Category Archives: opinion

Posted in opinion

GOOD PARENTING

By Comments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

A group of friends and I were talking about parenting the other day.  We remarked that when we were growing up our parents sent us out the door in the morning and asked us not to return until dinner.  I think they had a general sense of where we were, but I wouldn’t swear to it.  Of course, we all grew up in small towns, where everyone knew everyone else, and you couldn’t get into too much trouble without being observed by someone who would rat you out to your parents.  And, in general, it was a safer time for kids to roam around unsupervised.  Still, even into the 80’s I remember my husband and I standing at the end of our driveway, waving to our daughter and her best friend as they drove off for spring break in Palm Desert.  She called to let us know they arrived safely, and we didn’t hear from her again until they set out for home.  I’m not sure we want to know what they were up to that week, but that is her fun memory to have and since we weren’t asked for bail money, I’m assuming she didn’t get into too much trouble.  But back to the discussion with my friends – we were commenting about how the advent of cell phones has allowed parents to track every movement of their kids. There are good and bad aspects to that.  There’s no question the cell phone has kept many an anxious parent from lying awake half the night wondering where their kids (and car) were.  On the other hand, I learned a lot of lessons on how to get myself out of a jam because no one was just a phone call away to help me out.

Coincidentally, earlier this week I received an article about old-fashioned parenting styles from one of the historical sites I subscribe to, and it was eye-opening to learn just how far we’ve come in supervising our children.  For example:

People Used to Mail Their Children – on January 1, 1913, the United States Post Office began offering parcel service.  The most brazen early parcel customers trusted the Post Office with their most precious cargo – their children. The first recorded baby delivered via parcel post was James Beagle, an 8-month-old resident of Glen Este, Ohio. His journey wasn’t long: a carrier picked up the “well wrapped” infant from his parents on January 25 and, per the address on an attached card, delivered him to his grandmother just a few miles away. The postage cost 15 cents, and his parents insured him for $50! The practice of mailing children to relatives continued, particularly in rural areas, until 1915, when the government finally made it illegal to pop your kid in the mail.

Kids Were Routinely Given Illegal Drugs – In an era before evidence-based medicine, parents often relied on dubious remedies to treat common childhood ailments. Substances such as Stickney and Poor’s Pure Paregoric syrup and Godfrey’s Cordial were commonly given to babies in the 19th century to relieve gas, soothe teething pain, and treat unexplained fussiness. The secret ingredients? Alcohol and opium.  Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup was also a popular treatment at the time. The syrup was said to be suitable for babies as young as newborns. While the vibrant marketing featured cheerful imagery of happy babies and mothers, the syrup, a concoction that included morphine and alcohol, resulted in the loss of thousands of children until it was denounced by the American Medical Association in the early 1900s.

Parents Aired Out Laundry and Children – Dr. Luther Emmett Holt, sort of a 19th century Dr. Spock, introduced the concept of “airing” infants. The practice of “airing” babies subsequently gained traction, and by the early 1900s, people even began placing babies in boxes on flat roofs. Baby cages also became popular as a way for city-dwelling parents to provide their babies with that all-important fresh air from the comfort of an enclosed frame suspended from a windowsill.

No Such Thing as Maternal Affection – In the early 1900s, John B. Watson (no relation!), an American psychologist known for his role in developing the field of behaviorism, stated that children should not receive “too much mother love.”  He argued that children should be greeted with a handshake in the morning, should not be allowed to sit in a parent’s lap, and should never be hugged or kissed, save for a peck on the forehead at bedtime. Many of the leading child psychologists of the day suggested that a baby be handled as little as possible lest it become spoiled.  Touching, they said, would sow indulgence that would reap anger, selfishness, irritability, and unbecomingness.  Instead, they suggested parents turn the baby occasionally from side to side, feed it, change it, keep it warm, and let it alone.  Kind of like you’d do with a hamster.

Such theories are unimaginable these days, but I guess it explains a lot of the stoic behavior in the past.  And if they treated their children like this, I hate to think about the living conditions of the family dog.  Dash the Wonder Dog, like most pets, is fortunate to live in a time when we buy unlimited toys, fluff their pillows, feed them organic food and let them nestle into a soft pillow on our beds.  We’ve come a long way.

Posted in opinion

ON SAFARI IN SCOTTSDALE

By Comments:6 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Tom the Tarantula

I have always been an animal lover.  Okay, maybe really just a dog lover. I can tolerate the occasional cat.  But last month I reached the limits of my admiration for the animal kingdom when a giant tarantula appeared on my front door.  Now generally I am not afraid of spiders.  Living in Arizona requires that you become adept at squashing any number of arachnoids with the heel of your shoe.  But this thing was roughly the size of the Volkswagen I drove in college.  Our security department takes care of wayward desert animals so I called to see if they could remove the tarantula.  Ten minutes later a young man came walking up to my front entrance with a little grin on his face.  I’m sure he thought I was some gray-haired old lady afraid of a little spider.  When I pointed to Tom the Tarantula (we were on a first-name basis by then), he turned toward the window and his mouth flew open.  “Oh my God,” he shouted. He told me he’d never seen one so large.  He eventually got a piece of paper, scraped it off the window and took it out to the street.  I had visions of Tom returning, perhaps when I was fast asleep.  But the guard assured me that within a few hours he would be eaten by a coyote or snake.  Rest in Peace, Tom.

