Category Archives: opinion

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HOME FOR A HERO

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

It’s not often that we get to witness the sacrifice of our wounded veterans up close. But two weeks ago, I was honored to attend a ceremony where the Gary Sinise Foundation turned over a custom-built home to a local veteran, Brad Ivanchan. Brad is a 37-year-old Marine who lost both legs in an IED explosion in Afghanistan. His journey through injury, multiple surgeries and recovery exemplifies the courage and resilience we honor this week on Veteran’s Day.

A little about Brad: he was deployed to Iraq in 2009, serving as a turret gunner and providing escort security for an explosive ordinance disposal team. He went on to become a machine gun team leader in Southeast Asia before earning the rank of Corporal in 2012. He became a squad leader serving in Afghanistan, carrying out combat foot patrols across Helmand Province, one of the most dangerous regions. On the night of June 13, 2012, Brad’s squad of 10 men and an interpreter were conducting a night patrol when Brad stepped on an IED. The explosion amputated Brad’s right leg below the knee and shredded his left leg to his lower thigh. His left arm and hand were also mangled. After his immediate care in Germany, he was flown to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego for further surgery and recovery. Brad endured six surgeries to rebuild his left hand and treat multiple bacterial infections in both legs. And that is also where fate stepped in, in the form of Gary Sinise.

Brad was in the section of the hospital reserved for servicemen injured in the Afghanistan/Iraq wars. It was a crowded ward back in 2012. One day as Brad was recuperating, Gary Sinise walked into his room and said, “I’m just here to see how you’re doing.” When Brad related that story, he noted how sincere Gary was and how much time he spent with him learning about his injury, recovery plans and what his interests were. Brad took comfort from Gary and from the other wounded veterans who had forged a new life, despite devastating injuries. He started walking just three months after he stepped on that IED. Five months after that he became the first double amputee in history to summit the highest mountain in South America, Mount Aconcagua—at over 22,800 feet. That astonishing accomplishment meant one very important thing to Brad – it proved that his life would not be defined by his injuries.

Still, his everyday existence was filled with challenges. Three years after his initial operation, Brad had to go undergo another surgery that further amputated his right leg, this time above the knee. By then, the war had wound down, and Brad found himself to be the only veteran at the Naval Hospital who had served in the Afghanistan/Iraq wars. And yet, even though he was the singular inhabitant of the ward, Gary Sinise arrived at the hospital to visit him again. He had heard that Brad was undergoing more treatment and wanted to check on him and provide support.

Despite Brad’s incredible resiliency, his life at home was a constant battle. He lived in a small house not suited to his needs. To make matters worse, not only was the home inaccessible to his wheelchair, but it was also built on an uneven lot, so it was filled with many stairs. He fell several times, and during periods when he could not use his prosthetics, he was not able to leave the house. And that is when Gary Sinise stepped in again. Through his foundation’s R.I.S.E. (Restoring Independence Supporting Empowerment) program, Brad was selected to receive a custom-built, mortgage-free home designed to meet his specific needs.

Brad’s home was built near me and as a long-time supporter of the Gary Sinise Foundation, I was asked to attend the dedication ceremony. The event was one of the most uplifting moments I’ve ever experienced. Brad was escorted to his new home by a squadron of police and fire personnel. When he stepped out of the van with his dog, Roscoe, he began the walk down his new driveway, which was lined by American flags and vociferous supporters. A few leaders from the Gary Sinise Foundation spoke and not only praised Brad for his perseverance and fortitude but cited the dozens of companies and contractors who donated their time and materials to make that home possible. I sat next to the young owner of the cabinet company that made all of the custom-built cabinets for the house. He was so proud to have donated to the creation of the home and welled up when he saw Brad’s reaction to them. The director of the R.I.S.E. program said this home was the 98th they have completed and noted how heart-warming it is to see so many people anxiously contribute to their efforts. He said in conclusion, “All who help build these homes, and do so with open hearts, are the real America. Don’t listen to the news – there are a lot of good people out there.”

I think everyone left the ceremony that day feeling inspired and optimistic. Many years ago, my husband and I decided to consolidate our gift-giving and chose the Gary Sinise Foundation. In all of those years I have never felt that my money was wasted or spent on frivolous junkets. Meeting some of the foundation’s executives in person, hearing them speak, and seeing the work they do first-hand confirmed that they are good people doing good work for the military and first responders who do so much for us. As Gary says, “while we can never do enough for our nation’s heroes, we can always do a little more.”

