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.
This annual Memorial Day post is written in remembrance of the soldiers from my high school who died in the Vietnam war. I first published this in 2014, and each year since then I hear from people who relate similar stories about the losses suffered in their hometowns or, worse, their families. This Memorial Day please take a moment to remember all of the brave young men and women we’ve lost in conflict.
Five boys from my high school were killed in the Vietnam War. For a small town like Novato, that was an enormous number. We were such a close-knit community that even if we didn’t know one of them personally, we knew a sibling or friend. So when I planned my trip to Washington D.C. last month, I scheduled time to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to see their names on “The Wall”.
To refresh my memory, I pulled out my high school yearbooks and found them all – smiling for a formal portrait or posing for a team picture. Each image reflected a boy, fresh-faced and full of hope, his life stretching out before him. I looked at those young faces and found it hard to believe that their lives ended so soon after the bucolic days captured in the photos. None of them reached the age of 22, their dreams extinguished on the battlefield. While we, their classmates, lived long enough to enjoy the internet, smart phones and streaming movies, most of them didn’t live long enough to see color television.
I reflected on the stories I’ve read of WWII vets who speak so reverently of the “boys who didn’t come home”. As I perused the yearbooks, I finally understood their sentiment. It is only when looking back through a 50-year lens that one can appreciate just how young these soldiers were and how many of life’s milestones they missed. So, on this Memorial Day, I’d like to pay tribute to “The Boys from Novato”.
Robert Johnson Bob Johnson joined the Army in the fall of 1965, in what would have been his Senior year in high school. I remember him as a very nice, quiet guy. Before he enlisted, he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him – they wanted something to hang on to while he was gone. His entry into the service occurred just as the war was escalating. He was sent to Vietnam in March of 1966 and three weeks later he was killed by enemy gunfire during “Operation Abilene” in Phuoc Tuy Province. As his former classmates excitedly anticipated their Senior prom and graduation, Robert had already made the ultimate sacrifice. In the 1966 yearbook, where his senior portrait would have been, his mother placed this photo of him in uniform along with a tribute. He was the first Vietnam casualty from Novato.
Mike Tandy
Mike Tandy graduated from NHS in 1965. His sisters, Sue and Sarah also attended NHS. Mike was a good student, who participated in the first swim team our high school fielded. He was an Eagle Scout and according to his friend Neil Cuzner, “he was highly intelligent, a great guy and an excellent scout. He was in the Senior Patrol and a young leader of our troop. He led by example.” After graduation Mike joined the Marine reserves and was called up in January 1966. He was sent to Vietnam shortly after that. On September 8th he was on patrol in Quang Nam with another soldier when his footfall detonated a landmine. He was killed instantly. He had celebrated his 19th birthday just five days prior. His classmates had moved on – either to college or working – but the Tandy family was left to grieve the loss of their son and brother. In 2005 Sarah posted to the virtual Vietnam Wall: “Thanks to all of you who come here and remember Mike. All of our lives were changed, and I thank you for not forgetting.”
Allan Nelson
Allan Nelson played football at College of Marin with my brother, Bob. Allan’s sister, Joanne, was in Bob’s class in high school and his brother, Steve, was in mine. So we were well aware when Allan was drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam in July 1966 at the age of 20. Five months later, on December 1, we were devastated to learn he had been killed by gunfire during a battle in Binh Dinh Province. I still remember the day Steve came 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: http://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 wrote this on his memorial page: “I was Jerry’s platoon leader on the day he died. He didn’t have to be there, since he had a job elsewhere in Vietnam, but 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.
Several days ago, I caught the virus that has been circulating for months. I had dodged the dreaded “flu” since last fall and was convinced that my immune system was ironclad. Apparently, I was wrong. For the first few days I chalked it up to allergies – after all, I just had allergy testing that showed I am allergic to pretty much everything that is in bloom right now. But when my throat began to look like raw hamburger and my chest felt as if an elephant had taken up residence, I knew it was more serious. I know the drill – lots of fluids and rest. The fluids’ part was easy but trying resting with a four-month-old puppy. Both Dooley and I reached the limits of our patience in the last week. I’m sure he was wishing he had been adopted by a hardy twenty-something.
