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THE MUSEUM OF SADNESS AND STRENGTH

April 6, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:14 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

There is a quietness about the 9/11 Museum. You can see the trepidation on everyone’s face as they enter – do we really want to re-live that horrible day? And yet we all file in, bracing ourselves for what we know will be a roller coaster of emotions. The museum allows you to wander through the various exhibitions on your own, you can also download an app that provides information as you walk by each display, or you can buy tickets for a guided tour. We chose the tour and were glad we did. Our guide was a young man from New Jersey who had lost neighbors in the terrorist attack, so for him, this was personal. I reflected that we are fortunate in our generation to be guided by such people; future generations will experience it from a more distant perspective.

The Last Column

Our guide first took us to the bottom of the museum, to Foundation Hall, where the famous “slurry wall” stands. It was a wall built to hold back the Hudson River, which lapped at the side of the Trade Center when it was built in the mid-60’s. After the attack, when the site was being excavated, the workers were astounded to find that the slurry wall had survived. Daniel Libeskind, the architect heading the redevelopment of the site, pushed to keep a portion of the original slurry wall in place. He proclaimed that it was a testament to the determination and resilience of a nation; a document “as eloquent as the Constitution itself”. Also in Foundation Hall is the “Last Column,” a 36-foot girder that was the last to be removed from the site, marking the end of the recovery effort. During the excavation it quickly became a makeshift memorial, plastered with Mass cards, rosary beads, flags, photos of missing innocents, and patches from fire and police units. When it was finally cut down it was laid on a flatbed truck, draped in black, with an American flag over it, and escorted by first responder honor guards to a place of safekeeping. It now stands again in Foundation Hall as an exemplification of our resilience and hope.

The Dream Bike

There are many displays that feature recovered portions of the buildings – bent beams, the only remaining glass window and the staircase used by many to escape the burning tower. But I suspect that the real reason most of us come is to pay tribute to the people that we lost that day. After seeing incredibly massive beams bent and misshapen by the impact of planes and the heat of the fires, it gives new perspective to what the people who were in those structures must have experienced. I still recall, on the afternoon of the attack, one of the news channels interviewing a fireman who had been at the scene. He was understandably shell-shocked and said, “How bad must it have been up there that people thought jumping out of a window on the 100th floor was the better alternative?”. There is a room called “The Wall of Faces” filled with pictures of the victims. It is overwhelming to be in a room, with face after face looking down on you, and realize that we lost all of them in one day. People who set off to work on a gloriously sunny Tuesday morning, kissed a loved one good-bye, and were never seen again. And then there are the first responders’ stories, especially the 343 fire fighters who died trying to save people. One particularly poignant display is of the motorcycle that belonged to Gerard Baptiste, a firefighter with Ladder 9 in Lower Manhattan. Two weeks before 9/11 he bought a broken-down 1979 Honda motorcycle off the street for $100. He had to roll it to the firehouse and the guys gave him endless ribbing about the worthless piece of junk they said would never start. Baptiste died at the Trade Center and shortly afterward the surviving members of his firehouse decided to restore the bike in his honor. With the help of Honda, some motorcycle shops and private donors they were able to make it into what is now known as “The Dream Bike”. The bike was auctioned, with proceeds going to the education funds of the children of firefighters from Ladder 9 who were lost on 9/11. The winning raffle ticket, selected by Baptiste’s mother, went to a woman from California who donated the bike to the museum so everyone would know his story.

The Wall of Faces

Down the hall from the “Wall of Faces” is an alcove, a small space painted black with benches on all four walls. On its walls is a projection of video remembrances of the victims. Each person who died is remembered with a picture and a bit of personal background information. For most of them there is also an audio remembrance from a family member or friend. For me, this was the hardest room to experience, hearing a young woman talk about how much her children miss their dad and a father describing how proud he was of his lost son. There was one woman who chose to remember her husband by recounting the story of a Thanksgiving dinner where they argued about who was supposed to have brought the gravy to the table. They argued and both stalked off to the kitchen. She said they imagined that all of the relatives thought they were in there fighting but, in fact, they were kissing. She said “that’s just who we were”. Some voices were clearly emotional as they described their loved one, some sounded wistful, and others like the woman with the gravy story, chose to remember a lighter moment. No matter the emotion, the remembrances brought all of the people back to life and thus, made the realization that they had been so tragically taken from their families all the more jarring. Our guide told us that if we see a guide with a tan vest, that person is a family member of a victim. Some, he said, come every day to the museum as a way to work through their grief and talk about their loved one.

I should note that there is a small portion of the museum that describes the rise of Al Qaeda and the planning of the 9/11 attacks. There are photos of Osama bin Laden and the 19 hijackers, along with video description of how they carried out their plot. The photos of the hijackers are placed very low on the wall, much below eye level, so that one does not have to look at them if you chose to just walk by. After seeing all that I had thus far, my instinct was to give those pictures a swift kick. I questioned why we had to acknowledge them at all in a place of reverence and dedication. But upon further reflection I realized what the museum designers intended – future generations will not recall the events of 9/11 from personal experience, they will need to learn about it from history books and places like the 9/11 museum. So the “who”, “why” and “how” need to be included to present a complete picture.

A remembrance

We finished our tour of the building and went outside to visit the plaza and the two reflecting pools where the names of the victims are carved into the steel that surrounds them. The pools are built on the former foundations of the two towers and are symbolic of the sadness one feels there. One person has described the water falling on four sides into the bottomless pit as the endless tears shed over the victims. Perhaps the most touching site I saw all day were the single white roses stuck sporadically into the carvings of names. I had assumed that family members had been there to lay a flower on the name. But in fact, each and every morning the staff of the museum places a white rose on the name of any victim who would have celebrated a birthday that day. Somehow, I found that to be such an elegant gesture and thoughtful beyond words.