That is a good sentiment to keep in mind tomorrow as we commemorate Veteran’s Day.

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A SPIRIT LIKE NUN OTHER

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

In the 13 years that Bob and I have been writing this blog there are a few posts that stand out. For me, one of them was the piece I wrote in 2023 about Sister Jean, the Loyola basketball “good luck charm”. That fall the college sports world was obsessed with conference realignments and the effect they would have on the future of the sport. When a few journalists wrote columns about a nun at a Catholic university, their stories were buried by articles speculating about NIL, travel schedules and unfair scheduling. But they shouldn’t have been. Because that nun, at 104 years old, seemed to be the only person in college athletics who had her priorities straight. Sadly, Sister Jean passed away last week at the age of 106. Now, more than ever, we need the wisdom, spirit and good humor she sent out into the world. So today I am once again telling the story of Sister Jean, and the inspiring message she left us with in the final weeks of her life.

Jean Dolores Schmidt was born in 1919, the same year as our mother.  She was raised in San Francisco, just 18 miles from our mother. I’d like to imagine that she and Sister Jean crossed paths at some point, but that seems unlikely since our mom loved a good gin rickey and I don’t think Sister Jean frequented many bars. Sister Jean attended St. Paul’s High School at the beautiful St. Paul’s Cathedral in San Francisco and played on the girls’ basketball team.  After graduation in 1937 she entered the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary convent in Iowa.  She eventually returned to California to further her education, earning BA and MA degrees.  She taught school in California until 1961, when she moved to Chicago to teach at Mundelein College. She was hired by Loyola in 1991 when it merged with Mundelein.  She planned to retire in 1994 but was asked by the administration to stay on as the team chaplain to the men’s basketball team to help student athletes keep up their grades so they could maintain their eligibility to play. Imagine that.

The Sister Jean bobblehead

She steadily provided counsel to the students and cheered on the basketball team without fanfare. That is until 2018. That year Sister Jean became a household name when the team made a Cinderella run to the national semifinals — the farthest Loyola Chicago had made it in the NCAA Championship Tournament since 1963. Sister Jean’s spirited antics on the sidelines attracted national media attention and won over the hearts of viewers across the country.  She became a star along with the team – orders for Sister Jean bobbleheads broke records, and she got a shout-out from former President and Chicago resident, Barack Obama. Afterwards she quipped, “It only took me 98 years to become an overnight sensation.” In March 2021, at the age of 101, Sister Jean traveled to Indianapolis to watch Loyola beat the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets and eventually make it to the Sweet Sixteen.

But Sister Jean didn’t let the fame and attention alter her in any way. She kept the door to her office open for students to drop in and chat and she retained her position as the team chaplain. She even went so far as to email scouting reports, encouragement and advice to each of the players after every game. She attended every home game and opened them with a prayer, in which she urged the refs to make good calls, the players to share the ball and God to nudge the Ramblers to a big W. In 2022, at the age of 103, she published a book, “Wake Up with Purpose! What I’ve Learned in My First 100 Years.” It was filled with her trademark sense of humor and good-natured observations about her century of life.  On her 104th birthday students celebrated her by gathering in her office and bringing her one of her favorite foods – CAKE!  Later that week she threw out the first pitch at a Cubs’ game and was honored with a block party at Loyola’s Water Tower Campus.

 In August of this year, on her 106th birthday, Sister Jean wrote the following message to the Loyola community — directed at students as they began a new academic year:

“It has been wonderful for me to be with you these years and to watch you grow spiritually, intellectually, and socially, and to see the friends you’ve made. And to see the progress you’ve made in your academic life. I’ve always been happy to share my time with you. Let your dreams become reality. Don’t let anybody stop you. You are the future leaders of our churches, our schools, our country, and our world.”

This past September 25th Sister Jean retired from her job at Loyola due to health concerns and on October 9th she passed from this life. The world is a lesser place without her. In these times of overwhelming news and division it is good to let the spirit of Sister Jean guide us: live life with joy, encourage others, and maintain a sense of purpose. And, of course, eat cake.