         Lovely Rattlesnakes

Over the past year I’ve had an unusual number of encounters with local wildlife.  We had rattlesnakes that visited our lot when we were building the house (they are territorial, and we disrupted their space) but since we moved into the house in 2000, we haven’t seen another one.  Until last year.  They usually go into hibernation when the weather turns colder, so you can imagine my surprise when I came home from a dinner at the beginning of November to find a rattlesnake in the yard.  And not just the yard – but in Dash the Wonder Dog’s dog run.  Luckily my flashlight caught the glint of his skin, and I was able to grab Dash before he had an ugly encounter.  And me a $5,000 anti-venom vet bill.  Our security people came and took him out of my yard.  Two weeks later, the day before Thanksgiving, I went out to check my backflow valve and when I lifted the cover, lo and behold, there was a rattlesnake coiled around one of the pipes.  I’ve never run so damn fast in my life.  Again, security came to the rescue, but I’m sure they were beginning to suspect I was running a breeding farm.

         Be Very Afraid

Last fall I also encountered one of the desert’s worst sort – the Colorado River Toad.  These toads are nothing like Kermit the Frog.  These guys are mean.  They are smooth-skinned and dark, with a distinct cranial crest that curves above each eye, giving them a killer look from the outset. They are only semi-aquatic, meaning they burrow around and seek out water sources.  Again, this toad showed up out in the dog run.  He looked so vicious that I immediately looked up types of toads, spotted the species, and learned that their defense mechanism is a poison they emit that is lethal enough to kill a dog.  The next morning he was gone. Two weeks ago, I let Dash out right before bed and saw one sitting underneath my A/C condensation pipe, basking in the water.  I took the Scarlet O’Hara approach and decided to deal with it the next morning.  Unfortunately, the bugger was still there.  Once again, Security came and caught him and remarked on his large size.  My pool man says that he’s seen more of these toads this year than in any of the 30 years he’s been working on pools.  Great.

The owl, critiquing my cooking

Coyotes are a regular part of our existence, in fact, we have a coyote pathway right outside my kitchen window. Since I’ve become accustomed to them over the past 24 years, I’m not frightened by them anymore.  I just double-check they aren’t running to the supermarket when I take Dash out.  Javelinas are another animal we live with, but they usually only cause problems by destroying plants.  We shrug them off; the deer always destroyed our gardens when we lived in California.  We also have regular visits from owls, who I learned are quite cunning.  A friend lost her dog when an owl swooped down, picked it up, and carried it off to who knows where.  I had this one peering in the kitchen window a couple of years ago, but I think the sour look was due to his appraisal of my cooking skills.

         Beautiful bobcat

Every once in a while, we get a beautiful, but equally frightening bobcat that visits our yard.  During Covid I guess he was having a hard time finding food (and it was an especially hot summer) so he camped out on our back patio almost every afternoon, hoping the occasional rabbit would step into his lair.  He truly was a beautiful animal, and I felt sorry for him, as his bony ribs heaved up and down as he panted to try to cool off.  But not sorry enough to set out a of bowl of water.  I’m hoping he found food and shelter at a non-dog owner’s home.

I’ve been tested in many ways this year, but those snakes and toads have just about taken me over the edge.  Thank God for the nice young men in our security department that come to my rescue.  I think I’m going to owe them a big check at Christmas this year.

 

 

Posted in opinion

WHAT A HEEL

By Comments:4 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

        The computer shoe

I read the other day that the artifacts collected by Microsoft co-founder, Paul Allen, are going up for auction.  Allen died in 2018 and, as you might imagine, he collected a wide range of items.  One of the most intriguing is the “computer shoe”. It was a re-release of Puma’s 1986 running shoe with a computer chip built into the heel, sort of like an Apple Watch for your feet. Originally designed for runners to track distance, time and calories, the shoes were updated in 2018 with new features that included USB charging and Bluetooth connectivity to a smartphone. Only 86 of the shoes were released and it’s estimated that Allen’s pair will sell for between $1,000 to $2,000.  At that price, one hopes not to step in any dog poop.  Or the New York Subway, for that matter.

       Sneex heel sneaker

Reading the article about the shoes led me down a rabbit hole about shoes in general, and high heels in particular.  And my timing was good, because also making the news this week is that Sara Blakely, founder of Spanx, has launched a new company, Sneex,  that produces a shoe that combines a high heel with a tennis shoe.  Brilliant!  As she says, it’s hard to change the world when your feet hurt.  As someone who pounded the pavement of San Francisco’s financial district in high heels, I can attest that a comfortable pair of shoes would have made me a lot less grouchy in meetings.  Blakely’s shoes are engineered to eliminate pain points that are common with high heels, including the narrow toe box, the pitch at which weight is distributed onto the ball of the foot, and the all-to-common gap between the heel of the foot and the shoe. They are priced between $395 to $595, which is a real bargain compared to bunion surgery.

