.
In America, the leveling process was quick. Within a generation, Americans born in settlements such as Jamestown in the early 1600s, were already speaking differently than their parents. Yes, teenage rebellion existed even back then. And it wasn’t only the British mixing with one another. The early colonists came into contact with other European settlers speaking Dutch, Swedish, French, and Spanish, as well as Indigenous languages and, later, the languages of enslaved Africans — all of which contributed to the creation of early American English.
Visitors from the Old World were surprised when they heard American English. They had expected all kinds of accents to have developed, given the hodgepodge of dialects and languages spoken by the ragtag Americans. But instead, they were surprised by how uniform and standard the speech had become across the colonies, regardless of regional or class background. What is striking is that no one planned or imposed a common way of speaking. Settlers in the New World didn’t adopt any one group’s accent. Instead, they invented something new: a blended, democratized form of English. So, within one generation early Americans had forged their own speech, decades before independence. That said, one can reasonably argue that we have our own distinct regional accents, but that’s a story for a different day.
Our American version of English sets us apart. Which explains why we sometimes have trouble understanding people who speak in the “mother tongue”. When I am watching programs on Britbox I struggle to follow the dialogue and often turn on the subtitles. And don’t get me started on the Scottish, Irish, or God forbid, the Welsh, versions of English. I swear the Celts invented their own language just to irritate the English.
Every few years, the world unites in a grand celebration of football. Or as we in the U.S. like to say, soccer. Half of Americans’ experience with soccer begins and ends with 7-year-olds on a field, clueless about the game but excited about the sliced oranges at the break. The other half thinks FIFA is a type of allergy medication. But this year, something magical is happening: the Tartan Army and other international fan groups are pouring into the U.S. for the World Cup, ready to turn American cities into temporary outposts of global football culture. And America had absolutely no idea what was coming.
The Brazilians arrived radiating sunshine, samba, and the kind of confidence that comes from supporting a team that actually wins things. They immediately attempted to teach Americans how to dance, only to discover that many locals move like malfunctioning shopping carts. The English fans, who are thrilled to discover cheeseburgers and Ranch Dressing, enjoyed explaining—loudly, repeatedly, and to anyone within a five‑mile radius—that this will be their year. (It will not be their year.) The Norwegians came loaded for bear, having posed for their teamphoto as vanquishing ancient Norsemen. They have done “the row” (as if in the boat) at the stadium and more ingeniously, sitting on the “up” escalator at the Boston airport. The Germans showed up with precision, efficiency, and laminated itineraries. They are the only fan group that reads the stadium rules in advance. They are also the only ones who will arrive at the match three hours early “just to be safe.” I have some German lineage and I can attest that this is true.
The Argentinians arrived with Messi flags, Messi shirts, Messi tattoos, and at least one person who has named their firstborn “Messi.” They are prepared for glory. They are also prepared to argue passionately with anyone who suggests another player might be better. And meanwhile, we Americans are trying our best. We’ve decorated stadiums with red, white, and blue. We’ve Googled “how to chant like Europeans.” We’ve even practiced saying “nil” instead of “zero,” though it still sounds like we’re ordering a latte. But we learn quickly. After the win against Australia the U.S. fans sang “Country Roads” in unison, and people who were there said it was the most unified they had felt since 9/11. I wish John Denver was alive to hear how healing his song has become.
But let’s face it, it’s the Scots who have stolen the show. The Tartan Army has been Scotland’s most enthusiastic export after whisky and passive-aggressive weather. They arrived in full tartan regalia, kilts swishing proudly in the breeze, armed with bagpipes, optimism, and a deep, ancestral understanding that their team may not win—but by heaven, they will out‑party everyone. As they say, “No Scotland, no party!” They discovered that American beer is often served cold. Despite this, they still drank Boston dry. Many bar owners said they’d had to make emergency orders, having significantly underestimated how much the average Scot can drink. They also learned that some statues in the U.S. are quite tall, making it hard to place a traffic cone upon the top of it (long story – look it up). But just to show how charming the Tartan Army is, in Providence, R.I. the city maintenance workers gave a lift to a Scotsman in their cherry picker so he could complete the mission.