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THE MAYOR OF BALBOA

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Earlier this month I packed up Dooley and seemingly half of my worldly belongings and headed out to Balboa Island. Balboa is adjacent to Newport Beach and is a cute touristy town full of cute shops and restaurants. It seemed like the perfect retreat from the endless hot days of Scottsdale. Dooley had never been on a car ride longer than an hour, so the success of this trip was a crap shoot from the beginning. Plus, I soon discovered that my new car model is smaller than my old model. Or maybe it was that between Dooley’s crate, car seat, stroller, food, grooming equipment, toys and training tools it just seemed smaller. In any event, my friend Pat and I each rented homes on Balboa for the month of September and early on the morning of the 1st, we set out on our grand adventure. To my surprise, Dooley is a great long-distance traveler, and my rental house was perfect – recently updated, freshly painted, and right along the main street with a front patio that was ideal for Dooley and me to watch the world go by.

Ed with Dooley

To be honest, in the weeks before the trip I felt I needed a break from Dooley. He is a very high-energy puppy, and I am, well, more of a sloth. But for various reasons I couldn’t find anyone who could take him, but to my surprise, Dooley’s presence turned out to be a blessing. On the second day of vacation, one of the people who walked by our patio was an elderly man, wearing a Panama hat and walking a golden retriever. He stopped when he saw Dooley, reminiscing about the two Cavaliers that he’s owned. I noticed that he had a patch on his shirt that indicated he was a dog trainer. Long story short, his name was Ed and had been training dogs for 30 years. I hired him on the spot and boy, was he the right guy. His methods were strict and no-nonsense. Apparently, I was failing at being the “alpha” in my relationship with Dooley, but Ed straightened me out with all the subtlety of a drill sergeant. Sure enough, within a couple of days Dooley was already walking better on a leash. Ed came over a few times, and I wanted to bring him home, but we agreed to work remotely on additional behavior issues – mostly mine.

Dooley, on his perch
Dooley with one of his constituents

Every afternoon Dooley scratched at the front door, just itching to get to the patio. He would sit up on the sofa, head resting on the porch railing, and greet everyone who walked by. Who could resist those puppy dog eyes? Apparently no one. Almost every person who passed by smiled or stopped to give him a pat and or ask me about him. I ended up talking with several people multiple times. Without exaggeration, over the three weeks I was there I probably met more than 300 people. Pat jokingly began referring to Dooley as “the mayor”, as he greeted his “constituents” every afternoon. Our multiple walks each day brought other opportunities to meet and greet, including a chance encounter with Kareem Abdul Jabbar. He was walking with two other people a few yards ahead of me and at 7’2″, he’s rather hard to miss. He stopped to sit on a bench, and he smiled at Dooley as we passed by. When I turned and headed home, we passed him again and he said, “That dog isn’t going to attack me, is he?” We both laughed. He clearly has some mobility issues, and it made me happy that Dooley brought him a light moment. I finally realized that without Dooley, I never would have met so many people, had so many engaging conversations, or walked the 13,000 steps he led me on every day. He is my calling card to meeting strangers and making friends. From now on, he will accompany on all of my car trips.

The biggest blessing of this trip was being able to spend time with family. I got to watch college football with Bob and Linda, had a wonderful afternoon and dinner on Balboa at the Village Inn with them, their daughter Dana, and their two grandchildren, Addison and Mack. And on my last night, they hosted a dinner with all three of their children and five grandchildren. We hadn’t been together in a long time, and it was the perfect way to end my trip.

I think Dooley is a 49er fan
Nieces, nephew and the GREATS!

As lovely as it was to be in cooler climes, I learned that a month is way too long for me to be away from home, especially with a puppy. Ed acknowledged that Dooley is a very smart, but very energetic puppy, who would better adhere to training at home. Plus, after three weeks I was ready to sleep in my own bed and have my own “stuff” at my disposal. I admit it, I’m a homebody. As it turned out, Dooley picked up a parasite at the end of our stay and luckily, I was home and near our vet before it hit him full force. So, leaving early was meant to be. But I’m already perusing my options for a vacation home next summer. My chief requirement? It has to have a spot for “the mayor” to meet and greet his constituents.