Nevertheless, because I needed my energy during the day, my goal was to get as much sleep at night as possible. I looked in the medicine cabinet and saw I still had some NyQuil, but probably not enough to last more than a day or two. So last Monday I did what one does when you’re sick and live alone…I ordered cough medicine from Amazon, with same-day delivery before 4 pm. I tracked the delivery mid-afternoon and saw that the delivery person was in the neighborhood across the road. The app indicated I was blessedly just five stops away. I waited for the package…and waited…and waited. When I checked the app again it said, “We have lost communication with our delivery person but don’t worry, your package is still on the way.” Okay, cell service can be sketchy in my area, so I didn’t think anything of it. But by 6 pm, when there was still no package, and the same message appeared, I began to suspect that my Mucinex was not coming. Thankfully, I dug around in my medicine cabinet and found an unopened box of NyQuil that miraculously was not out of date. By 9 pm the app indicated that something had gone wrong and I could cancel the order if I wished. How about you deliver the package, Amazon???
By Tuesday afternoon there was still not a whisper from Amazon as to where my package was or whether they were sending a replacement. So now, I don’t feel well and frankly, I am not pleasant when I’m sick, so I go on the Amazon app and ask them to call me. Five minutes later a customer service rep calls me, and I relayed my problem. I can barely speak and coughed like a seal in her ear, so she could tell I was someone who definitely needed medicine. Although she might have thought Xanax was a better choice after listening to my rant. In any event, she tells me she is on the case…and then puts me on hold. She came back after about ten minutes and said that the package had been lost in transit. LOST??? It was across the road and five stops away!!!! Was the driver highjacked? Did an Amazon Blue Origin Spaceship come down and spirit it away?
She calmly explained to me that she was only a front office person and really couldn’t tell me exactly how my package was lost. She placed another order for me and told me she would schedule it for overnight delivery. I asked that she not do that, as I can’t begin to count the landscape lights that have been victim to Amazon drivers trying to navigate out of my twisty driveway. “No problem,” she said, “I’ll schedule it for tomorrow mid-day.” Of course, I woke up Wednesday morning at 5:30 to find the package at my front door.
Maybe Bezos should spend a little less money sending celebrities into space and a bit more in delivery efficiency. As you can tell, I’m still crabby.
If you watched Rory McIlroy win the Masters a couple of weeks ago, you might not have experienced such a roller coaster of emotions since the last time you watched the stock market. Rory not only produced a comeback for the ages but was the very definition of resilience. The Masters win, and the accompanying green jacket, had eluded McIlroy his entire career. It was the only major championship that he hadn’t won, and at almost 36 years old, he was beginning to lose hope that he would ever achieve the “career grand slam” of winning all four majors. But he didn’t give up, he practiced, he focused and as they say in the golf world, he kept “grinding”. And on that glorious Sunday evening when he sank the winning putt, all of his efforts and perseverance paid off. You could see the weight of the world, and the world’s expectations, lift from his shoulders. When he spoke to the crowd after receiving the green jacket, he addressed his daughter and said, “The one thing I would say to my daughter, Poppy, who’s sitting over there: never give up on your dreams. Never, ever give up on your dreams. Keep coming back, keep working hard, and if you put your mind to it, you can do anything.” In other words – be resilient.
Two days prior to watching Rory’s win, I attended an ASU OLLI lecture titled, “Finding Your Resilience”. It was taught by a professor who works at the Watts College of Public Service and Community Solutions. Over 60% of the students in that college are “first gens” – kids who are the first in their family to attend college. Many of them also come from disadvantaged backgrounds and the foster care system. And yet, a great many of them not only get their degrees, but they thrive. To find out why some people overcome hardship and others don’t, the professor conducted a study of hundreds of people and found ten traits necessary to cultivate resilience. They are:
Social Support – having a good network of family and friends
Boundry Setting – the ability to disengage from unhealthy influences
Insight and Empathy – being able to understand your own adversity and understand the problems others have faced
Commitment – setting a goal and sticking with it
Creativity and Flexibility – finding multiple solutions to problems and being willing to adapt to changing circumstances
Initiative and Self-efficacy – the willingness to act and to believe that you are capable
Communication – being able to communicate both verbally and non-verbally
Humor – the ability to remain lighthearted, even in the face of adversity
Morality and Spirituality – having a belief system that provides direction
Appraisal – finding meaning in the struggles we face
Not everyone hits all ten factors, or at least they don’t hit them all at the same time, but to varying degrees, these qualities exist in people who are able to overcome whatever negative circumstances they face.