The Freedom Tower

We left the museum and went for a very long walk back to our hotel, reflecting on the gamut of emotions we experienced on the tour. I picked up a copy of USA Today in the lobby; the front page headline blared “US Military Families to Evacuate Turkey” due to possible attacks. Sadly, the beat goes on. But thankfully, so do we. The new One World Trade Center, also known as the Freedom Tower, is now complete and other buildings are going up where once the ground was but a scar. Would I recommend going to the 9/11 Museum? I guess that depends on your perspective. One of the guest services workers at our hotel said he couldn’t go – that it is still too soon. For me, it was well worth the visit; it is a place where we can reflect, mourn and vow to move forward.

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LIFE IN THE BIG CITY

April 4, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:8 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I’m home. Tired, and with a banging head cold, but I survived my time in New York. I set a relatively low bar in terms of my expectations. I figured that if I wasn’t mugged, knifed or blown up in a terrorist attack in Times Square I’d be ahead of the game. As it turned out…it was a lively trip but in the best possible way.

Day One: My alarm sounds at 3:30 a.m. I check my phone and discover that the airline has changed my seat assignment. What they failed to tell me is they also changed the departure gate to another wing of the terminal. I have a whole blog worth of observations about airlines and weird people on airlines but that’s for another time. So let’s just pretend that through the magic of space travel we made it back to NYC in time to have a glass of wine at an Irish pub. As it turns out, we ate at three different Irish pubs over four nights – West End Bar and Grill, Alfie’s, and McHale’s. All three places were filled with locals, had decent prices and – this is critical – awesome happy hours. We also frequented Hurley’s, the Irish pub next to our hotel, for an Irish coffee one night. We decided that it must be our partial Irish heritage that attracted us to such places, along with the aforementioned happy hour of course. In any event, we checked into our hotel, the TRYP Times Square, where we discovered our room to be approximately the dimension of a good-sized bathroom in any other city. But, as they say, we didn’t go there to sleep. And with the blaring taxi horns and the visiting high school ski team from England next door, we didn’t.

Day Two: We had tickets for the 9/11 Museum at 9:30 so we Uber’d it downtown. There is so much to say about the memorial that I will write about it in a separate blog later this week. It was a beautiful day so after our tour we decided to walk The High Line. The High Line is a recent addition to the New York experience and is well worth a visit. It is approximately 1.5 miles of unused elevated railway that has been transformed into a walking trail lined with beautiful plants and resting areas. It is a fabulous stroll, meandering through the Meatpacking district and Chelsea, and has totally transformed what was a blighted area into a neighborhood where apartments sell for a cool $5 M. That seems to typify New York…transforming an area where no one wanted to live into a place that is unaffordable for all but bond traders and trust fund babies. The other nice feature about the High Line is that for a brief period of time you are relieved from having to dodge the cabs that terrorize the streets. It would appear that most New York cab drivers take traffic lights as mere suggestions and running down pedestrians is what they do for sport. I imagine that at the end of their shifts they gather to see who “scared off” the most tourists. From the High Line we walked back up to our hotel, where I collapsed in a heap of total exhaustion. But, again, we didn’t go there to sleep, so after an hour’s rest, we walked up to Central Park. My two great-nieces, you see, had not had enough exercise for the day and wanted to get in a little run. Note to self: I need to be in much better shape to hang with 16 and 18 year-olds. After dinner at Alfies, we retired for the day. I checked my Fitbit – I’d walked 20,000 steps (9 miles) that day. No wonder my knees ached. The good news is that the English ski team checked out so at least it was quieter. Except for the horns.

Day Three: Sometimes you’re lucky to know someone in town and this certainly proved to be the case in New York. A good friend of mine recently moved there because her husband became the General Manager of the Waldorf Astoria. The poor thing has to make do with a three bedroom apartment in the hotel. Can you imagine the hardship? Heck, I’d order room service every night. In any event, she arranged for us to take a guided tour of the historic hotel and partake in a wonderful lunch afterwards at Peacock Alley – named such because people used to watch the “swells” parade like peacocks between the old Waldorf and Astoria hotels. But here’s where it really came in handy to have a connection – the maître d’ gave each of us a box of FOUR of the famous Waldorf red velevet cupcakes upon our departure. I won’t say how many I ate but I’m not sure I walked enough to account for all of the calories.

That night we skipped dinner – we were still full from lunch and cupcakes. We had tickets to see “An American in Paris” at the Palace theater. The play is magical – a combination of ballet, jazz, singing, and acting woven into a great story with a Gershwin score. It won several Tony awards and after seeing it I understood why. It made me wish that I hadn’t given up ballet at age 10. I do have to say that the only surprise of the night was how some people dress to attend the theater. The worst was a man wearing one of those “wife-beater” shirts – you know, the sleeveless ones that instantly deprive the wearer of at least 50 I.Q. points – and shorts. Ironically, he was seated right next to a man in a suit and tie who clearly understood the sense of occasion. It made me think that perhaps we are becoming a nation of slobs. But again, that’s a blog for another time.

Day Four: No plans or tickets to anything. We ate a late breakfast and then took off walking. We strolled by Rockefeller Center and over to Fifth Avenue, the universe’s vortex of high-end shopping. It’s fun to window shop but on the theory that if you have to ask how much something is you can’t afford it, I didn’t go in any of the stores. I speculated that the necklace in Harry Winston’s window would have eaten up my entire 401k. We walked up the East Side of Central Park, crossed over to the West Side and then stopped for coffee. That’s the great thing about NYC, as my niece says, you can’t swing a dead cat without finding a Starbucks.