We Americans quickly learned that the Tartan Army is loud, joyful, and unstoppable. They sing in the streets. They sing in the stadiums. They sing in hotel elevators, which is confusing for guests who thought they were stepping into a quiet ride to the lobby and instead find themselves in a mobile Highland ceilidh. And yet—Americans fell in love with them. Because the Tartan Army, like all great football fans, brings something the U.S. can’t resist: pure, unfiltered, wholehearted enthusiasm.
They also brought manners and grace. A woman bartender in a Boston restaurant was the only person on duty when hundreds of the Tartan Army entered. She worked as quickly as possible to get them all drinks. When her shift ended, she told a local news reporter that to a person, they were polite, respectful and fun. The Scots had a party in a Boston park with over 2,000 people. Only one maintenance worker was scheduled to work the next day (I’m beginning to think Boston didn’t realize that FIFA was in town). Anyway, he said the park was so clean when he came to work, he just had to pick up the bags of trash the Scots had piled up for him. Finally, the Tartan Army was so overwhelmed by the friendliness and warmth of the Americans that they donated $30,000 to local charities as a thank you for welcoming them. And then they collected more money, giving $10,000 to a children’s cancer charity, $6,500 to a program to teach kids how to play the bagpipes, and $10,000 to a program that teaches underprivileged kids to play soccer. The Tartan Army reminded everyone that sport isn’t just about winning. It’s about belonging. It’s about joy. It’s about wearing a kilt in 105‑degree heat because tradition matters more than comfort. They’ll go home sunburned, dehydrated, and hoarse from singing—but proud. Because they didn’t just come to watch football. They came to conquer America, and they did. With kilts and kindness.
And we learned something about ourselves in hosting all of the international fans. In 11 host cities across the U.S., foreign tourists and ordinary Americans have created diplomacy that puts professionals to shame. And we got the wake-up call we needed: we are not our politicians or the media. We are good-hearted people who have more in common than we have differences. We love to gather together, laugh and sing. Now we just need to figure out a national chant.
“Double your pleasure, double your fun”, “A little dab’ll do ya”, “Snap, Crackle, Pop.” If you’re of an age where you’re receiving Social Security those phrases will bring back fond memories. In fact, most of us can probably sing the entire verse. They are advertising jingles, of course, and were the mainstay of entertainment when we were growing up. Before the advent of recording devices, or even a clicker, we were forced to sit and watch the advertisements on television. I’m sure our parents thought they were annoying, but looking back, some of them were downright entertaining. It’s been a long time since an ad has captured the public’s attention, primarily because we’re all watching something different – different shows, on different devices, and on different streaming or cable outlets.
But back in 1959, the ad execs on Madison Avenue viewed television as a vehicle for unlocking new forms of storytelling. It was an era of bold ideas, increasingly large budgets, and even bigger personalities — a time when advertising was seen as glamorous and ads were focused on post-war consumerism. Sometimes they were devised to change perception. Take the ad for Volkswagen, for example. In 1959 Americans were buying cars out of Detroit and vehicles were getting bigger and flashier. Remember those fins?? DDB, one of the premier ad agencies, was contracted to promote the German-made Volkswagen Beetle in the United States. The problem was, Volkswagen’s strong link to Nazi Germany made it a tough sell in the U.S. The challenge called for an unconventional approach. Rather than attempting to duplicate the advertising style of American-made cars, the creative team behind Volkswagen’s campaign went in the opposite direction. The first ad, “Think Small,” featured a small black-and-white image of a Volkswagen Beetle against a backdrop of white space. The now-iconic ad encouraged consumers to look at the car in a new light, from being able to “squeeze into a small parking spot” to having small insurance payments and small repair bills. I’d guess that for those of us around in the 60’s we all knew someone who owned a “Beetle”. My brother, Jack, bought one in 1965 and a year later was generous/foolish enough to teach me how to drive a clutch in it. He can vouch that the repair bills, at least for a clutch, were indeed reasonable.