Elizabeth Edwards, the late wife of that scoundrel John Edwards, faced what some might consider more than her fair share of adversity – cancer and a husband who publicly humiliated her. When her cancer recurred, rather that wallow in her fatal diagnosis, she said the following: “Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that’s good.”
Winning the Masters was a study in resilience for Rory, but whether he won or not, his life would remain magnificent on many levels. That is not the case for many people, who face adversity and possibly dire consequences from their situation. Which is why, when we can, we should lend a hand or an ear, to someone who is trying their hardest to grind it out and be resilient.
Yes, it’s me taking up space again; thinking about those 12 men who have walked on the moon. Or have they? Recently a friend and I were talking about the initial moon landing of humans in 1969, and the last landing of humans on the moon in 1972, and wondered why we hadn’t been back in over 50 years and why other technically advanced countries had never been at all. With a wry smile, my friend said, “Maybe we’ve never been either.” Like millions, I told him that I watched the Apollo 11 first moon landing on television when I was in the service in Japan. He said, “Yeah, I watched it too, but now I wonder what I really watched”. I looked at him and said, “Are you one of those conspiracy people that believe the moon landing never happened and that Oswald didn’t shoot Kennedy either?” OK, we’re now learning that maybe he didn’t shoot him, but faking a moon landing, that’s quite a stunt? He told me to watch ‘The Why Files’ about the moon landing, or the ‘staged’ moon landing.
I had not only never watched The Why Files moon landing, but had never heard of The Why Files. I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but the conversation piqued my interest enough to find out more about the ‘fake’ moon landing, as I did think it was unusual that we, or anyone else, hadn’t visited the moon in over five decades. So, I went to YouTube and dialed up The Why Files
Below is the video: The Why Files ‘The Moon Landing: How NASA and Hollywood Fooled the World’
(The first 4 minutes is an advertisement, so just click at the 4-minute mark on the bottom; there are other advertisements throughout that you can click past. The video is about 45 minutes, but I think very interesting. The ‘HeckleFish’ is sometimes funny, but mostly annoying. Make sure you watch the video to the end.)
But there is more. If you have the interest and the time (about 2.5 hours), this next Why File episode talks about some very strange things going on with the moon, including that it’s a hollow space ship, spying on Earth. Yes, it sounds crazy, OK it is.
So, maybe we did land on the moon after all, but it was interesting, right? If you enjoyed that Why Files episode, and you have nothing else to do, you can watch things like:
Aliens here on Earth
What Da Vinci really knew
Ancient history about the pyramids
The Illuminate
And so much more!
You’re probably wondering why I’m talking about the moon just following the Easter holiday. Well, as you know, Easter moves around; it’s not always the same day, like Christmas or Independence Day. So, how is Easter Day determined? Simple: it’s the first Sunday after the first full moon that occurs on or after the vernal equinox. OK, just look on your phone. Hope your Easter was over the moon.
If you’re like me, you haven’t given much thought to the subject of tariffs before this month. But, boy, they have my attention now. On the surface, they seem simple enough: a tax imposed on goods imported or exported between countries. But peel back the layers, and you find yourself in a tangled web of global trade, political strategy, and occasionally, outright shenanigans.
Historically tariffs have been a major source of government revenue. Between 1798 and 1913, they accounted for anywhere from 50% to 90% of federal income. But times have changed. Over the past 70 years, tariffs have rarely contributed more than 2% of federal revenue. Last year, for example, U.S. Customs and Border Protection collected just 1.57% of total government income. As many of us are so painfully aware as we write checks tomorrow, the burden has shifted to taxpayers. So why do we want tariffs? Think of tariffs as toll booths for international trade. Countries slap them on imported goods, hoping to achieve one of three things:
Raise Revenue: Collecting money for government projects, because hey, those bridges aren’t going to build themselves!
Protect Domestic Industries: Shielding local businesses from the terrifying competition of cheaper foreign products.
Flex Political Muscle: Using tariffs to make a statement—sometimes subtle, sometimes not-so-subtle.
For example, a tariff on imported cheese might make your locally produced cheddar look like a bargain compared to fancy French brie. Voilà! Welcome to cheese-based nationalism.