Later, on our last evening, we hit McHale’s for dinner and then decided to “do something”, although that varied for all of us. The girls wanted to wander Times Square and then go work out (seriously, it’s hard to believe we’re related), my niece wanted to see “School of Rock” on Broadway and I wanted to see “An American in Paris” again. I know, with lots of choices and infrequent trips to NY, why would I see the same show again? Well, it’s that good and I enjoyed it just as much the second time around.

The next day we woke to pouring rain – the first bad weather we had encountered. So it really was time to leave. Our group headed for the airport, flew to Dallas and sadly said good-bye as we boarded separate planes for the final leg home. It was a wonderful trip – truly the adventure of a lifetime – spent with wonderful people. But I have to say, as I crawled into my own bed last night, I don’t miss the honking horns.

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NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

March 21, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:6 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Next week I am off on an adventure – New York City! Yep – the Big Apple, Gotham, The City that Never Sleeps. I’ll be joining my niece Shelley and her two daughters, Katie and Abby, in taking the city by storm. Literally – the projected forecast indicates it’s going to rain our entire trip. However, we remain undeterred and confident that we will have a great time. For you long-time subscribers, you may remember that two years ago we went to Washington DC. That was a fabulous trip not only for the historic sites we saw but because we found ourselves to be very compatible travel companions. For me, it was not only the delight in spending time with such fun people but I also lost five pounds in the process. Have I mentioned that the two girls are elite athletes? Katie will attend St. Mary’s College this fall on a track scholarship and Abby is the state tennis champion in doubles. And then there’s me, their “old Aunt Sue”, the operative word in that name being “old”. I try not to be a “drag” on their ability to see all the sites so I make an attempt to keep pace, which on the face of it is utterly ridiculous. This trip I have already done my prep – I bought the giant size bottle of ibuprofen at Costco.

As with any adventure, anticipation is half the fun so I have been studying what to see and where to go. I’ve been to NYC three times but always on business so my “play” time was somewhat limited. This trip is not about rate of return, it’s about the fun factor, so I’m reading loads of travel sites for advice. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

Don’t be afraid to wander. Usually it’s my mind that does the wandering but all of the travel writers suggest getting out of the tourist spots and venturing into unusual neighborhoods, strolling the streets to gaze at the fascinating people. I worked in downtown San Francisco for over 20 years so I know about “fascinating” people. Many times they have purple hair or are urinating on the side of a building. Since we will be there during what is Spring break for many schools, I have a feeling that I’m going to see a lot of families from Iowa with cameras around their necks taking pictures with the nude body artists in Times Square. But I know the secret to spotting the true New Yorkers – they’ll all be dressed in black.

Eat dinner early. New Yorkers apparently are a lot like Europeans – they prefer to dine between 8-10 pm. Thus, many of the guide books suggest dining before 8. No problem! First of all, with the prices in New York I’m not sure we’re going to be “dining” anywhere. My goal is to find some out of the way joints where we can enjoy real Italian food and maybe a good nosh. Secondly, on most nights, when New Yorkers are chowing down on their escargot and Lobster Osso Bucco, I am happily ensconced in bed reading a book. Sometimes I am even able to read three pages before falling asleep, which means I’ll be deep in slumber before New Yorkers have begun to dip into their crème Brule. Maybe. Read on.

Don’t crowd yourself. Of course, all of the experts suggest staying away from the usual tourist traps – Macy’s, Rockefeller Center, Times Square. Oops. We’re staying right near Times Square – 48th and 8th – so it’s going to hard to avoid. I read that sleep in a hotel anywhere near the lights and frivolity of Times Square is hard to come by. After all, it is the City That Never Sleeps for a reason. And, again, it is Spring break so I anticipate lots of college kids whooping it up. I’m brining ear plugs and lots of Tylenol P.M. But I’m realistic enough to know that I will probably be awake at 2 a.m. most nights wondering how college kids can afford hotel rooms in NYC.

Mind your etiquette. My coffee blew out my nose when I read this piece of advice. The writers in each case went out of their way to talk about how NICE New Yorkers are. Perhaps they run in different circles, but my experience as a born and bred, laid back Californian is that a “typical” New Yorker will push you down a flight of escalators if you are not moving fast enough. In fact, the guidelines for being a respectful tourist caution that we not take up the entire sidewalk so that other walkers can’t pass, don’t stop on the sidewalk to consult a map, or (I knew I was right about this) do not stand still on an escalator. I’m planning on minding my manners but I’ll venture a guess that the nicest people we meet will be those tourists from Iowa.

With all that advice under my hat, I’m ready to take a bite out of the Big Apple. We only have two things planned so far – tickets to the 9/11 Memorial and An American in Paris – so we’ll be footloose and fancy-free. I take that back. Nothing is free in New York except the experience of watching all those fascinating people.

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CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

March 7, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:11 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This about sums it up

We’ve been going through some conversations around our house that I suspect are not all that uncommon. They go something like this:

Me: Can you please turn up the TV so I can hear it. Him: (no response) Me again: I said, PLEASE TURN UP THE VOLUME! or

Him: Wodge bleit heog thu oebnog. Me: What? Him: I said, bleit heog thu oebnog! Me: I can’t understand you. Quit mumbling!

Obviously, what we have here is a failure to communicate. Or hear. He keeps the volume down so low on the TV that a rabbit couldn’t hear it. His mumbling is such that invariably waitresses always ask him to repeat his order. When they don’t, he usually ends up with the elk’s ear soufflé or stuffed frog gizzards and then he wonders what went wrong. It’s gotten to the point that the most frequently used words around here were “huh?”, “whaaaat?” and “For Heaven’s sake, speak up!”. Something had to be done before we were reduced to sign language.