Ads were not always so light-hearted, especially in hindsight. Cigarette ads come to mind when thinking about the dark side of advertising. One of the most successful advertising campaigns in history was that for Marlboro cigarettes, one of the first cigarettes to add a filter. During market research in the 1950s, men indicated that while they would consider switching to a filtered cigarette (then considered “feminine”), they were concerned about being seen smoking a cigarette marketed to women. New campaigns featured rugged men doing rugged jobs. In 1963 ads began to feature cowboys, and the “Marlboro Man” was launched. In 1954, before the campaign began, annual sales were approximately 18 million cigarettes. By 1955, after the national rollout of the cowboy-themed advertisements, sales surged to 6 billion cigarettes, and by 1957, sales were at $20 billion. Five men played the “Marlboro Man” over the years, including the grandfather of NFL quarterback, Sam Darnold. All five eventually died of smoking-related illnesses. God only knows how many people succumbed to the lure of being a “Marlboro Man” and suffered similar fates.
Cigarette ads aside, there were some extremely clever ads with memorable jingles during the heyday of television advertising. No doubt, the creative juices were let loose during lunch, when drinking was not only acceptable, but expected. The famous “three martini lunch” was deductible on expense accounts, and thus, was perceived as a symbol of success. Today, so much has changed with regard to ads, not to mention drinking at lunch. As mentioned previously, depending on what you watch and how you watch it, you may not know anyone who has seen the same ad as you. The only common experience we have is with ads shown during the Super Bowl. Some of our most popular cultural touchpoints started as Super Bowl ads, such as Wendy’s “Where’s the Beef?” promotion that launched a phrase into the lexicon that is still in use today. And maybe that’s why people look forward to Super Bowl ads so much – the opportunity to re-hash the best, worst and funniest with our friends.
Most of the ads I see are for drugs to fix age-related conditions. That’s called “targeting advertising” and I suppose it’s more cost-effective for the sponsors, but I can never remember the products. Maybe they need to bring back the Don Draper’s of the ad world to create a catchy tune or jingle to jog our memories.
This annual Memorial Day post is written in remembrance of the soldiers from my high school who died in the Vietnam war. I first published this in 2014, and each year since then I hear from people who relate similar stories about the losses suffered in their hometowns or, worse, their families. This Memorial Day 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 very nice, quiet guy. Before he enlisted, he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him – they wanted 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 a good student, who 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 led 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 in high school 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 back 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 his 16-year-old friends 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, to 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 he met. 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 and 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.
In 2018 I was contacted by a woman in New York who signed up for a grueling physical event that honors Vietnam veterans. She chose to represent Jim. She had found my Memorial Day tribute and wanted to know more about him. You can read my post about her and the event 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. When he died in Vietnam the Army listed his hometown as Novato. I found in my research that sometimes the Novato “hometown” designation was for those who had lived at Hamilton Air Force Base, not necessarily a graduate of Novato High School. Since I couldn’t find any records of Jerry from NHS, I assumed he lived at the base, 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 told me he never saw Jerry again after football tryouts and didn’t learn of his fate until he spotted Jerry’s name on “The Wall”. I learned that after Jerry left Novato in June 1966, he joined the Army 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 wrote 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 requested a transfer to our unit. 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 of another NHS connection: Jim Wright.
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 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, 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 our family without his presence all of these years. 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 brother 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.
It’s tough to escape the news these days. It is seemingly everywhere and with today’s 24-hour news cycle, it feels like notable events are happening every second. With the death of Ted Turner, arguably the inventor of 24-hour news, there were several articles published about his impact on news. One article noted that it would be a welcome respite if, for just one day, we didn’t have ANY news, as happened on April 18, 1930, when the BBC announced that nothing newsworthy had occurred that day. At the start of its regular news broadcast at 8:45 p.m., the BBC announced, “Good evening. Today is Good Friday. There is no news.” The BBC had a reputation to uphold – it had traditionally decried sensationalist news reporting. They shied away from covering local automobile accidents and fires in favor of big-picture affairs that had global repercussions. So, when they assumed there was no news, they kept the bar high, axed the nightly news, and played piano music in its place.
As it turned out, the news department made an ill-informed, or rather, non-informed, mistake. In reality, that day was a very notable news day, as nationalist rebels conducted a raid on British commonwealth forces in India. But communication lines were cut during the attack, making it impossible for the BBC to be aware of the news. Under the impression there were no major headlines that day, the network felt no need to lower its broadcast standards solely to fill time.