The dramatic dance of dueling tariffs lately is reminiscent of a middle-school dance-off – two countries in a virtual breakdance, one-upping each other by imposing tariffs on steel, soybeans, and other trade goods. The music? It’s less funky beats and more the frantic scratching of economists trying to figure out the long-term effects.
Take the U.S.-China trade war as an example. One country slaps a tariff on electronics, and the other retaliates with tariffs on agriculture. Before you know it, tariffs are flying faster than hotcakes at a pancake breakfast. The real winners of this dance? Lobbyists, politicians, and the occasional spreadsheet. Who wins and who loses when tariffs enter the picture? Well, it’s a mixed bag:
Winners: Domestic industries that suddenly find themselves free from the competition of cheaper imports. And, of course, the government collects sweet tariff revenue.
Losers: Consumers, who face higher prices for imported goods. So that fancy Italian espresso machine you’ve been eyeing might cost as much as a used car thanks to tariffs.
Confused Shoppers: People trying to figure out why avocados are suddenly so expensive.
Some consumers get creative, resorting to questionable DIY alternatives. “Who needs imported coffee beans? I’ll just roast my own acorns!” is a sentence no one should ever utter—but tariffs might drive someone to desperate measures.
Tariffs occasionally venture into absurd territory. Case in point: In the 2018 U.S.-China trade spat, Washington imposed tariffs on items like Chinese-made toasters, refrigerators, and… urinals. Yes, you read that right—urinals. Because nothing says economic strategy like taxing porcelain plumbing fixtures.
On the flip side, tariffs can lead to bizarre trade loopholes. For example, Canada once skirted around the “Chicken Tax” (an American tariff on imported trucks) by disguising small trucks as passenger vehicles. Picture a truck wearing Groucho Marx glasses and pretending to be a minivan.
Ultimately, tariffs are like that friend who always insists on picking up the check—but only if you pay them back double later. They have their perks, like protecting local industries, but they come with downsides, too—higher prices for consumers and potential international conflicts.
Next time you’re grumbling about the cost of imported chocolate or wondering why your favorite gadgets are suddenly pricier, blame tariffs. They’re a little piece of global trade magic—or madness—that keeps the world spinning. Of course, our heads have also been spinning this month. I wish we could import good humor, because I think we’re going to need a lot of it in the foreseeable future when we log into our investment accounts.
I heard an interesting panel discussion the other day about how AI will eventually take over many common jobs. Of course, that’s nothing new – we’ve been hearing about how AI will impact our world for the past few years. But the thrust of this discussion was: we don’t know what we don’t know. In other words, we can’t imagine how AI is going to change how we work, because we can’t imagine how AI will change how we work. I remember as a kid hearing people talk about obsolete trends, like cars putting handsome cabdrivers out of business, but that seemed like ancient history to me. But I realize that with the advent of computers in general, and AI specifically, many of the jobs I remember from my childhood seem like ancient history to today’s kids. Here’s just a sampling of jobs I remember that are unfathomable today:
Switchboard operators: Before direct-dial telephone systems took over, and certainly before the advent of smartphones, switchboard operators were the backbone of communication. In the 1950s, the United States had approximately 342,000 telephone switchboard operators employed by the Bell System, plus a million operators working in private industry. It was a demanding job that required quick reflexes and strong customer service skills as the operators manually connected calls by plugging and unplugging cords on massive switchboards. I remember one of the first offices I worked in had a switchboard and every morning I marveled at how quickly and efficiently the “board worker” handled those calls. Unbelievably, as recently as 2023 the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics reported there were approximately 43,800 people working as “Switchboard Operators, Including Answering Services,” with most of those jobs being in the medical and travel industries. Where? In Outer Mongolia????
Milkmen: Long before Instacart and Amazon, having fresh milk delivered to your doorstep was once a common part of American life. Local milkmen made daily or weekly rounds, leaving glass bottles on doorsteps and retrieving empty ones. In the 1950s, more than half of consumer milk sales came from home delivery services. However, the rise of supermarkets and improved refrigeration technology made milk delivery nearly obsolete. By 1975, home-delivered milk accounted for only about 7% of total milk sales, and by 2005, it had dwindled to just 0.4%. That percentage has actually grown due to the aforementioned home delivery companies, but it’s not the same as the milkman who did our route every week, lugging his wire crate from house to house, who got to know everyone on his route.