               The Persian fighting shoe

I have heard more than once that if men had to wear high heels a shoe company like Sneex would have been invented long ago.  But as it turns out, men were the original wearers of high heels.  Yep, long before the days of stilettos and pumps, kitten heels and wedges, high-heeled shoes were worn by men. As far back as the 10th century, Persian soldiers and emissaries wore heels when riding, battling, or traveling to faraway lands. These heels weren’t for show, however; they were for function. When a soldier wore heeled boots on a horse, he was able to better steady himself and generate more balance both for riding and fighting. Persian soldiers were also able to stand upright in their stirrups, positioning their feet so the space between the heel and the sole was snug in the stirrup, which gave them an advantage in battle.

     Louis and his red shoes

Once heels made their way to Europe in the 16th century, their purpose was much more akin to how we think of these shoes today. Men in the French, Spanish, German, and Russian courts wore heels to project height and physical stature in order to intimidate rivals and foreign diplomats in court. Sort of the modern-day equivalent of the men who put lifts in their shoes (I’m looking at you, Tom Cruise). Perhaps the best-known advocate of heels was Louis XIV, who popularized red shoes long before Christian Louboutin came along. He believed they signified power and prestige. Over time, around the beginning of the 18th century, the tables turned. Men found themselves saying, “Damn, my feet hurt!”, more often so their shoes became wider and lower.  Conversely, women’s shoes became higher, as it was thought that a bit of a shoe toe sticking out from under a skirt indicated daintiness.

These days, when it comes to shoes, I’m less concerned with looks and more interested in staying upright.  I am clumsy by nature, so I may be an early adopter of Sneex.  And I have a Baby Boomer suggestion for them: incorporate siderails on the shoe and you’ll have a huge hit at the retirement home.

Posted in opinion

SCREAMING FOR ICE CREAM

By Comments:13 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Well, here we are in the dog days of summer.  The Olympics are over and college football is still a couple of weeks away.  My house is a construction zone, resplendent with caution tape, and the forecast predicts temperatures over 103 for the next week.  So what’s a girl to do? The only solution is to eat ice cream.  I love ice cream in the summer, but the prices of those little pints at the grocery store are ridiculous. So, a couple of months ago I bought the Ninja Creami “frozen treat” machine and I’ve been eating ice cream every day since.  Sometimes twice a day.  The fantastic thing about the Creami is that you really can make anything in it – sorbet, smoothies, gelato and, of course, ice cream.  I realized in researching the machine that there was potential that I could end up with my doctor ordering Ozempic for me by the end of summer – everything made in the machine looked so good.  Luckily I found a couple of groups on Facebook that are dedicated to making healthy, high protein, frozen desserts.  Which is why I have indulged so much and lost weight in the process.  More on that in a bit.

Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar

Eating ice cream every day got me to wondering what genius came up with it to begin with.  Oddly, no specific person has officially been credited with inventing ice cream. Its origins date back as far as 200 B.C., when people in China created a dish of rice mixed with buffalo milk that was then frozen by being packed in snow. Somehow that doesn’t grab me.  Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar of Rome was said to have sent people up to the mountains to collect snow and ice which would then be flavored with juice and fruit—kind of like a first century snow cone. These early “ice creams” were obviously a luxury indulged in by the rich, as not everyone had the ability to send servants up the mountains to collect snow for them.  One of the first places to serve ice cream to the general public was Café Procope in France, which started serving it in the late 17th century. The ice cream was made from a combination of milk, cream, butter, and eggs. However, it was still primarily a treat for the elite and was not yet popular among every class.

Jefferson and his ice cream

The first mention of ice cream in America appeared in 1744, when a Scottish colonist visited the house of Maryland Governor Thomas Bladen wrote about the delicious strawberry ice cream he had while dining there.  Our Founding Fathers were great lovers of ice cream; in between writing up of the Declaration of Independence Thomas Jefferson wrote his own recipe for vanilla ice cream.  Talk about multi-tasking! Up until the 1800s, ice cream was mostly a treat reserved for special occasions as it couldn’t be stored for long due to the lack of insulated freezers. People would have ice cut from lakes in the winter and store it in the ground or brick ice houses, which were insulated with straw.

Ice cream wasn’t big business until Jacob Fussell built an ice cream factory in Pennsylvania in 1851 and industrial refrigeration came into being in the 1870’s. In the late 1800s, ice cream soared in popularity and new recipes began to emerge. Soda fountains emerged in 1874, and with them came the invention of the ice cream soda. Religious leaders condemned indulging in ice cream sodas on Sundays and set up “blue laws” banning their serving, which is thought by many to be how ice cream sundaes came about.  Evidence seems to indicate that shop owners got around the problem by serving the ice cream with syrup and none of the carbonation and called them “ice cream Sundays.” Today, it is estimated that over 1.6 billion gallons of ice cream and related frozen dairy products are produced annually in the United States alone.