Huntley and Brinkley back in the day
Imagine that – a news network deeming to not lower its standards just to fill airtime. According to the latest Pew research, most nightly newscasts devote a surprisingly small share, often only 5–25%, to what most people would consider “important” or high‑impact news. The rest is typically softer material: human‑interest stories, consumer tips, health trends, weather, and promotional segments. And of course, many of the cable channels are rife with opinion and low on accurate information.
While exact percentages vary by network and by day, long-term content analyses show the following patterns for local newscasts:
Hard news (politics, world events, economics): 5–25%
Hard news has steadily declined over decades as networks chase broader audiences and advertiser‑friendly demographics.
Soft news (health, lifestyle, human interest): 30–50%
These segments are cheaper to produce and more reliably “pleasant” for viewers.
Weather: 10–15%
Weather is one of the most-watched parts of any broadcast.
Crime stories: 10–20%
Crime is often overrepresented relative to actual crime rates.
Network promotion (teasers for upcoming shows, cross‑promotion): 5–10%
However, the times, they are a changin’. Only around 20% of adults under 30 regularly watch TV news. Gone are the days when the family gathered around a TV to watch anything, much less news. Younger people prefer to get their news digitally. Most read news on their phones. If they are watching anything it is online (You Tube or Tik Tok), or they listen to news on podcasts. God help the person getting news from Facebook and Instagram, the home of bots and third-grade name calling. Bottom line: young adults overwhelmingly get news from social media, more than any other age group.
All of this is happening at a time when AI is changing the landscape of just about everything. I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to assume that soon an AI program will determine what goes into a newsfeed. And for that matter, have an AI robot deliver the news. All I can hope is that whoever is programming the AI looks to the BBC on April 18, 1930, to establish its standards. I know, wishful thinking.
I’m not sure if all roads lead to Rome, but ours did last Tuesday, prior to getting on our cruise on Thursday. We had decided that because we had been to Rome on several previous occasions that we would only spend about a day there before boarding our cruise. In retrospect, probably a mistake, as Rome is such an amazing city, it deserves as much time as you can give it.
Our driver picked us (the Budds & Sagers) from the airport and drove us to our hotel, Sina Bernini Bristol, which was conveniently located withing walking distance of several of Rome’s main attractions. But first, as we waited for our room to be ready, we had lunch at Arte e Sfizio, not sure of the spelling but it was fantastic. We were welcomed by the owner, Johnny like we were old, long-lost friends (well, we were old!). He brought us out an appetizer tray that was killer! It was a wonderful way to be welcomed to Italy – great hospitality, great food.
From left: Reddy’s, Budds, Helmles, Sagers and Sparrows
After lunch, our rooms were ready, so we checked in and went to the rooftop bar to enjoy some great Italian wine and a spectacular view of the city. Like the tourists that we were, we decided to walk to two iconic Italian sites that were close by, Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. Both just a short walking distance from our hotel and both were very crowded but were still enjoyable to see. We were stuffed from lunch, but by dinner time, we decided to head up to the rooftop restaurant and enjoy some ‘little Italian bites’ which happened to be more like little Japanese bites and some more wine. We finished the evening with a short walk from the hotel to an amazing Gelato place. There is nothing like Italian gelato! A great way to end our first and only day in Rome.
The next morning, we had about an hour and a half drive from our hotel to the ship, but it seemed like just minutes as our driver was a singer and he sang some great Italian and American songs all the way. We of course joined in, making the ride seem like only a few minutes.
The suite!
The ship was magnificent. It is Oceana’s newest ship, Alura, which just turned a year old this month. It has a rather small capacity of 1,200 passengers. One couple in our group, the Helmles, got a room on the ship like I’ve never seen before. It was at the aft of the ship and the room, which was 2400 square feet, went from one side of the ship to the other – simply unbelievable!!! We became regular guests there!
First stop, the Amalfi Coast. We had arranged for two vans to pick up the ten of us for the picturesque and often life-threatening ride up the mountain. It is truly one of the most picturesque coastlines in the world. It just so happened that our driver was also an opera singer, so we were serenaded with both Italian and American classics through the entire trip. We were dropped in the middle of Amalfi and did some shopping and had lunch (amazing spaghetti bolognese) before returning to the ship.
Travel tip: If you’ve never been to the Amalfi Coast, shame on you – go!! And try to find a driver that sings Italian operas!