Elevator Operators: In the mid-20th century, elevator operators were essential for manually controlling elevators in department stores, office buildings, and hotels. At its peak, the profession employed more than 90,000 workers in the U.S., responsible for operating controls, greeting passengers, and ensuring smooth rides. I remember going to I. Magnin in downtown San Francisco as a kid and marveling at the elevator operator – her snappy uniform and lilting voice was mesmerizing to me. I wanted to be her when I grew up. Obviously, I couldn’t see too far into the future, because by 1959 more than 90% of elevators were automated. Today, elevator operators are almost nonexistent. In fact, the labor department doesn’t even track them anymore. I read that a few historic buildings, particularly in New York City, still employ operators for nostalgia or specialized service. I’d love to know where they are because the next time I visit I’d like to once again experience having someone at the controls who dressed smartly and could possibly save me if the car plunged into the basement.
Motion Picture Projectionists: Today’s Netflix generation would probably find it hard to believe that in 1950 there were more than 26,000 people employed as motion picture projectionists. They played a vital role in the moviegoing experience, operating and maintaining film projectors in theaters, ensuring film changeovers, managing carbon arc lamps, and handling nitrate film. But the demand for traditional film projectionists dramatically declined with the rise of digital projection technology. By 2013, an estimated 92% of movie theaters in the United States had made the switch to digital projection. By 2023 only 2,610 people still held the job. That seems like a lot of people still doing a very old-fashioned job. Maybe they work in the same place as the switchboard operators.
I worry a bit about the future of work for the next generation, but I guess that has always been the case. Unless they are plumbers or electricians, I can’t imagine how much AI will impact their careers. I guess I just have to trust that each generation has always adapted and moved forward and that will continue to be the case. All I know is, I don’t care how smart an AI system is, it will never look as snappy as that elevator operator.
If you’re like millions of Americans, you will celebrate St. Patrick’s Day today by consuming some spirits in honor of the occasion. Some of us are genuinely of Irish extraction but on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish. Simply donning a green hat or sporting shamrock underwear gives the wearer implicit permission to get toilet-hugging drunk. There actually are a lot of Americans with Irish bloodlines – 37 million to be exact. That’s 12% of the population, ranking just behind Germany in most frequently reported ancestry. Heck, we have eight times the number of Irish than Ireland itself! Which is probably as good an explanation as any as to why the holiday is so much more popular here than in Ireland. Twenty-five years ago, my husband’s cousin from Scotland came to San Francisco on business and we met him for dinner near our workplaces. Unfortunately, the only night he had available was St. Patrick’s Day and to further the problem, we worked right around the corner from Harrington’s Bar and Grill. We met at a nearby restaurant that required our cousin to walk from his hotel right by Harrington’s front door. Or as close to the front door as he could get. There are a lot of Irish in San Francisco and they seemingly all gather at Harrington’s each year to celebrate the patron saint. When he finally navigated his way to the restaurant he was wild-eyed and I think just the tiniest bit shell-shocked. He stammered, “What is with you Americans and St. Patrick’s Day?” Well, it turns out, we practically invented the holiday.
NYC St Patrick’s Day Parade
Since around the ninth or 10th century, people in Ireland have been observing the Roman Catholic feast of St. Patrick on March 17. But the first parade held in honor of St. Patrick’s Day took place in the United States. On March 17, 1762, Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched through New York City. The parade, along with their native music, helped the soldiers reconnect with their Irish roots. Over the next three decades numerous groups formed to celebrate Irish heritage, each sponsoring a parade on St. Patrick’s Day. By the mid-1800s the groups combined forces into what is now known as the New York St. Patrick’s Day Parade, the largest in the country and the oldest civilian-sponsored parade in the world.
Of course, all that marching is exhausting so finding a good pub to quench one’s thirst became part of the day’s tradition. Some people take pride in finding good Irish pubs wherever they go, regardless of the time of year. In fact, although I won’t mention names, someone I’m related to that also writes for this blog fashions himself a connoisseur of Irish drinking establishments. He is the only person I know who could trek all the way to MachuPicchu and find an authentic Irish pub in which to have a Guinness. But he is far from alone. What is this obsession so many have with the Irish? I’ve read more than one article claiming the Irish are the most belovedethnic group in the world. Of course, part of that affection is tied to the “happy drunk” reputation, but in fact it goes further than that. The Irish are deemed to be some of the most sentimental souls on Earth. One need only read the famous Irish poets to understand the truth of that. The Irish are also known worldwide for their sense of humor and dry wit. Oscar Wilde, the noted Irish writer, filled our world with his bon mots. One of my favorites is: “It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious”. George Carlin was perhaps one of the funniest comedians ever with his wry observations of everyday life and Melissa McCarthy is a talented entertainer (come on, that bathroom scene in Bridesmaids is a classic!). The Irish also have the ability to write lyrically and capture an audience, despite sometimes playing fast and loose with the facts. One of my favorite sayings, told to me by an Irish friend who was wound-up in the middle of a fantastical yarn, is “never let the truth get in the way of a good story”. My brother and I have at times adopted that as our motto.