The latest data I could find indicates that Americans eat four gallons of ice cream per person each year on average. Four gallons is child’s play when you’re eating “healthy” ice cream.  I figure that a conservative estimate is that I’ve eaten 12 gallons of it since Memorial Day.  But here’s the secret:  I use reduced fat milk, almond milk or protein shakes as my base.  I put in a little non-fat cottage cheese and yogurt, then add flavorings (usually cocoa, peppermint or coffee), protein powder, collagen peptides, and truvia to sweeten.  Sometimes if I’m feeling extra healthy, I’ll make a pint of fruit ice cream.  But regardless of the flavor, I ALWAYS add in dark chocolate chips at the end.  I know it sounds like it would taste healthy vs decadent, but believe me, it tastes like the real thing. I never want summer to end.

Posted in opinion

A YEAR

By Comments:46 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Yesterday marked one year since Alan died.  Some days it seems like yesterday, others like it was 100 years ago. His death hit me harder than I had anticipated, and I was surprised by that. Logically, I should have been prepared for it. After all, in the last ten months of his life he was diagnosed with both early Alzheimer’s and oral cancer.  Add to that he was nine years older than me; even the planning documents from our financial advisor and estate attorney assumed he would die first. I’ve also spent a lot of time over the past few years researching and co-writing a book about widowhood. Given all of this, I presumed I was mentally braced for the day when he was no longer by my side. I wasn’t. His death shattered my heart into a million pieces and at times I felt that it was almost too hard to go on. In the weeks after Alan died a widowed friend called me often to check on me and at one point I told her none of the widows I knew, nor any of the ones I’d researched, had accurately described how horrible it is to become a widow.  Her response was, “No one wanted to scare you.”

When I mentioned this conversation to Bob, he told me that maybe I should take a stab at writing a book or article on the subject.  I contemplated that, but in the end, decided it was more productive to focus on gaining strength than delving further into the subject of widowhood.  I have not written about my experiences as a widow in this blog, and after today, my intent is not to write about them again.  But I have learned some things that might be helpful to others who will experience the loss of a spouse, and some tips for those who want to support a widowed friend.  So here goes.

It is impossible to overemphasize how much it means to have people reach out to express their sympathy. I was overwhelmed by all the wonderful cards, notes, texts, and emails that I received after Alan died.  I have kept all of them and occasionally read them again.  It reminds me that other people also remembered him, and in ways large and small, they also shared my loss.  On the flip side, I was stunned by the people who never acknowledged his death.  People he had played golf with on a regular basis, others I had socialized with for years.  When I mentioned to a friend how hurt I was by this, she said, “Well, you know, some people just don’t know what to say.”

I find it odd that grown people can’t express the most basic of condolences.  There are social skills we should cultivate in this regard as we grow older, and that is one of them. When we are young our parents teach us to say “please” and “thank you”. As we advance in years, the polite phrase we need to learn is, “I’m sorry for your loss”. The sad fact is that it will come in handy on an increasingly frequent basis. That simple acknowledgement might seem minor or even trite, but believe me, it means the world to someone who has lost their loved one. I will never forget all the people who reached out – nor will I ever forget those who didn’t.

I quickly discovered that widowhood is one of those life experiences that you can’t understand until you go through it. Nothing really prepares you for the complete absence of your spouse; when they are gone there is a gaping hole that cannot be filled by any amount of activity or companionship of others. One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, wrote a book, The Year of Living Magically, after her husband died.  Didion brilliantly wrote, “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know before we reach it. So, when someone says to you, ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through’, they are right.  Here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is: the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.”

If that sounds depressing, it is. Widowhood kicks the hell out of your confidence and outlook. For most of the past year I lamented that I would never be happy again, that my peak of happiness was my marriage to Alan, and it died with him. There were times when I went three days without showering or seeing another human being. I woke up early every day, crying before I even got out of bed. I not only missed him and all the wonderful times we had, but I missed being married.  I missed having someone in my life to plan with, to depend on for companionship, to care for, and who loved me beyond measure. Many days I didn’t see how I was going to survive and often felt overwhelmed.

I was lucky to be surrounded by widowed friends who offered guidance that came from their hard-won experience. They reached out with wise advice: “Take it an hour at a time”, “Don’t do anything you don’t feel like doing”, “Put one foot in front of the other and just keep going”, “Write a journal so you can look back on your journey and mark your progress”, were just some of the suggestions.  One of the best was: “Write down the events and conversations that occurred directly before and after his death. Ten years from now those details will have faded in your memory, and you’ll be glad you have that memorialized.” I didn’t need to wait ten years. Just two weeks ago I re-read my notes and discovered I had mis-remembered a critical detail.  I was so glad I had a contemporaneous account of events to set my memory straight.