Our last stop in Italy is on the island of Sicily in the port city of Catania, where the still active volcano, Mt. Etna is an iconic landmark. We did a food/walking tour of this home of many of Italy’s famous artists and writers. We had two guides take us through a huge fish market and throughout town stopping for . . . I don’t know what we ate, but it was all good. We finished the day back on board at the Asian specialty restaurant for a delicious dinner.
Twenty-seven years ago I underwent LASIK surgery to correct my vision. At the time, I couldn’t read the big E on the eye chart with my left eye. I had worn glasses or contacts since I was 10 years old. Not Coke-bottle thickness, but I was headed in that direction. LASIK was a miracle for me. Afterwards I had 20/20 vision that lasted for many years. But as with other body parts, Father Time eventually caught up, and I learned that LASIK was not intended to last forever. At first, I wore “cheaters” from the drug store but eventually my distance vision deteriorated to the point I couldn’t read road signs. This made for some lively discussions on the road trips that my husband and I used to take, where he relied on me for navigation. I finally gave in and started wearing progressive glasses, which give all the satisfaction of a warm shower. My head had to be tilted in just the right way to see or read. And frankly, my vision wasn’t crisp at any angle. That came in handy when I looked in the mirror, but was exceedingly annoying when reading or watching TV.
Luckily, one of the few advantages of getting older is that I started to develop cataracts. My ophthalmologist and I have been discussing surgery for a few years. Because of my LASIK surgery he couldn’t guarantee that traditional lenses would give me perfect vision. In 2021 he told me about light-adjustable lenses (LAL’s) that were being used in Europe for people that previously had LASIK. Unlike traditional lenses that are permanently fixed in their refractive power, he told me LAL’s can be adjusted postoperatively using specialized light treatments.
That seemed a little daunting to me. I wondered exactly what kind of torture they put you through for the adjustments. Turns out that the LAL’s are made of specialized photosensitive material that contain light-reactive molecules. After the lens is implanted, the surgeon uses a light delivery device to expose the lens to specific patterns of UV light. That exposure gradually alters the lens’s shape and optical power, allowing for adjustments over several weeks. Okay – that’s the scientific stuff. But I needed to know how it worked in practice. So I talked with a few friends that had the procedure and they raved about it. Colors were brighter, vision was clear, and they could read a menu without a floodlight streaming down on it.
So, earlier this month I had the LAL’s implanted in both eyes. I did them on consecutive days, which caused some people to question my sanity (not a new phenomenon), but I wanted this process to be done ASAP. The surgeon said it takes 2-4 months for the light treatments and then the final “lock-in” and until that time, one must live as a vampire. Sunlight is a killer for these lenses so even when I take Dooley out to the dog run, I have to don a very “attractive” pair of UV-blocking sunglasses. They also provide a clear pair to wear inside, that fortunately have “cheaters” built in. For the first week I was to stay off of electronic devices. Luckily The Masters was on TV so I was entertained.
Thus far, I’m pretty happy. The day after my second surgery I drove myself to the doctor’s office. I could not read anything on the instrument panel of my car, much less street signs. I questioned whether I should have been driving, but after a vision test the doctor said I was legal by Arizona standards. ‘Nuff said. At one week they checked me again and it looks like 20/20 vision will be possible. Eventually. The computer is still blurry – over time this will subside but for now I can only spend 10-15 minutes on it before I have to take a break.
My glasses collection
Overall, I’m glad I did it. The prospect of good vision again is uplifting. My glasses will go to the Lion’s Club donation program so hopefully someone else will enjoy them. A big benefit that I didn’t anticipate? After a week away from electronic devices, my bad habit of constantly checking them is gone. I may not be able to keep up with influencers, but I read more often now, and I think that’s a VERY good trade-off.
There are two camps of people rejoicing this week. No, not because of the upcoming Passover and Easter holidays. I’m referring to baseball fans and those of us who live in Spring Training cities. The month of March is typically known for the “madness” around college basketball. While the NCAA tournament has been exciting so far, it doesn’t rise to the level of watching Spring Training tourists drive. In the past month I have witnessed more sudden lane changes onto exit ramps than I care to think about. All I can say is I’m glad I have a good braking system in my car. March also brings the baseball fans whose indicator light bears no resemblance to the direction the person actually turns, and the ones who fail to move forward when the light turns green because they’re hopelessly lost and consulting Google Maps.