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THE FLOWER CHILDREN OF ARNHEM

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Every September, in the quiet town of Oosterbeek in the Netherlands, a deeply moving ritual unfolds among rows of white headstones. It’s not a grand spectacle, nor a political affair—it’s a ceremony of remembrance led by children. Known as the Flower Children of Arnhem, this tradition is one of the most poignant acts of gratitude and remembrance in Europe, honoring the Allied soldiers who died during Operation Market Garden in World War II.

Willemien Rieken

The scene is simple but powerful. Hundreds of local schoolchildren, dressed in their Sunday best, walk solemnly through the Arnhem Oosterbeek War Cemetery. Each child is assigned a grave. They kneel, whisper the name of the fallen soldier etched into the stone, and gently place a flower—often a single chrysanthemum or rose—on the grave. There are no speeches from the children, no rehearsed performances. Just a quiet, personal moment between the living and the dead. The Flower Children ceremony is more than symbolic—it’s deeply personal. Some children return year after year to the same grave, forming connections with the families of the fallen. One such story is that of Willemien Rieken, who began laying flowers as a young girl and continued for over 75 years. She eventually met the family of the soldier whose grave she tended, forging a bond that transcended borders and generations.

This tradition began in 1945, just one year after the battle that turned Arnhem into a crucible of sacrifice. Operation Market Garden was an ambitious Allied plan to end the war quickly by capturing key bridges in the Netherlands and pushing into Germany. British, Polish, and American troops parachuted into the region, but the operation faltered, and thousands of soldiers were killed or captured. The Dutch people, who had endured years of Nazi occupation, never forgot the bravery of those who came to liberate them.

What makes this ceremony especially powerful is its intergenerational nature. Veterans who fought in Arnhem often attended, their eyes misty as they watched the children pay tribute. For many, it’s a moment of healing. The presence of young voices in a place marked by loss reminds us that memory is not static—it’s passed on, nurtured, and kept alive by those who never knew the war but feel its echoes.
The ceremony also serves as a quiet rebuke to the idea that history fades. In a world where attention spans are short and headlines fleeting, the Flower Children of Arnhem ceremony stands as a testament to enduring gratitude. These children aren’t just participating in a school event; they’re engaging in a ritual of remembrance that teaches empathy, history, and the cost of freedom.

Each year, the ceremony is held on the first Sunday after September 17, the date Operation Market Garden began so this year it will take place on the 21st. It includes a formal memorial service attended by dignitaries, veterans, and thousands of visitors. But it’s the children who steal the show—not with fanfare, but with their sincerity.

2014 Ceremony

In a time when remembrance can feel performative or politicized, the Flower Children of Arnhem offer something rare: a quiet, heartfelt tribute that transcends nationality and ideology. It’s a reminder that gratitude doesn’t need grand gestures—it needs continuity, sincerity, and the willingness to pass stories forward. So, if you ever find yourself in the Netherlands in September, make your way to Oosterbeek. Watch the children walk among the graves. Listen to the silence. And know that in that moment, history is not just remembered—it’s cherished.



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A ROBOT TO UNPLUG MY TOILET

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Today, Labor Day, marks our annual celebration of the social and economic achievements of American workers. The first Labor Day holiday was celebrated in 1882, in New York City, and it became a national holiday in 1894. I usually don’t think about labor unions that much anymore. When I worked in human resources it was a subject that I thought about all the time and was a heated topic in many meetings. Long, tedious meetings. Invariably the discussions centered around how to keep the unions out of banking. But I’ve been giving unions a bit more thought lately, as I believe we are at a turning point in terms of how we view work and labor.

Shirtwaist workers

One of the reasons I’ve given unions some thought is I’ve been updating my wardrobe and have paid attention to the labels. Nothing I bought was made in the U.S. In fact, my clothes have been more places than I have: Indonesia, Vietnam, and Peru just to name a few. I realize this is not a new issue but find it sad that it’s really hard to find clothing made in the U. S. I am old enough to remember when we were advised to “look for the union label”, by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union. In part, that union was formed as a result of a fire in 1911 in New York. The fire—likely sparked by a discarded cigarette—started on the eighth floor of the Triangle Waist Company, a manufacturer of women’s shirtwaists (blouses). The flames, fed by cotton filaments and tissue paper waste, quickly spread upward to the top two floors of the building, but in those days the fire truck ladders were only able to reach six stories. Many workers, trapped by doors that had been locked to prevent theft, leapt from windows to their deaths. Some were able to reach the fire escape, but it soon became so overloaded that it collapsed, killing those who were on it. The tragedy galvanized the city government to enact health and safety laws and helped shape future labor laws across the country. On the other hand, the owners of the Triangle Shirtwaist Company were indicted for manslaughter but were eventually exonerated. To add salt to the wound – they later profited from inflated insurance claims related to the fire damage. As I looked at the labels of the clothes I just purchased, I wondered about the working conditions where they were made. My fear is that the seamstresses may be no better off than the Triangle Shirtwaist workers 114 years ago.