There’s also the famous saying “Luck of the Irish”, although I have discovered that the phrase started as a derisive jab at the Irish immigrants who came to America in the late 1800’s. It originated in the gold and silver mines to describe the Irish who found their “pot of gold” and became rich and successful. The Irish were never given full credit for their accomplishments. Instead, it was widely believed that the “Irish fools” had gained fortune only by sheer luck, as opposed to brains and hard work. Our only full-blooded Irish ancestor, Julia Stack Billiou, came to America during this period. Her immigration gives our family claim to Irishheritage and provides cover for our love of good writing, a stout beer, and a strong Irish Coffee. I call that lucky indeed!
“When you lose a dog, where does all that love go? The routine, the way they filled the quiet spaces in your day—what happens to all of it? They may be gone, but those feelings remain, lingering like a shadow searching for a place to settle.” Robert Drake, Dog People
Dash the Wonder Dog
There is nothing like the love of a dog. Who else loves so unconditionally, without expectation for anything in return except a warm lap, a long walk and meals (served on time)? When I sent Dash the Wonder Dog to Rainbow Bridge on December 5th, I knew it was the right thing to do for him, but it created a hole in my life that was almost unimaginable. Just 16 months after losing Alan, the loss of Dash rocked my world. For the first time in 50 years, I had no one to care for – no one who counted on me for anything. Dash died on a Thursday, and by Saturday night I realized that I didn’t want to live the rest of my life without a dog. And specifically, I wanted another Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. And, just to put a fine point on it, I wanted a puppy. I realized that getting a puppy at my age was a triumph of hope over practicality, so I researched articles about getting a dog later in life. Almost all recommended getting a senior dog – one who was housetrained and had grown out of the puppy stage. And let’s face it, one that won’t outlive you. But then I ran across an article from the WSJ: “It Was Crazy to Buy My Aging Mother a Puppy. It Was Also Brilliant.“, by Kathie Roiphe. In it, she recounts how the puppy energized her mom, lifted her spirits every day, and brought purpose to her life.
Bolstered by that piece, the following Monday I contacted Dash’s breeder, Kelly Collins of Spice Rack Cavaliers. She normally has a long waiting list of people who want her well-bred dogs, so I expected I would have to wait months, as we had for Dash. But such was not the case. Kelly told me that she had a litter due in two weeks and that I could have one of them. It felt like a gift from Heaven. Kelly said Alan and Dash would be happy I was opening my heart to a new dog, and I believe that. The puppies were born on December 19th, two boys and a girl. As luck would have it, I only live two miles from Kelly, and she asked me to watch them the following day for a couple of hours so she could fulfil a commitment. Holy smokes! How lucky could I get???
Those puppy dog eyes!
Over the next six weeks two more litters were born, and I got to watch over all of them several times. It was both fun and a blessing, as I got the know the personalities of the dogs in “my” litter. Late in January one of the boys came over to where I was standing and curled up on my shoe. I knew instantly that I’d found my guy. I had already picked out a name – Dashing Doolin, call name “Dooley”. The name is partly in tribute to Dash, and partly in memory of a fun town I visited in Ireland. Dooley has developed into a beautiful puppy, and I can tell he has already outstripped my IQ level. He was the first to learn how to get out of the pen and the first to navigate the dog door so that he could come and go as he pleased. But he is also wonderfully affectionate. One day as I was babysitting, I put all three of the puppies in their pen, with the door open. I sat on the couch around the corner and the next thing I knew, he was waddling over and asking to be lifted up onto the couch. Who could resist? He immediately cuddled up on my lap and then looked at me with quintessential “puppy dog eyes” (picture, left). I can assure you; no one has ever looked at me like that!