So, I welcome April this week not only because the crowds will thin out and it’s safer to drive, but also because I enjoy the beginning of baseball season. I stress – the beginning – because after April I lose complete interest until the World Series. But at the beginning of the season I enjoy the beautiful green grass, the hopefulness that imbues each team, and the music. Yes, I love baseball music. My dad and his mother were huge Giants fans. Right up until her death, my grandmother would listen to the games on the radio with a team cap perched on her head and a box of See’s Candy on her end table. I don’t have to wonder where I got my sweet tooth. All summer long my dad had his transistor radio tuned to the Giants games. And much to my mother’s chagrin, during one World Series run he hid the radio in his jacket pocket and used a wired earpiece to listen to a game during a church service!
Harry Caray
So unsurprisingly, the song “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” was one of the first songs I learned. Written in 1908 by songwriter Jack Norworth and composer Albert Von Tilzer, the tune was one of many popular baseball songs that made waves at the time. But unlike the others, their composition went on to become a cultural fixture, still played today in many stadiums during the game’s seventh-inning stretch. You would think this legendary tribute to America’s pastime would be written by a diehard baseball fan, but the truth is that neither Norworth nor Von Tilzer had ever seen a baseball game when they penned the song! Norworth wrote the lyrics when he saw a poster for a NY Giants game while riding a NYC subway. Von Tilzer wrote the music, and they registered the copyright for the tune in 1908. Although it was a popular song, it was not played at a professional baseball game until 1934. Even then, it didn’t really gain any traction. But in 1971 Chicago White Sox owner Bill Veeck caught legendary announcer Harry Caray singing the song to the entire stadium. From that point forward it became an essential singalong tradition in almost every ballpark.
Diamond at Fenway
Today, many teams have adopted other anthems to play during games. “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond is played at Redsox games, the Giants play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin“, and the Pirates’ fans sing along to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family”. It’s fun to hear these songs played during games and is a lovely way to bring a large, diverse crowd together. God knows we can use more of that. So I say, “Play Ball!”
P.S. Jack Norworth finally attended his first baseball game – in 1940!!
Some weeks are better than others. Last week was not only a “better” week, but a great week because brother Bob came for a visit. I know a fair number of people who would roll their eyes at the prospect of their sibling paying a visit. But Bob and I (and our older brother, Jack) are lucky enough to not only be siblings, but friends. Bob lives a six-hour drive away, which means we don’t get to visit as often as we’d like. So, I was excited when his car pulled into my driveway last Tuesday, only to be outdone by Dooley, who sprang from the front door and raced out to greet him. So much for the “wait” command. Luckily, Bob is a dog lover, so the affection was reciprocated with lots of scratches and hugs. And, oh yeah, he gave me a hug too.
That night we had a low-key evening with my friend Marge and her husband, Bob. I cooked chili and didn’t kill anyone, so I consider the night a success. Marge is like a sister to me. In fact, I think the entirety of my family would like to make her an official member of our tribe, so she is included in all family gatherings, large and small. The next day Bob and I set out for a fun and purposeful day. One of the reasons for his visit was for him to tour the continuing care communities I’ve been considering and to confirm that I have zeroed in on the one that is the best fit for me. But first…we needed some fun. I have long wanted to take him to the Musical Instrument Museum (MIM) because he is such a great musician and has an appreciation for all types of music. The MIM is the largest museum of its type in the world, with a collection of over 15,000 musical instruments and associated objects from nearly 200 countries and territories. It is truly fascinating to see how people from continents thousands of miles apart invented similar drums and string instruments at roughly the same time. My fatal mistake was not allowing enough time for our visit. We were there for a bit over two hours and could have spent all day.
We had briefly toured one of my “retirement home” options earlier in the day but spent more time, and ate lunch, at the one I am favoring, Sagewood. I tried not to influence his impression, as I wanted to hear his honest opinion, and luckily, he confirmed that I had made the right choice. I won’t be moving for a while because I want to wait for their new addition, but it’s nice to have that major decision behind me. We finished the day with dinner at my club, once again with Marge and Bob, and my good friend Bonnie, who always makes for a fun evening.