The other reason I’ve been thinking about unions is the rapid advance of AI. Bill Gates in a recent interview said AI is moving at a speed that “surprises” even him, stating that AI will take over most jobs. We have already seen a major strike – by the SAG/AFTRA unions in 2023- whose complaint was not simply the usual request for more money, increased benefits and worker safety, but centered around protection from AI-generated images, writing and voice-overs. AI is evolving so quickly that 2023 seems like the stone age. According to numerous sources, the AI programmers can’t even keep up with it. In May it was reported that one of the OpenAI models disobeyed direct instructions to turn off and even sabotaged shutdown mechanisms in order to keep working. ChatGPT has experienced the same phenomenon: models will occasionally sabotage a shutdown mechanism, even when instructed to “allow yourself to be shut down”. In addition to the downright scary implications of these “disobedient” models, is the very real impact they are having on jobs. Last week the Wall Street Journal ran two articles in one day about this issue. Already workers in fields as diverse as software engineering, voice acting and graphic design are reportedly being replaced. I witnessed a real example of this when our grandson graduated from college. There was a large contingent of international students, so afterwards I remarked to our grandson how impressed I was that the person announcing the graduates could get the names right. He informed me that it wasn’t a human announcer – right before entering the stage each graduate said their name into a computer, and an AI model announced their entrance.

I worry about the future of work and what it will look like. Many entry- level white-collar jobs are already in jeopardy. Ironically, the workers we honor on Labor Day, the union workers using their hands and back and brains, should remain plentiful in the near future. At least until they can program a robot to weld a seam or unplug a toilet. I hope I won’t live long enough to see that.

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DO NOT DISTURB UNTIL JANUARY

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Finally, after the sports wasteland that exists between January and August, college football is returning this week. Earlier this year a friend mentioned how depressed she gets when the holidays are over. I responded that I am usually relieved when the holidays are in the rear-view mirror, but the day after the College Football Championship game? I’m close to slitting my wrists. I’ve been a college football fan since I can remember. Growing up with two brothers who were star football players in high school and college, I think it was probably a sink or swim situation. Dinner table conversations at our house always centered around sports, and never more so than in the fall, when football season was in full swing. I recall once protesting that we should talk about something “girlie”, but that dog just didn’t hunt. So, I learned to love football. I wasn’t immediately attuned to the game, however. I was a cheerleader for our local Pop Warner team and on returning home from a game one afternoon my dad asked how it had gone. I replied, “Great! We had a LOT of 4th downs!” Needless to say, I’ve increased my knowledge of the game considerably since then.

The first slate of games this year occur on Saturday and as typically happens, the games scheduled this early in the season are not really barnburners; Sam Houston vs. Western KY is one of the afternoon games. But whether by luck or good planning, the morning starts with a game between two ranked teams: Iowa State vs Kansas State. I’m not particularly invested in either team, but you can bet that I will be planted in front of my TV watching it. Hopefully eating something entirely fattening and non-nutritious. A chocolate Long John springs to mind. My husband and I used to joke that we loved our “Saturday pants” – sweats with a very forgiving waistband.

Ben Herbstreit

Next Saturday, August 30th, begins the “real” season, if for no other reason than “College Game Day” returns. I think Game Day is one of the most fun ways to start a weekend ever invented. There is humor, knowledgeable discussions, irreverent signs waved by a (mostly) drunk student body, and, maybe best of all, Kirk Herbstreit’s golden retriever service dog. Last year his dog, Ben, was the highlight of every college campus he visited, even receiving field credentials. When Ben died in November, Kirk gave a tribute to him that reflected just how much Ben meant to him, and to the entire college football community. If you can watch the video of that tribute without crying, then you aren’t human. Late last season Herbstreit brought in his second stringer, Peter, who will continue in Ben’s honored position this season.