Hopefully you have a good support network, because when you’re widowed the love and support of family and good friends are critical to moving forward.  I am lucky to have had both.  Every day I would receive a phone call from someone to either check on me or ask me to join them for lunch or dinner.  Those moments brought me relief from the grief, even if it was temporary. Which brings me to the subject of asking for and receiving help. People really want to help, and to be asked to help you actually makes them feel better.  As we age, we all seek a greater sense of community with those who are on the same path. So, asking a friend to pick something up at the grocery store or help lift a heavy package, or just come sit with you, is to allow them to do something meaningful for you.  This was – and still is – a hard lesson for me.  I consider myself to be independent and hate to ask favors, but it is another essential skill to learn.

Everyone’s journey is different, and one wise piece of advice I got early on was “You do grief your way”.  So, despite people encouraging me to socialize more, I know that I require a lot of “processing” and alone time. I went to see a counselor once, and she said I had PTSD caused by the nine-day interval between the diagnosis of Alan’s cancer metastasis and his death. The month before he died his oncologist talked about a procedure he might do two years down the line, the week before he was out pruning bushes in the yard. So, his rather sudden death simply didn’t allow enough time for me to process the events I’d experienced.  Much like a dog that goes into a corner when it’s not feeling well, I needed time and space. The people in my support system all wanted to do something to make my life better, they wanted to help “fix” me and get me back to my old self. But I am a believer that “fixing” cannot come from an external source.  It’s up to us as individuals to set ourselves right, so I selectively accepted, and rejected, their invitations. The counselor also cautioned that I should only be around people who could fill me up, not drain me.  A widowed friend said something similar, “You don’t have anything to give right now, so spend time with people who can help fill your tank.” My close friends and family understood – and supported – my need for limited social engagement and didn’t push me.  I will forever be grateful to them for that.

Conversely, I believe that when you’re grieving and you accept a social invitation, there is an obligation to be as cheerful as possible.  No one wants to be around someone who is sad or, worse yet, crying.  I took the attitude that if I could slap a smile on my face and be good company, the likelihood of me receiving invitations to socialize again would rise exponentially.  At first, I found that very hard. At my weekly dinner with my bocce ball team, I would sit next to my best friend, Marge, and she could always sense my struggle. She would grab my hand under the table and give it a squeeze of encouragement and I would make it through the night. In time, the dinners became easier.

People told me I was strong, and I’d come through this, but they were remembering the person I used to be.  When you’re widowed you realize that life is never going to be the same, you are never going to be the same, and regaining confidence and resilience is not a given. It’s very hard to hear people call you strong when you’re not. For almost a year I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy or competent – much less strong – again. I kept thinking about my younger, more capable, self. In my early 30’s I lived on my own, bought a three-bedroom ranch house, had a good career and an active social life.  Over the past year I often wondered where that young woman had gone.

But by early June I was sick of myself; sick of feeling depressed, sick of every room needing a Kleenex box, sick of not seeing a future. And then as often happens in life, a small thing caused me to turn a corner: I decided to recover the leather headboard on my bed.  I could see some indentations where Alan had leaned against it while reading every night.  Every time I entered the room, I saw his imprint on it.  So, I went to a local upholstery store and picked out some lovely fabric to recover it.  Just making that small change gave me a feeling of control and empowerment. Maybe too much. A few weeks ago, I hired a contractor to update several areas of the house. Alan loved this house and before he died, he urged me to keep it.  I have decided to do so, and I can’t think of a better tribute to him than to finish updating it as we had intended.

A few days after visiting the upholstery store I realized the heaviness I felt for so many months had lifted. I tried to analyze what I was feeling and concluded that it was happiness.  Had it really been so long since I’d been happy that I didn’t even recognize it anymore?  Apparently so. But having been so far down has made the rise even sweeter. I’ve earned this happiness.  I don’t often give myself credit, but I will say that I’m proud that I have survived the storm and come out the other side stronger.  Not yet strong, but getting there. I know that I will still have some tough times ahead, and I now have confidence that I can get through them.

I’ve also reconciled that the aggressive cancer that spelled Alan’s demise prevented a much longer, more painful journey for both of us from his early Alzheimer’s diagnosis.  Thirty years ago, after witnessing his father’s journey with Alzheimer’s, he asked me to promise that I would never let him get to that point. An understandable request, but a hard one to fulfill.  I thank God we were spared that journey.

Alan, and our marriage, will forever be the best chapter in the story of my life. I will miss him always and will carry him in my heart until the day I die.  But I’ve come to realize that life unfolds with a purpose and a plan.  I now believe that he is at peace. And finally – at last – so am I.