The next day we were able to meet our niece Shelley and her husband, Colin, for lunch down in Casa Grande. CG, as we call it, is not exactly a garden spot, nor is it known for its great restaurants, but it does have the distinction of being exactly half-way between Shelley’s house in Tucson and mine in Scottsdale. And in reality, we could have been eating tuna sandwiches on a park bench and still had a good time. They are delightful to be with, and we always leave feeling we haven’t had enough time together. Of course, being the Boomer that I am, I forgot to take a photo.
That night Marge wanted to see Bob again before his visit ended so she and her Bob had us over for dinner. The dinner was delicious, but the best part was the music. Marge played some beautiful songs on the piano while we sang along, her Bob played the banjo, and then my Bob played the banjo while Marge sang and danced. It was truly one of those magical evenings that you don’t plan but remember forever. The next morning Bob headed for home and both Dooley and I were sad to see him drive off. But what a wonderful visit! Usually we have a lot of people around when we see each other, so it was special to have some one-on-one time. I’m convinced there is nothing better than when your sibling is also your friend. I’m a lucky sister.
One year ago today I brought my new puppy home. I named him Dashing Doolin, which was a nod to my former dog, Dash, and Doolin, one of my favorite towns in Ireland. I nicknamed him Dooley, which I thought sounded very playful and cute. Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are known as the “comfort spaniels”, bred to sit quietly and lovingly by their owner. So, I envisioned a similar experience to that which I had with Dash the Wonder Dog – mellow, lots of naps (him), endless amounts of time to live a normal life (me). I was wrong. Very wrong. I swear Dooley is part Jack Rusell Terrier. Right from the jump he required lots of activity and almost all of my attention. My idea of keeping him occupied was to throw a ball. His was to nip my arms, toes and ear lobes. Or chew on the throw pillows. Or scratch the front window, begging to go chase birds, bunnies and every errant leaf that blew by. Although he had some of the same lineage as Dash, it soon became apparent that Dooley is a very different dog.
The “convict”
I’d like to say that the last year has been one of happiness and fun. But I’d be lying. What was I thinking getting a puppy in my mid-70’s? I have been frustrated, tearful and ready to give up more times that I can count. I jokingly referred to him as “the terrorist” because my life was dictated by him. In truth, it wasn’t such a joke. At least once a week I gave serious consideration as to whether he might be better placed with a young family with a very large backyard. For six months I enrolled him in training classes, in which he excelled. He was the perfect student and his instructors remarked about how quickly he caught on to commands. But turns out I had a little Eddie Haskell on my hands – a kiss-up around other adults and a complete menace at home. For Halloween last year I dressed him up as a convict for our community’s pet costume contest and several people mentioned how appropriate his outfit was. In other words, he had a “rep”. His saving grace was that he loves to “smoosh”, an activity where he jumps up and practically smothers me while laying his head on my head. It’s his version of a hug and although he doesn’t know it, that gesture kept him in my good graces.
Finally, when I was truly at my wit’s end, my friend Joan referred me to her trainer, Tammy Verhas. I took him for lessons twice and at the end of the second session she said, “You know, I think he might benefit from boot camp.” I think when a professional tells you your dog needs to go to military school it’s best to listen. So, the first week of November he went to “camp” for three weeks. I was able to get him home a couple of days before Thanksgiving and at first, I thought she’d switched out dogs on me. The dog she brought me was a perfectly behaved, obedient dog. Surely this couldn’t be Dooley?! Tammy and I had a long talk about his behavior. Turns out I was leading with affection, versus establishing some element of respect. I guess I had a “rep” too. In my defense, she told me he was the most intelligent and high-energy Cavalier she’d ever trained.
It’s been almost perfect since then. He is definitely smarter than me and knows when I’m in a weakened state and not up to being as strict as I should. That’s when he decides to pull on the leash or jump up on visitors. But generally, he is now a really good boy. And I have to say that at night, when he is snuggled up next to my pillow or curled up next to my stomach, there isn’t a better feeling in the world. Now, I don’t know what I’d do without him to keep me company. As Tammy told me, sometimes we get the dog we need, not the dog we want. As I’ve found out, it’s even better when we get both.