The 2025 Game Day cast will be without Lee Corso, who announced his retirement earlier this year. Corso has been on the program since its inception in 1987. He is a quirky figure, to say the least, but he has grown on me over the years. Each week he ends the program by selecting the mascot headgear of the team he believes will win the featured game. His antics got more elaborate as the years wore on, but somehow he became more beloved. My husband used to swear that he was biased against USC (a mortal sin in his opinion) but in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Corso has donned the USC headgear 17 times and boasts a flawless 17–0 record when backing the Trojans. Game Day has already announced that the tradition of donning the headgear will retire along with Corso. And if you can’t wait until Saturday for your Game Day fix, on Friday night ESPN is broadcasting a special tribute to Corso called, “Not So Fast, My Friend”, which is one of his signature phrases.

It’s an exciting time and I’m almost (but not quite) as excited about the NFL games. I foresee a fall and early winter that will be chocked full of football from Thursday nights through the following Monday nights. I know that I will have to make time for friends and family and I’ve done so – I’ve penciled in all of my catch-up phone calls for Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Depending on the schedule, I’m willing to forfeit an NFL game to chat, but on Saturdays I’ve got the “Do Not Disturb” sign up until the end of January. Unless you’re bleeding out, I’m not available. Fight On!!

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MY FREEBIE BIRTHDAY

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Whelp…this week I will celebrate another birthday. Actually, a rather large birthday. I won’t say how old I’ll be, but when I mentioned my age in my Pilates class last week the other (younger) participants looked at me like I was a relic from an archeological dig. They could hardly believe that I was still roaming the earth, much less making it through a 50-minute exercise class. In fairness, twenty years ago I would have thought the same thing, but somehow the years creep up and although I’m certainly not in the shape I was back then, I’m still able to move with a minimum of creaking. There are lots of reasons I’ve been able to stay in reasonable shape, foremost among them Dooley, who is a greater task master than my Pilates instructor. He goes to the dog run door multiple times a day, sometimes for good reason but mostly for the fun of watching me hoist myself off the couch to let him out and then stand there with a look on his face that screams, “Hah! Made you get up again, you idiot!”

Clint – on his birthday quest

Because of my impending birthday I was especially interested in an article in the Wall Street Journal last week about people who make a game out of collecting birthday “freebies” from businesses. They are otherwise known as “birthday freeloaders”. Their objective is to collect as many freebies as possible within the 24 hours of their birthday. The Journal story featured a Southern California man, Clint Svatos, whose goal was to break his record from last year of collecting 35 freebies. This year he dragged his children along to help eat some of the more sugar-filled gifts. Even he admits they were embarrassed by his antics. But by early evening he had set a new personal record — 40 freebies. His freebies included 10 free beverages, 14 free desserts, 12 free food items including wings, burgers, tacos and popcorn, and four other discounted products. 

Another person, Eva Larson, approaches her birthday as a marathon. She discovered that some places allow you to collect your birthday prize up to 30 days after your birthday, so this year, she spread her freebie crusade over nine days in June, which allowed her to grab 61 deals. She makes Clint look like a piker. She admitted that her birthday freebie grab has become almost a full-time job for a week, estimating that she spent at least 40 hours driving around Southern California, scheduling five to eight stops a day. And because some of the deals require that you purchase something in return for the gift, she ended up spending $258.17 to receive $509 in freebies. That’s a “profit” of $250.83 but when you add in the time spent driving around Southern California for 40 hours…well, I think Eva came out on the short end.

I don’t know…the whole birthday freebie thing seems like a lot of work to me. The sugar content alone would be enough to take ten years off of my life. This year I plan to get my hair cut, take Dooley to a “Brain Game” class (I’m not sure if it’s his or mine), indulge in a lovely dinner with friends, and then eat cake like I am “going to the chair”. I think I’m going to have to spend extra time in Pilates class next week, but unlike driving for 40 hours, birthday cake is always worth the price.

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THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Dooley in the sun

Well, here we are in the dog days of summer. Ironically, my dog Dooley doesn’t appreciate this time of year. No afternoon walks, no endless sessions of fetch, and no sitting in the sun for hours on end. Although he tries – I have to pick him up off of the synthetic grass after a minute or two, lest he get overheated. His one working brain cell hasn’t figured that part out yet. Yep, it’s the time of year when the “feels like” temperature on my weather app reads like the pre-heat on my oven. In all honesty, our weather this year has generally been at or below normal, a wonderful respite from the last two record-breaking summers. Still, it’s Arizona so it’s hot. These “dog days” typically run from early July to mid-August. In other words, it’s the season when the ice in your glass is gone before you take your first sip, so it’s best to stick with wine.

The dog days of summer require some strategic thinking when it comes to clothing. Anything beyond the bare minimum is an act of heroism – or lunacy. White T-shirts become translucent, denim becomes a form of self-inflicted torture, and flip-flops are appropriate except for black tie events. You know it’s the dog days when you start to consider mesh shorts a formal upgrade. Hats? Only if you enjoy forehead sweat decorating your face. Sunglasses? Absolutely, but only if they don’t slide off your nose and into your (melted) iced coffee.

People told me that Dooley would slow down during the worst of the summer heat; that our walks would become sluggish crawls from one patch of shade to the next, interrupted only by dramatic flops onto cool tile floors. Nope. I take him out at 5:30 every morning and if I didn’t stop him, he’d chase the squirrels and bunnies for hours. Eventually I am able to entice him to join me at the ice machine at our rest stop, where he chomps on crushed ice, and then is raring to go back out. Meanwhile, my pants are stuck to my thighs, and the humidity makes my hair look like I’ve put my finger in a light socket.

I’ve learned that if you can’t beat the heat, it’s best to avoid it. Here are a few tried-and-true strategies for surviving the dog days:

  • Fill your bathtub with ice and submerge yourself. Bonus points if you can stay under for more than thirty seconds without shrieking.
  • Perfect your popsicle-to-mouth coordination. (Brain freeze is a rite of passage.)
  • Befriend your local air-conditioned library. You don’t have to read, but you do have to linger meaningfully near the vents.
  • Plan elaborate vacations in your mind. The Maldives? Sure, why not?
  • Convince your friends to have a movie marathon—indoors, with blackout curtains, a mountain of snacks, and a Slurpee machine.

There’s no doubt that the dog days of summer are a test of patience, deodorant, and the limits of your air conditioning unit. But there’s a certain camaraderie in the collective struggle. We’re all in this together—sweaty, sticky, slightly delirious, and counting down the days until sweater weather returns. So next time you find yourself staring longingly at a cloud, hoping for rain, remember: these sultry days are but a fleeting moment. My guess is that Target will have their Christmas decorations up in the next month. Before we know it, we’ll be reminiscing about summer’s warmth as we put another log on the fire and watch Netflix in our down parkas. Until then, wear your sunscreen, laugh at your sweat stains, and give your dog an extra belly rub—after all, these are their days.

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CRUISING INTO RETIREMENT

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Like many people my age, I spend time thinking about what my next move will be. Sometimes I feel like a tweenager – too young for a retirement community and too old to downsize to a mixed-age neighborhood. But I stumbled upon a unique alternative the other day while reading an online newspaper – move into a cruise ship. Just imagine – waking up each morning to the gentle sway of the sea, sipping coffee on my private balcony as the sun rises over a new horizon, wandering down to a dining room where someone cooks a breakfast to order. Apparently, taking back-to-back cruises has become increasingly popular. People are selling their primary residence, renting a small apartment, and then cruising the world. Some people choose to book consecutive trips on the same ship, while others book different cruise lines to break up the monotony. And one company, Villa Vie, offers “condos” one can buy for a 15-year lease. Fifteen years!!! It visits 147 countries and 425 destinations over a three-and-a-half-year cycle and then repeats. I don’t know about you, but I think I’d kill someone after spending 15 months in such small confines.

Of course, on social media there are many opinions about “retirement cruising”. On the plus side, there is room, board, entertainment, laundry, free Wi-Fi and, of course, travel. On the downside, many suggest that people get “ship happy” confined to such small spaces for a long time. Still others, many who have worked on cruise ships, advise that although every ship has a medical staff, they are not really qualified to handle some of the specialized maladies that confront older people, much less a full-blown emergency. I think one would have to take the attitude that dying on a cruise ship beats many other ways one can leave this mortal coil.