Believe me, you want to be in the pink

It was a choice between a visit to an ENT doctor or marriage counseling. Since Medicare doesn’t pay for marital interventions we elected to go with hard science over navel-gazing. My husband had the first appointment but I tagged along on the theory that four ears are better than two. Especially when two of those ears don’t hear so well to begin with. We told the doctor that we had problems hearing each other and had a lunch bet on whose problem it is. The first step was a comprehensive hearing test to diagnose his hearing at different decibels and tones . It also tested how clearly he could distinguish similar words. Sounds simple enough. However, in order to obtain the total silence needed to conduct the test, they escorted him into what can only be described as an in-house diving bell. It is a thick, steel chamber with padded walls (not the first time we’ve seen those) with a small window in which to view the audiologist performing the test. Once he was seated and hooked up she heaved a huge lever to close the door tightly. I’ll stop right here and just say that if you are the least bit claustrophobic, do not get a hearing test. The test then proceeded with beeps and tones and upon hearing them, he had to squeeze a button. Kind of like when you need more morphine in the hospital only the result isn’t as much fun. The second part of the test consisted of computer-generated words that he had to repeat. Things like “deer” and then “fear” or “hang” and then “hand”. The volume is also modulated so that some words are said more loudly than others. In other words, it’s like listening in on a lively discussion in the hotel room next to yours – you hear about every other word.

The results for my husband were middling – he has good hearing at normal tones but severe hearing loss with high tones. The doctor explained that is very typical hearing loss as we age. He said it was borderline as to whether he needs a hearing aide and suggested waiting until it became a noticeable problem. Really? In my opinion we already have a noticeable problem when I practically have to do jumping jacks to get his attention about the TV volume. So I asked the doctor why my husband often doesn’t hear me. At which point he just smiled and said, “Perhaps he’s just not listening“. Perhaps? Perhaps?! I think they refer to that as “selective” hearing – always aware when being called to dinner but never quite hears the request to take out the garbage. At least now I had confirmation from a medical professional.

Do I need one for every hair color?

The next week it was my turn. I have had fairly severe ringing in my ears for the past five years so I explained to the audiologist that I might not hear high tones correctly. It was sort of like telling my golf group before a round that I hurt my wrist that morning. Always good to have an excuse at the ready beforehand. The audiologist just smiled – I guessed I’d just given her the equivalent of “the dog ate my homework” and she wasn’t buying it. I was strapped into the ~~electric chair~~ seat, and waited to hear the beeps. I was sailing along, feeling very good about things, until I sensed that the interval between beeps seemed to be increasing. Or was it? I began to push the button like a crack addict at an arcade – random but in the hope that I would “hit” once in a while. My heart began to pound. I was certain that she was going to find me profoundly deaf. I began to think about the display of hearing aides she had in the waiting area and which one might best blend in with my (current) hair color. Finally, she unlatched the door and printed out my results. We both walked into the doctor’s office where a nurse immediately took my blood pressure. I have never had a systolic reading over 110 in my adult life. My reading that day? 137! At last the doctor came in and said, “Well, I think your husband owes you lunch. You have perfect hearing”. As to why the sound is so low when he watches TV? The doctor explained that he probably just isn’t as interested as I am in hearing it. Well…it is an election year so, yeah, that’s plausible.

Now, two weeks later, I try to speak in louder, lower tones. He still mumbles. I’m looking in to getting him a “selective” hearing aide. And just to be safe, I’ve discovered that the local community college offers a course in American Sign Language.

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TRIPPIN’ IN TUCSON

February 22, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:9 Comments

It pays to live on the west side of town

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Tucson is not Phoenix. Ask any long-time Tucsonans about it and they will take a certain amount of pride in that statement. Okay, maybe a lot of pride. Phoenix – they say – has become Los Angeles. If Phoenix and Scottsdale are the city slickers of the state, Tucson is the proud aging hippie. It is a haven for the “anti” anything sort – big business, big box stores, housing developments and most noticeably, freeways. The city planners have consistently voted down any suggestion of bringing expressways or thoroughfares to cope with increased sprawl. Early on (in the 50’s) they were concerned that improved roadways would only encourage more people to live on the outskirts of town. So what happened? People came anyway for the beautiful scenery and warm climate, moving farther and farther from the town center. Now a drive that would take 10 minutes on an expressway takes 30-40 with seemingly hundreds of red lights. The road maps look like they were assembled by Lady Gaga’s costume designer. So with perhaps one of the most frustrating cities in which to drive in the United States, what is the attraction?

Dash the Wonder Dog and his hilarious father

Well, for me, in addition to the beautiful scenery, it is home to some of my favorite relatives. My niece and nephew are there and they and their families are worth every second of waiting at stop lights to see them. As a bonus, this past weekend our daughter Wendy and family met us down there for a relaxing family weekend. I say relaxing because we stayed at the fabulous Westin La Paloma resort. In true Tucson style, the grounds and amenities are some of the best representations of desert landscaping and southwestern architecture in the state. When you enter the lobby you feel as if you have “arrived” somewhere. Huge picture windows provide a view of the magnificent Catalina Mountain range. I can’t be certain of this but I’m guessing that the blood pressure of visiting guests goes down significantly as they enter the hotel. But here is the best part about La Paloma – they welcome dogs! More on that in a bit.

After checking in, our entire family decided it was time for a nap. To say that we like to relax would be an understatement – give any one of us a comfortable bed and a good book and we’re happy. Westin, of course, is famous for their “Heavenly Beds” and they do not over-promise. If I’m ever bed-ridden I’ve decided that I’m going to check in to a Westin for the duration. Once we all had our beauty sleep we drove over to niece Shelley’s house for a delicious dinner. Her two daughters are 17 and 15 and our grandsons are 15 and 12 and although they haven’t seen each other in years, we soon heard them laughing and having a great time. All four of them are honor students, polite and have great senses of humor so when I am discouraged after seeing pants-dragging, tattooed teenagers and despair for our future, all I have to do is remember that these four are also our future and my faith is restored.