Last week I took all three of the puppies to Starbucks in a stroller. If you ever want to meet people, take three puppies to Starbucks. They were good as gold, and since then I have brought them home a couple of times for an afternoon of play. But today…today is THE day that I get to pick Dooley up and bring him home forever. He is already mostly housebroken and sleeps through the night. That said, he’s a puppy and will no doubt put me through my paces over the next several months. But in just the short time I’ve been with him he has already brought me joy and my heart is once again full of love. I couldn’t be happier. Welcome home, my sweet boy, Dooley!
My sweet boy
Dogs provide the kind of love that finds you when you need it most, and somehow, without words, makes you whole again. Dog People
The other day I was struggling to read the fine print on a label in the grocery store. Don’t even get me started on why the print has to be so small – what are they hiding? I have often said that the most frustrating part of aging has been the steady deterioration of my vision. I had to wear reading glasses beginning at the age of 12 and it’s been a downhill journey ever since. Over the years I’ve made many attempts to improve my vision, including Lasik surgery in 1999. The surgery was a great success, resulting in 20/20 vision for distance but as I aged, I needed reading glasses for anything up close. Fast forward to 2023, when I complained to my ophthalmologist that my distance vision was deteriorating. And as is so often the case these days, he started with the dreaded, “Well, at your age…”. Turns out Lasik doesn’t last forever, and he suggested progressive lenses. My house is now littered with glasses: four sets of progressive, two single vision sets for computer and piano distances, and two sets of progressive sunglasses. And I still have drawers full of “cheaters” that I pull out when one of my prescription glasses are not within arm’s reach. I’m looking into cataract surgery later this year, in yet another attempt to see clearly. I’ve often wondered, as I’m reading that fine print at the grocery store, how did people survive before the invention of glasses. Turns out, hundreds of years ago people were equally frustrated by blurry vision and as is often the case, came up with some rather ingenious inventions.
There’s not much historical evidence explaining how our prehistoric ancestors fared in the absence of visual aids, so historians have used a combination of deduction and common sense to determine how, say, a sight-impaired individual would keep up with the pack in a group of hunter-gatherers. A person with imperfect vision could still be useful to a group simply because sharp eyesight (needed to read signs or Google Maps) wasn’t necessary in prehistoric times. And they didn’t have to deal with those pesky grocery store labels. As civilization progressed, those with visual impairments could even find their condition produced certain advantages. A myopic (nearsighted) person, for example, could find themselves steered toward a craftsman role for their ability to focus on detail.
Somewhere in the vicinity of Pisa, Italy, around 1286, an unknown craftsman fastened two glass lenses to a frame likely made of wood or bone to create the first eyeglasses. Thus, the modern notion of vision aids was invented. But there were incremental improvements for the vision-impaired even before that. Archaeological digs in the eastern Mediterranean area have uncovered the existence of plano-convex lenses (flat on one side and rounded on the other) made of glass and rock crystal that date back to the Bronze Age! While it’s unknown what these lenses were used for, some of them magnify objects between seven and nine times, rendering them useful for work on items in close quarters. After that there came water stones, mirrors and even emeralds, which didn’t really improve vision but were thought to reduce glare. A major development in the area of visual tools came with the invention of reading stones. The concept of using curved glass to magnify print was discussed at length by an Arab mathematician in 1021. Typically made from quartz, rock crystal, and especially beryl, reading stones were fashioned in a plano-convex shape, with the flat side against the page of a book and the rounded top providing a clear view of the lettering below. Initially used to assist the elderly with faltering vision, the stones became popular among younger readers as well, especially as beryl was said to possess magic and healing powers.
I still use one of these
Visby lenses as a necklace
One surviving example of reading stones are the 11th- to 12th-century Visby lenses discovered in Gotland, Sweden, in 1999. Along with providing excellent magnification of tiny text, many of these quartz lenses are mounted in silver, suggesting a decorative purpose as well. It’s unknown if the Visby lenses were the work of a local professional or somehow made their way from Muslim regions where other reading stones first appeared. Regardless, the quality of the images generated by these artifacts, and the craftsmanship that went into their creation, underscores how people were seeking help for their vision woes long before LensCrafters went into business.
Somehow, it’s comforting to know that people struggled with vision issues from time immemorial. One can only imagine the cave people saying, “Darn it, Harriet, I can’t see the damn hieroglyphics on that wall anymore!”