A living room on The World

I was intrigued by the concept of living on a cruise ship, but honestly, I envisioned lots of noisy children, bachelor parties, or, equally dispiriting, hallways lined with wheelchairs. But then I found my ideal ship – The World. The World has 165 privately owned apartments, ranging from 290-square-foot studios to 3,240-square-foot four-bedroom residences. Like many cruises, the ship has multiple restaurants and bars, yoga classes and a gym, two pools, a medical center and round-the-clock room service. Unlike other cruise ships, the owners call many of the shots. They vote on things like the itinerary, they vote for refurbishments on the ship, as well as its board of directors. The World docks in around 100 ports per year, stopping for two to five days, rather than a few hours. Of course, as you might suspect, the cost of such luxury is a bit steep: prices for residences range from $2.4 million to $15 million — a figure which doesn’t include quarterly maintenance fees, which can be around 10% of the purchase price annually. If the price doesn’t deter you, their entrance requirement might trip you up: potential buyers are vetted, and, in addition to financial and criminal checks, buyers need two letters of recommendation from an existing resident. I don’t know about you, but I don’t know even ONE person who has that kind of money to throw around on a ship condo. Or one that would vouch for me, for that matter.

In any event, I’ve ruled out The World as a retirement option. Not just because of the expense, but because they don’t allow dogs on board. Now what kind of morons expect you to leave your dog when you buy one of these condos? Apparently very rich ones. I think Dooley and I will keep looking.

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PILLOW FIGHTS!

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Remember when you were a kid and a slumber party was a good excuse for a pillow fight? Nothing was as satisfying as landing a blow right to a friend’s noggin, or better yet, the pillow exploding on impact, spewing feathers all over the room. We were unfazed by the knowledge that we would get into trouble and have to clean up the mess. I hadn’t really thought about pillow fights since those long-ago sleep overs, but last week I was scrolling the TV guide looking for something (anything!) worthwhile to watch and saw that ESPN was airing the Pillow Fighting Championship. Wow! Who knew that there was a sport devoted to child’s play, much less that it had ascended to a championship level?

Of course, I had to learn more. As it turns out, like many good (and bad) ideas, the concept of a professional pillow fighting sport stemmed from the COVID-19 pandemic. Two brothers, Paul and Steve Williams came up with the idea during lockdown. One can only imagine two grown men, with little else to do, reverting to their childhood entertainment – bludgeoning each other with pillows. Paul came up with the concept of making pillow fighting into a real sport. Steve was not so sure, but he had a feeling the public was ready for something new. At the time, Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) was having a moment, but the brothers also observed that the market for it was over-saturated, and its sponsorships were beginning to dry up. The brothers concluded that Pillow Fighting Championships would be a good way to capitalize on the popularity of MMA fighting, but without the violence. As Steve said, “The only difference between the PFC and MMA is that no one gets hurt and queasy audience members don’t have to see blood.”

The first event staged by the PFC took place in August 2021. On January 29, 2022, the inaugural Pillow Fight Championship took place in Florida, featuring 16 men and 8 women competitors. Participants engaged in fights using specialized pillows made of foam rather than down. So I guess there weren’t any feathers flying all over the place. The pillows weigh two pounds and have a nylon casing with handles, to allow for fast and hard-hitting movements. Two pounds doesn’t sound like much (after all, last week I dismissed my two-pound weight gain as being insignificant), but I think two pounds coming at you with force could hurt a bit. Or a lot. Fans are given the pillows at the end of each event in an attempt to grow the popularity of the sport. Nothing converts skeptics to fandom like a sweaty pillow.

I was interested enough to look up the rules of the sport, and there are a lot of them. Two of the rules convinced me I am not cut out to be a professional pillow fighter. First, no competitor can stand still for more than three seconds. Wow – it would take me longer than that just to catch my breath. The other rule that would eliminate me from the get-go: no spitting, cursing, or foul language. I could abide by the spitting aspect, but if my language on the golf course is any indication, I think I’d be ruled out of pillow fighting the first time I got pummeled by a pillow. So, another career path off my list. Besides, in the event that took place last Saturday in Reno, all participants had to sign an injury waiver, and the prize money was only $1000. Heck, that would barely pay my deductible at the hospital. Think I’ll stick to my knitting for now.