Posted in opinion

AGED TO PERFECTION

By Comments:9 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

John Goodenough

There’s been a lot written lately about the age of our President.  “Too old to run” is the prevailing theme. They are wrong – age has less to do with it than cognitive ability.  I have some insight and experience with this issue and what I’ve learned is that age cannot be generalized.  I’m tired of hearing age 81 referred to as “elderly”, as if that means that all people of that age are ready for “the home”.  There are people in their 80’s and 90’s who can run circles around people of any age.  And generally, they possess common sense – something that is a rare commodity these days.   As recently as 2019 the Nobel Prize for chemistry was awarded to John B. Goodenough, (who certainly was) for his work on lithium batteries.  He was 97! Is he an outlier?  Of course.  But then again, so are most Nobel Prize winners. He died last year at age 100, still working to improve the all-solid-state battery.

Over the next few weeks the Olympics will showcase young people at the peak of their physical strength and endurance.  They are the very antithesis of “too old”, although Simone Biles, at age 27, is jokingly referred to as the “grandma” on the gymnastics team.  But to prove that age is just a number, I went in search of octogenarians who exhibit that same Olympian standard of excellence. I didn’t have to look far.  Here are just a few:

        David Blaylock

David Blaylock – age 80 – won the USA Track and Field 100-mile Championships in his age group in a time of in a time of 29 hours, 47 minutes and 29 seconds.  I’m assuming that did not include any time for a nap.  His closest competitor, “Fast Eddie” Rousseau, of Minnesota, is 83.  Blaylock attributes his endurance to mental toughness.

Flo Meiler

Florence “Flo” Meiler – in 2022, at the age of 87, Meiler broke two American records in the High Jump and the Hurdles events at the USA Track and Field Masters Indoor Championships.  Meiler was not always an athlete, in fact, she admits that she used to indulge in French fries on a regular basis.  But at age 60 she began to work out and found her passion.  When asked how she works out six days a week and competes in events, she says, “You can do whatever you set your mind to.”

 

Johanna Quaas

Johana Quaas – has been certified as the world’s oldest gymnast.  Born in 1925, Johanna started in gymnastics at the age of 9, but then quit after WWII. She picked up gymnastics again at the age of 57. At the young age of 91, she impressed the crowds at Berlin with a stunning performance and flawless moves. In her words, “If you’re fit, it is easier to master life.” I think she’s right.

The Over-80 US Hockey Team – The U.S. men’s team won the Canada 150 Cup tournament in February of this year.  The team, led by 84-year-old coach Ken McKinnon only came together in the fall of 2023.  McKinnon loves to compete and encourages other older athletes to get in the game.  He says, “You can challenge yourself to get better and keep up for a number of years. It takes effort to go out there and do it, but once you get out there, you’ll have fun.”

Gladys Burrill

Gladys Burrill is sadly no longer with us.  She died in 2019 at the age of 100, but she is worth mentioning because she ran her first marathon at the age of 86 and then went on to complete 5 more marathons. At the young age of 92, she became the oldest woman to run the Honolulu Marathon. She credited her success to eating healthy and exercising.  Shoot – I’m out of breath walking from the bedroom to the kitchen!

There are many more examples I could cite, but you get the point.  In reading about these master athletes I noticed one common trait – mental toughness.  I think all of them believe that despite their age, they can do anything.  The narrative about age needs to shift, so we assess cognitive ability and dispose of the age-old canard that someone is “too old” to be successful in their endeavors. As for me, I plan on eating cake until a ripe old age.

Posted in opinion

HAMBURGERS, HOT DOGS AND SHOOFLY PIE

By Comments:3 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Here we are…the week of the 4th of July where thoughts turn to our country’s independence.  Right about now I’m guessing most people desire some independence from our politicians, but this being an election year I think we’re stuck with four more months of campaign ads and robo calls.  Hopefully no more debates.  But that’s a subject for another week.  This week I want to focus on an important part of any July 4th celebration – the dessert.  Last week I was looking for some ideas for a 4th of July cake and found most every food site suggests a cake with fruit on it – ideally in the shape of the American flag.  Fruit on cake???  Pies or tarts, yes, but not cake!  Cake and frosting should contain sufficient amounts of sugar and butter that you stay just this side of diabetes and clogged arteries.  I went down a rabbit hole looking for unique dessert ideas and discovered that people are quite weird – or desperate – when coming up with a proper dessert.  Here’s just a sampling of what I found:

              Shoofly pie

The Shoofly Pie – this cake actually has a tie to the 4th of July.  Shoofly pie is a molasses-based pie with a crumbly, streusel-like topping. No one knows for sure how the pie got its name, but it might be from the fact that its sweet and sticky surface tends to attract flies.  Now there’s an appetizing thought.  It might also, and more likely, be named after an early brand of molasses called Shoofly Molasses. According to some sources, the recipe for shoofly pie dates to 1876, originating with a crust-free molasses cake called centennial cake that was served to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia. Other sources attribute the recipe to the German immigrants of Pennsylvania Dutch country in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, who may have used molasses in a variation of an older British recipe known as a treacle tart. This sweet and crumbly pie is still popular among the Amish and Mennonite communities of Pennsylvania and Ohio. Well, I say let them have it.