Sunday night brought family rivalry night to the fore. As it happened, University of Arizona (our daughter’s alma mater) was playing USC, whence our son-in-law graduated, in a rivalry basketball game. Since they have lived in Southern California for many years they have attended lots of USC events, but Wendy was anxious for the boys to see where she went to school. Fortunately they were able to secure tickets to the game but there was still the matter of sides to be taken. You can see from the pictures they were a family divided for the night. Jake, wisely understanding who packs his lunch, chose to wear the garb of his mom while Matt stuck with his favorite team. For the record, UofA beat USC so half of the family was happy!

Overlooking the lovely generator

But back to La Paloma. The grounds are magnificent in part because it is built on a cliff so there are no roadways near the rooms. In order to reach your room you climb on a golf cart that then winds it way around the trails of the property. It’s surprising how relaxing that is – not to hear car doors slamming or horns honking in the middle of the night. On the other hand, if you leave your iPad in the car it’s not necessarily a simple matter to go retrieve it. So, fair warning – if you stay there make sure you have everything out of your car before heading to your room. As mentioned, we especially enjoyed our stay because they allow dogs. Not only do they allow them, they provide a water dish and dog bed. Of course, Dash heard all the chatter about the “Heavenly Bed” so requested his own pillow up with us. As he snuggled into it each night he let out a huge sigh and was out for the night. In the mornings we sat in the lobby with Dash and were approached by people, young and old alike, who asked to pet him. Even members of the hotel staff came out to see him and offered dog treats. I thought about charging them an amusement fee – after all, they were charging me the “resort fee” for Wi-Fi and use of the pool towel. As I walked Dash around the property I was struck by a sign I encountered (right) suggesting that guests stop, take a photo, and then post it to social media. But as you can see, the “scenic view” was of the side of the conference center and its diesel generator. Call me crazy but if I were running La Paloma I think I’d move that sign to where the real view is. But, hey, for all I know people are really excited by large utility boxes.

Now THIS is a photo spot!

All in all, we had a great time and would highly recommend a stay in Tucson and at La Paloma. One word of warning – do not let your dog sleep on the Heavenly Bed. There’s been no living with Dash since he’s experienced the pillows at La Paloma.

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Golf :-) #%&@!

February 15, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:4 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

I love golf. I think it is the greatest game ever invented. It requires both unique mental and physical skills, it combines camaraderie and competition and it’s one of the only sports you can play while smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. Personally, I’ve had the pleasure of playing some magnificent courses from Kapalua, Hawaii to Kiawah, South Carolina.

I hate golf. It is exasperating, demeaning and expensive. It brings out the worst in us, it impugns our self-worth and facilitates, no encourages, cheating. Personally, my first bad experience with golf was when my high school golf coach said after a round, “The best two balls you hit all day were on #7 when you stepped on a rake.”

Kapalua, Maui, Hawaii

If you play the game, you know exactly what I’m talking about; if you don’t, there’s no way to explain the fascination of hitting and chasing a little white sphere around a cow pasture. To try to put it in perspective for both camps, I would say that golf can be defined as 4½ hours of a series of calamities interrupted by an occasional miracle, or as John Feinstein put it, ‘a good walk spoiled’.

The subject probably needs a little fuller vetting, so let’s tee it up.

Scots skipping work to play golf

Golf had an ignominious beginning, (what a surprise) dating as far back as 1261, when the Dutch cursed while they played a game with a ball and a club. But the modern game of golf is considered a Scottish invention where the first documented mention of golf was in Edinburgh in 1457 when King James II banned golf in an attempt to encourage archery practice, which was being neglected. So even back then, men were sneaking out of work to play golf.

Some say it was named golf because all the other four-letter words were taken, but the word for ‘club’ ‘striking’ or ‘cuffing’ – lord knows I’ve ‘cuffed’ the ball many a time, has an interesting etymology. The word started out spelled as ‘gowfe’ which led to ‘gouff’, which led to ‘gowf’, which led to golf, which led to club throwing, sandbagging, and in the 70s, white men dressing like black pimps. Personally, I think the word will ultimately evolve into ‘goof’. And it’s probably not a coincidence that golf spelled backwards is flog. Some say the name golf came from initials that meant Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden, but that is just an ugly rumor probably started by a man whose wife could beat him at the game.

And why, you ask is golf made up of 18 holes, not 10 or 20 or an even dozen? The story goes something like this:

Kiawah Island, South Carolina

During a discussion among the club’s membership board at St. Andrews, Scotland in 1858, one of the members pointed out that it takes exactly 18 shots to polish off a fifth of Scotch. By limiting himself to only one shot of Scotch per hole, the Scot figured a round of golf was finished when the Scotch ran out.

A great story, but unfortunately not true. Early courses were 5-7 holes, played two or three times. It wasn’t until 1764 that golfers at St. Andrews decided to combine the first four short holes into two to produce a round of 18 holes, although it was still a 10-hole course with 8 holes being played twice. However, it would be over 100 years before 18 holes became the standard for golf frustration.

In my opinion the best explanation of the origin of, and exasperation with, the game of golf comes from the late, great Robin Williams; even if you’ve seen this before or not a fan of golf, I think you’ll enjoy this short video. Spoiler Alert: there are a few f-bombs in the video, OK quite a few, so get the children out of the room before listening.

They say that golf is a game you can play for a lifetime, but what they don’t say is that you’re going to get worse every year until you finally can’t straighten up after you make your last putt.

But until then . . . “Fore!”

Posted in opinion

THE ST. VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE – OF GOATS AND DOGS

February 8, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:6 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

A Krispy Kreme Valentine

This week many of you will experience panic attacks as you realize that Valentine’s Day has once again occurred on February 14th. I’m always baffled when I hear people (well, mostly my husband) say “What day is Valentine’s Day?”, as if it changes from year to year. Personally, I’m not a big fan of the holiday. I’ve seen too many people treat their significant other rather shabbily all year long and then think that a $9.99 bouquet of roses from Safeway will make up for it on Valentine’s Day. But I do realize that I may be a minority in this respect, since millions of people around the world mark the occasion with cards, flowers, and it would appear, oversized teddy bears and lacy lingerie. So I got to thinking about how we began this tradition. Of course lots of people say it’s a “Hallmark” holiday and as you will read, the greeting card industry has certainly benefited from the day, but it turns out that Valentine’s Day has been celebrated for centuries and by some very unlikely people indeed.

There are many theories as to how Valentine’s Day got started and even who St. Valentine was. The Catholic Church recognizes at least three different martyred saints named Valentine or Valentinus and they can’t quite decide which is the original cupid. Sounds like the old “To Tell The Truth” program to me. In any event, the most popular legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death – on February 14. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote his jailor’s daughter a letter signed “From your Valentine,” thus setting up the greeting card industry for the next two thousand hundred years. Around 498 A.D. the Pope, who was not a big fan of pagan holidays, decided to combine the remembrance day for St. Valentine with the pagan rite of Lupercalia, which was celebrated on February 15. Never heard of Lupercalia? The short version is that it was a fertility festival highlighted by two sacrifices: a goat for fertility and a dog for purification. That sounds about right.

During the Middle Ages, it was commonly believed in France and England that February 14 was the beginning of birds’ mating season, which added to the idea that Valentine’s Day should be a day for romance. That seems just the slightest bit odd. Really, when was the last time you stared out the window at birds mating and thought, “That is SO romantic!”. For that matter, who in the heck watches birds mating? Nevertheless, as the years went on the holiday grew more popular. Chaucer and Shakespeare romanticized it in their work, and it gained popularity throughout Britain and the rest of Europe. By the middle of the 18th century it was common for friends and lovers of all social classes to exchange small tokens of affection or handwritten notes, and by 1900 printed cards began to replace written letters due to improvements in printing technology. It is believed that Americans began exchanging hand-made valentines in the early 1700s. In the 1840s, Esther A. Howland began selling the first mass-produced valentines in America and it’s been downhill ever since. Howland is considered the “Mother of the Valentine”. I think in some circles she might be known as the “mother” of something else. She made her creations with real lace, ribbons and colorful pictures known as “scrap.” Or “crap”. I forget. Today, according to the Greeting Card Association, an estimated 1 billion Valentine’s Day cards are sent each year, making Valentine’s Day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year, right after Christmas. Which brings up an interesting fact: women purchase 85% of all the Valentine’s that are exchanged. I was stunned by that fact until I thought more about it. Modern day traditions guilt men into buying flowers, candy, dinner and the aforementioned lingerie. All women do is buy a card and we’re good to go.

And since everything these days has a Presidential spin, I got to thinking about whether there were any romantics among our former Presidents. It’s well documented that John and Abigail Adams had a wonderful 54 year marriage and were very devoted. And the Reagans were renowned for their doe-eyed looks at one another. Harry Truman apparently wrote such torrid letters to Bess that she burned them all lest someone else read them. Although I don’t think Harry’s love notes would even make it on to TMZ these days. But there were also some head-scratchers among our former commanders-in-chief. Woodrow Wilson, who was thought to be a pretty stolid guy was widowed after a 27 year marriage and was completely heartbroken. Until six months later when he was described as a “school boy” when meeting his second wife, Edith. Perhaps the most unlikely romantic was Dick Nixon. We all remember him as rather stiff and sweaty, but apparently in his youth he was quite a romantic…and maybe just the slightest bit desperate. Turns out that he was so enamored of Pat that he would offer to drive her and her suitors on their dates just so he could spend more time with her. Kind of sad, really. But then again, Valentine’s Day is named for a martyr so for all I know he exemplifies the holiday. In any event, I hope you have a wonderful day regardless of how you choose to celebrate. Just don’t go sacrificing any dogs.

Posted in opinion

THE LYRICS OF OUR YOUTH

January 25, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:13 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

45’s – remember those?

T.S. Eliot once said that April is the cruelest month. Perhaps that is so, but this year it seems that January is vying for that ignominious honor. In addition to the cold winter storms hammering both coasts, and the plummeting stock market, we also seem to be losing icons of the entertainment industry at an alarming rate. Pat Harrington, Dan Haggerty, Alan Rickman, and Wayne Rogers to name but a few. Perhaps the greatest loss has been experienced in the music world – most notably Natalie Cole, Glenn Frey of the Eagles and David Bowie of, well, David Bowie. For those of us of a certain age, it seems that with each death a bit of our youth gets taken away. I got to thinking about that the other day as I was listening to a tribute to Mr. Frey. The radio host played “Peaceful Easy Feeling” and I was instantly transported back to 1972, remembering exactly where I was living and the beat up record player on which I played their LP.

I don’t know about you, but I can bookmark my younger days by the singers and songs of the era. In 1964, I was standing waiting for the school bus when everyone’s transistor radios began playing a song from a new group: the Beatles, singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand”. Just to illustrate why I never became a record producer, I remember turning to my girlfriend and saying I thought the lyrics were stupid. So much for my ability to spot a trend. But somehow that first exposure to the world’s most successful quartet is forever etched in my memory. In the summer of 1966 I was at a party with a young man by the name of Greg Susser. When the 45 of Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” dropped on to the turntable Greg and I went out to the dance floor. Mid-way through the song, under the starry skies, he leaned down and said to me, “For the rest of our lives, when we hear this song, we should remember this moment”. Quite a romantic play for a 17-year-old with chin stubble. But the fact is, for the past 50 years, every time I’ve heard that song I do think about that party. It would be a more sentimental story if I said that we went on to have a great romance but actually I never saw him after high school. Still…the moment is cemented firmly in my memory because of that song. And in 1973, after a day skiing at Squaw Valley, I was in the bar dancing with a ski patrol member who was a new arrival from Germany. The song “It Never Rains in California” came on and he whispered to me – “Do you mean to tell me it never rains here?”. It seemed like such a ridiculous question, given that we were surrounded by several feet of snow. Every time I hear that song I think about him and wonder whether he was smart enough to figure out how to get back to Germany.

Legendary Glenn Frey

With the passing of Glenn Frey and David Bowie every media outlet has played their songs in tribute. For the most part, I could place where I was when their songs were hits and miraculously, I could remember most of the lyrics. Yet, if you threatened me with my life, I could not tell you the name of the book I read last month nor could I quote any passage from it. I gave this some serious thought – why can I recall lyrics from 50 years ago but not remember anything I read last month? I did some quick research (meaning I Googled the phenomenon) and found several interesting articles addressing the issue. Clearly, I am not alone in my selective memory. It mostly comes down to this: repetition and rhyme. It turns out that our old piano teachers were right – the more we hear something the easier it is to memorize and ingrain that “muscle memory” into our brain. Part of the reason that we recall songs from our youth is that we played them over and over. Remember when your mom yelled “Turn off that darn record player, I can’t hear that song one more time!”? Well, turns out, we were actually imprinting the song in the deep recesses of our memory.

The second reason we remember is due to the rhyming nature of most songs (think “American Pie”). Our brains anticipate a rhyme, thus making it easier to remember the whole phrase. For example, in the song “Mary Had a Little Lamb” the first two lines are ‘Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow’, so your brain anticipates not only a word that rhymes with ‘snow’ but one that can also be joined to that sentence in roughly the same amount of syllables or ‘beats’. This greatly reduces the number of available words your brain has to consider and so helps you remember the whole lyric more quickly. Since we are programmed to remember song and rhymes better than prose, we can hum our high school fight song well into our old age.

At least now I understand WHY I remember old lyrics. But I can’t recall the name of that nice appliance repairman that was here in October. Perhaps if he’d sung a song I would stand a better chance.

Posted in opinion

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY!

January 11, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:11 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Rain, rain Go AWAY!

Those of us on the west coast had an odd experience this past week – wet stuff fell from the sky. In buckets. It would be foolish and terribly inappropriate of me to complain about the “El Nino effect” but for me, this lousy weather came at a most inopportune time. As of last month, I became officially unemployed. Each Wednesday for the past 13 years I have tottered off to the local yarn store to sell yarn, provide help and teach classes. I loved my job and learned quite a bit over the years – a bit about knitting and a lot about people. But the owner, who is 78, decided that she’d had enough of worrying about the business and decided to toss in the towel. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Wow, 78! No wonder she didn’t want to work anymore.” But you would be wrong. For the past 10 years (inspired by a happenstance viewing of “Dancing with the Stars”) she has been involved in ballroom dancing. And not just slow-paced Viennese waltzes. She goes for the Latin dances and participates in competitions all over the Western U.S. So it wasn’t a lack of energy that caused her to close the store. Regardless, I now have a day of the week that I have to fill. This “extra” day, along with all of the rain this week that washed out my golf games, caused me to stay inside and finally face my demons: my unfinished projects.

Each spring I make a list of everything I want to accomplish over the summer when our weather is akin to a microwave oven. Some of those projects roll over from year to year. Okay, some roll over for a lot of years. Organizing thousands of photos, for instance. But other items on the list are much more manageable. So this week, trapped inside by Mr. Nino, I decided to tackle them.

Monday: It hasn’t rained like this in ages! At last I will get some “inside” work done. I pull together all of our home improvement receipts for the past 15 years, put them into an Excel spreadsheet and figure out the cost basis of our home. You subscribers who know me and have followed all of our major re-do’s on the house can appreciate just how daunting a task that was. I finalize all of the paperwork for our tax return and file everything away. At last I can check these items off the list. I love this weather!

Is “1-2-3-4” too obvious?

Tuesday: Today I vow to finally clean up the piece of scratch paper containing all of my passwords. I’d like to use the same password for everything because, frankly, these days I only retain water. Unfortunately, every company requires something just a bit different – consequently, my piece of scratch paper has become my memory. Finally I organize it all and have it in a secure location even Dick Cheney would have trouble locating. That was my morning. I look out the window and it’s still sprinkling. So I clean the house with a vengeance. This weather is sure good for getting things done.

Wednesday: I meet a friend for coffee and get home just as it starts to rain. Dash the Wonder Dog, who will not set his princely foot on a wet surface, is now wondering what in the hell happened to our morning walks. And just why am I home on a Wednesday? How is a dog supposed to get any sleep, for cryin’ out loud? Undaunted, I tackle my next “to do” – writing a piece for a class I’m teaching next week at the knitting guild. This exercise actually has a dual purpose: I can use up all of the ink in my printer. Last week I bought a new one but then realized that the old printer had a lot of ink left in it. Ink cartridges, as we all know, are the modern-day equivalent to the old cell phone scam when they’d give you a phone for free but then charge you a month’s wage for the service. So I wrote my piece, printed out 50 copies, and installed the new printer. I am truly ready for the rain to stop.

W comes after V, right?

Thursday: I awake to what is now a familiar sound – rain battering against my bedroom window. This is the rainiest day of all. My dear husband suggests that we go to a movie, but then it is raining so hard we’re afraid the washes on the roads will fill and we won’t be able to get back home. Yes, living is Scottsdale is sometimes like living in the backwater of Montana. So…what to do? I finally hang a couple of pictures in my den bathroom that have been sitting there for four months. I decide to play Candy Crush on my iPad. Three hours later I rouse from my stupor. I saunter into the kitchen and re-alphabetize my already alphabetized spice rack down to the third letter. My normally pleasing personality is turning just the slightest bit sociopathic. If this rain doesn’t stop soon someone is going to get hurt. I think it’s me.

Friday: Have I mentioned that my husband is home all day with me? Every. Single. Day. He did go out earlier in the week to get me Starbucks, which gained him about a million husband points. But still. It’s a lot of togetherness. He is spending his days watching You Tube videos of road trips we have taken or want to take. I am in my pajamas contemplating just how much Vicodin I have saved up over the years. I HATE this rain!

Finally, finally, it dries out and once again we see the sun. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration just declared that El Nino has peaked and the worst is over. Thank God…I’ve run out of projects and patience . And Vicodin.

Posted in opinion

GO AHEAD – MAKE MY (NEW YEAR’S) DAY

December 28, 2015By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Thank you, NCAA!

Last year I wrote about a Scottish New Year’s tradition – Hogmanay – that I assumed no one still living celebrated. So it has been startling to see more than 200 people from around the world have Googled the event and were directed to our blog site. Heck, I don’t pretend to be the Emily Post of Hogmanay but apparently there is not a lot of resource material on how to celebrate New Year’s like a true Scot. So it got me to thinking that maybe this year I should shine the light on other obscure new year celebrations from around the world. After all, in the U.S. the NCAA has taken care of our celebration by kindly scheduling the two semi-final BCS bowl games on New Year’s Eve. Personally, I’m not a fan of going out on New Year’s – or staying up until midnight for that matter. I’m thrilled that on Thursday night I will don my formal sweat pants, start a fire, open a bottle of wine, order a pizza and watch football. But in case you’re interested in doing something a little more exotic, we here at “A Bird’s Eye View” offer up the following suggestions from around the world.

Jump in to 2016: In Denmark, people celebrate December 31 by climbing up on chairs and at the stroke of midnight, they leap off of them to signal their “jump” into the new year. I don’t know about you but I’ve been at many a NYE party where climbing on the furniture was de rigueur but that was 30 years and 30 martinis ago. At this age I have visions of my friends struggling to even get up on a chair, much less jumping off one. Heck, they have had broken hips and torn ACL’s taking their dogs for a walk. Perhaps all of the climbing and jumping should be left to young Danes with strong bone structure.

Talk to the Animals: In both Belgium and Romania, farmers start the new year by talking to their animals. What separates the sophisticated Belgians (who really should be focusing on their chocolate) and the crazy Romanians is that in Romania they believe that if the animal communicates back then it portends bad luck for the year. I don’t want to seem critical here but I think that if you perceive that your cow is talking back to you, bad luck is not your biggest problem.

A flea marketer’s delight

Re-decorate: In South Africa, it is a new year’s tradition to throw old furniture out the window on January 1. When I first saw this photo it reminded me of our old neighborhood on “bulk trash day”. It’s amazing what people throw out – and how little of it is still on the street after the midnight raid of Ebay enthusiasts. In any event, for those of you who wish to re-decorate but are getting some resistance from your spouse, you can just throw everything into the street on Friday and claim that you are channeling your inner South African.

Eat, Drink, and Eat Again: In France, the beginning of a new year is marked by eating a stack of pancakes. Not those leaden “All You Can Eat” type down at the Waffle House, but light, fluffy cakes that melt in your mouth. I eat a stack every Sunday at our local café so I guess I will be right on trend this week. In Estonia, they celebrate January 1 by eating as much as they can – they refer to it as “Eating in Abundance Day”. Quality is of no concern, they are driven by the sheer quantity of food they can consume in a day. Given that as the criteria, I think I’ve been celebrating Estonian New Year’s for the past month.

They could fight for the WWF

Duke it Out: Finally, my favorite tradition – the Peruvian fist fight. Every December in a small village they celebrate the Takanakuy Festival, whereby residents engage in fist fights to settle their differences. Brilliant!! Seriously, how many of us have wanted to haul off and slug somebody when they’re being annoying? Just this morning in the grocery store there was a woman who trailed me around the store speaking on her cell phone in a loud voice about her lawsuit against her employer, her daughter’s no good boyfriend, and on and on. Despite several dirty looks from those around her (mostly me) she persisted. Now if I lived in Takanakuy, I could have simply given her a good jab to the left jaw and no one would have blinked an eye. It’s probably just as well we don’t celebrate this tradition, it being an election year and all. Things are dicey enough.

I hope this has gotten your creative juices flowing on how to celebrate New Year’s. Whether you choose to watch football, gorge, jump off a chair or talk to your dog, my brother and I wish you and yours a very HAPPY year ahead.

From A Bird's Eye View

Life's Travels and Observations

Category Archives: opinion

THE MUSEUM OF SADNESS AND STRENGTH

LIFE IN THE BIG CITY

NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

TRIPPIN’ IN TUCSON

Golf :-) #%&@!

THE ST. VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE – OF GOATS AND DOGS

THE LYRICS OF OUR YOUTH

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY!

GO AHEAD – MAKE MY (NEW YEAR’S) DAY

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