The Tomato Soup Cake – this is wrong on so many levels.  The recipe dates back to 1922, and some accounts say the dessert was popular among Irish immigrants in New England. Personally, I think they should have stuck with Guinness. It is said that the tomato soup produces a moist red-orange cake that doesn’t taste like tomatoes at all, thanks to the cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg in the mix. I’ll take their word for it.  The cake was popular through the 1930s and 1940s, when Depression-era and wartime shortages called for culinary creativity. People sought out affordable substitutes that could stand in for pricier ingredients (such as tomatoes) without sacrificing flavor. In the 1940s, the Campbell Soup Company began experimenting with variations on the tomato soup cake recipe and, in 1960, printed a version on its tomato soup label — the first recipe to appear on a soup can. I don’t know who thought of putting tomatoes, fresh or in soup form, in a cake, but I would venture it was someone who never had a slice of Death by Chocolate.

Carrot Pudding – first, the word pudding is used in the British sense, loosely meaning dessert.  Carrot cake has been around for a while and in a pinch, it isn’t bad (especially if there is pineapple rather than raisins).  But before there was carrot cake, there was carrot pudding. A recipe in the 1591 English cookbook describes carrot pudding as a savory pudding made of chopped liver, breadcrumbs, spices, dates, and sugar that is then stuffed inside a hollow carrot. By the 18th century, carrot pudding had evolved into a sweet dessert baked in a pastry shell, similar to pumpkin pie. Another variation, called steamed carrot pudding, was made with shredded carrots and potatoes and steamed in a gelatin mold. In my opinion no good dessert contains the words “gelatin mold”. Regardless of its preparation, carrot pudding sounds like something you might serve to people you never want to come to dinner again.

After reading about these odd alternatives to cake, I decided that fruit in a cake might not be such a bad alternative.  Still, as it turns out I’ll be going to our club’s BBQ on Thursday and we have an awesome pastry chef.  While he may get cute with a berry 4th of July cake, I can guarantee he won’t be slipping any chopped liver into the mix.

Happy 4th of July to everyone!

 

Posted in opinion

THE NEW SCHOOL: NAKED ZOOM

By Comments:6 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I’ve been reading several articles about how to keep your brain engaged as you age.  Apparently playing endless games of Candy Crush aren’t doing anything to fire up my brain cells.  Knitting is good, as I have to use mathematics, but not often enough to make a difference.  So, I set out to find a way to stave off “mush brain” and quite happily discovered the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI).  OLLI is a branch of The Bernard Osher Foundation, an organization that makes grants and endowment gifts to colleges, universities, and other non-profit organizations in four areas, among them lifelong learning institutes for seasoned adults.  Almost makes us sound like a rack of ribs. Nevertheless, I began to look into their programs.  First, I learned that OLLI is found on the campuses of 125 colleges and universities throughout the U.S. The class offerings are wide-ranging and are specifically developed for adults aged 50 or older who are interested in learning for the joy of learning. As a bonus, there are no tests and no grades.  Luckily for me there is a branch of OLLI at Arizona State University, so I signed up for the summer session.  Unfortunately, “summer” was defined as the month of June.  Well, who can blame them?  No one wants to be here in July and August.  Due to the brief length of the term, the classes are one-shot seminars, each lasting 90 minutes.  Some are in person, but most are on Zoom.  Zoom can be perilous – but more on that in a moment.

Will Ferrell, if he’d taken quantum physics

Since I was only committing 90 minutes of my life at a time, I decided I would sign up for some classes that are outside my wheelhouse.  First on the list – quantum physics.  The professor was an amazing young woman, who had a wonderful sense of humor and knew that she had a challenging – or challenged – audience.  After the first 30 minutes I was glad we were on a Zoom call, as my attention began to lapse, and I found myself drifting into thoughts of what I’d have for lunch.  I was not the only one – several people at the end volunteered that maybe they weren’t cut out for a career in quantum physics.  Still, it was interesting, and I only invested 90 minutes to learn that I need to stick to the social sciences.  I took an in-person class from a retired physics professor (can’t seem to avoid physics) who lectured on the history of Stonehenge.  He was fabulous – 90 years old and a testament to lifelong learning.  I participated in a Zoom class conducted by an ex-newspaper reporter who followed the Rolling Stones on their very first US tour back in the 60’s.  He had some wonderful insights and opinions about the music of the time and how it changed the recording and radio industries.

Next, I took a Zoom class on the life and works of George Gershwin.  This is where things got interesting.  At the beginning of the class the ASU administrator cautioned us that we must put our computers on mute, and that if we planned to walk around, eat, or do anything else that might be distracting, we needed to cut our video feed as well.  Almost everyone chose to cut the video, so that only our names appeared in the box.  About a minute after her cautions ended, a new person joined the call.  Her audio was silenced but her video feed was on.  She was clearly in her bathroom, with her closet in the background.  All we could see was her head, which was wrapped in a towel.  I thought maybe she was running late and had just ducked out of the shower.  That was confirmed a couple of minutes later when she stood up, revealing that she only had a towel wrapped around her.  What could possibly go wrong?  A few minutes later she went off-screen, only to return walking across the screen – NAKED.  She casually walked into her closet, obviously trying to decide what to wear, all the while showing us her assets.  Literally.  She then turned around and proceeded to put on her undergarments.  Finally, she donned a blouse, much to our collective relief.  She then sat down and proceeded to blow dry her hair.  I guess that was the gesture that sent the administrator over the edge, as she sent a private message to this woman to let her know her video was on.  In the group chat the woman replied, “Oh no.  Sorry!”  Well, it was too late for sorry.  I will never unsee what I saw.  To her credit, the woman blacked out her video, but she stayed on the call. I would have immediately packed my bags for Argentina.

I have five more seminars to attend this month, on subjects ranging from a Vietnam retrospective to Woodstock to the establishment of the 13, 14 and 15th amendments.  Luckily for me, OLLI at ASU added a true summer session, each class lasting six weeks in July and August.  I’m taking two classes: one on the great films from the 1920’s to the ’60’s and one on the automobile’s impact on society.  I highly encourage you to check out OLLI – the classes are wonderful, you might gain a brain cell, and it’s fun to learn with other people who are “seasoned”. But I must say the most important lesson learned so far: cut the video feed on a Zoom call.

Posted in opinion

THEY WERE SOLDIERS ONCE AND YOUNG (2024)

By Comments:17 Comments

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 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 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 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. 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 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, a boy who died in the conflict whose hometown was listed as Novato. I found in my research that sometimes the Novato “hometown” designation was 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 he 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”. After some research 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 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 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 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.

Posted in opinion

THE CELEBRATION OF A LIFETIME

By Comments:21 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Jack and Bob

Last weekend our family and a few friends gathered together in our home for a Celebration of Life for Alan.  Which meant a lot of celebrating occurred and I’m operating on little sleep and lots of emotions as I write this.  The invitation to the event included a photo of Alan teeing off on his favorite hole on his favorite course in Sun Valley, Idaho.  Relatives came from far and wide.  In fact, I’m not even sure I’m related to some of these people.  To get the party started we had a family BBQ on Friday night, which involved a lot of laughter, some good-natured ribbing, loud singing (mostly on key), and some tears.  It was also an opportunity to celebrate my niece Shelley’s milestone birthday. 

Shelley and family

 

I had decided more than a year ago that this might be a good birthday for me to pass down the family diamond to her.  The diamond was originally given to my great-grandmother in 1892 and has normally been passed down upon the death of the owner.  But I believe that it’s good to give things away while you’re still alive to see the person’s reaction to receiving it.  She was genuinely surprised, and seeing her reaction was a moment I would not have missed. I know she will wear the diamond in the tradition of strong women in our family.

          The cookie

Alan’s Celebration of Life party on Saturday was everything I could have wished for.  Usually after an event I’ve hosted I find some flaw – something I could have done better or differently.  But not this.  As I went to bed Saturday night, I honestly thought the night had gone perfectly; I wouldn’t have changed a thing.  Even the weather cooperated as the predicted strong winds didn’t occur.  The flowers were phenomenal, the food was outstanding, and everyone enjoyed the special touches of napkins and cookies that reflected the theme of “Until We Tee It Up Again”.  Of course, what made the day most special were the wonderful tributes paid to Alan by his children, Colin and Wendy, son-in-law Steve, and my brothers, Jack and Bob.  Everyone depicted Alan accurately.  He was funny, a prankster, enjoyed music and the outdoors, and was a master cheater at board games.  But most importantly what came through in those tributes is their love for him and their knowledge that he returned that love in full measure.  I wrote a eulogy that touched on his humorous antics, his remarkable achievements, and the wonderful times we shared together.  The event was filled with love and laughter, and I know that is exactly what he wanted.

        The family

I have been asked why it took me so long to have this Celebration of Life.  After all, Alan died July 28th, so it’s been a long time as these things go. What I didn’t realize before I became a widow is that the loss of a spouse shakes the very foundation of your life.  Everything – absolutely everything – is changed, from the moment you awaken in the morning to the moment to go to sleep at night.  I’m sure I could have arranged a Celebration directly after his death, with a lot of help from family and friends.  But it wouldn’t have been the same.  All of us family members have now had eight months to reflect on him and his life.  All of us who spoke about him were able to do so with some humor – which was his hallmark trait – and that would not have been possible in the first days after he died.  Now, we are all able to put his life, and death, into some perspective.  I chose a date close to his birthday and actually enjoyed planning the event and thinking about what he would have liked, right down to having pineapple upside down cake, which was his favorite birthday cake.

So, to all the people who questioned why I waited so long I say this: good things come to those who wait.  Should you ever find yourself in the unenviable position of having to plan a Celebration of Life, do what YOU feel is best.  Throw tradition and what is “normally” done out the window, unless that fits with your desires.  I’m so glad I did, and I know that Alan is looking down, happy that his Celebration was such a fun – and funny – gathering. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters.