From A Bird's Eye View

Posted in Family

A Tahoe Tribute to Mom

October 13, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:18 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Cheers to Mom & Dad in their final resting place

This past week was an occasion for another family gathering; our ‘mostly annual’ trip to Lake Tahoe in October. We go in October to miss the tourists, even though we are technically tourists, we really don’t think of ourselves as such, since we’ve been going up to ‘The Lake’ since 1951. That was the year that dear friend of the family and lifelong bachelor, Dick Schieck, or ‘Uncle Dick’ as he was known around our house, bought a cabin about two blocks from the lake in Pineland, 4 miles south of Tahoe City. In those days it was a pretty sleepy resort area, the Winter Olympics had not yet come to Squaw Valley and the Silicon Valley dot com-ers had not yet arrived in droves to drive up prices.

From 1951 on, every summer vacation and nearly every long weekend was spent at Tahoe, except maybe a few in the winter when Donner Pass, then a two-lane road, was closed due to snow. A few years after I graduated from college, my college roommate and I bought the cabin right next to Uncle Dick’s and in 1979, brother Jack bought a restaurant in Tahoe City and lived there for the next 15 years. Needless to say, ‘The Lake’ holds a very special place in our family history, which is why our parent’s wishes were to have their ashes spread there when they passed.

Tahoe Tavern – built in 1901

Our dad passed away 13 years ago and Jack found the perfect spot for his ashes, in the rocks in front of a place we rent, high on a ridge overlooking the entire lake – it’s the most spectacular view of the lake I’ve seen. Our mom passed away last year, but because of various travel conflicts, we did not get to Tahoe last October, so we took her ashes up with us this year and placed them with our dad’s. Dad would have turned 100 this year, so he is celebrating his centennial by being joined once again by his wife of what would have been 77 years.

Mom’s high school graduation picture

As you may have picked up from our blogs over the years, our father was one terrific human being, kind and gentle as could be, always having something good to say about everyone and possessing a great sense of humor. He could make people laugh in virtually any situation. He also knew his way around a good martini. Mom was always the ‘straight man’, more serious, lots of attention to detail, a great businesswoman and the disciplinarian in the family. So of course her personality paled compared to Dad’s – everyone’s did. Her role was always having to be the ‘bad cop’, who could never threaten us with, ‘Wait ‘til your father gets home!” We knew he wouldn’t harm a fly. But she knew how to have a good time as well – she loved music, gin rickeys, and could party and dance with the best of them, and our dad adored her. They had such great times at ‘The Lake’, hitting old haunts like the classic Tahoe Tavern, sitting on the deck at Sunnyside Resort, before it was chic, and going over to ‘The Line’ (California-Nevada border) to dine and gamble at CalNeva, in its heyday, when Frank Sinatra was an owner and the ‘Rat Pack’ made guest appearances. Mom always dressed to the nines on those occasions, especially if they were dining at the very-posh-at-the-time, North Shore Club. But most of the time was spent just sitting on the deck at Dick’s cabin with the BBQ going and a gin and grapefruit juice in hand, enjoying the tranquility of this extraordinary place.

Together forever

I always felt that I got my dad’s sense of humor (thank God!), but my fondness for music, writing and the arts came from mom. They made a great team and they made three pretty good kids – if I do say so myself! The three of us can look back and be thankful that we grew up in a wonderful time and place and in a wonderful home, thanks to both Mom and Dad.

It took too long, but their ashes are finally together in a place with an incredible view of one of the most beautiful lakes in the world and a place filled with great family memories. They indeed are now resting in peace together.

Posted in opinion

MR. GOODELL: IT’S NOT THAT HARD

October 6, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:3 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

He must be rolling in his grave

I am a football fanatic. Not just a casual fan, but someone who wears my team’s colors on game day. Mostly I follow college football, but I still watch an NFL game or two on Sundays and I always watch the 49ers. I’ve come a long way in my football knowledge over the years. Then again, I had a long way to go. When I was a Pop Warner cheerleader I came home from a game and my dad asked how it had gone. I replied with great enthusiasm, “Great! We had a lot of fourth downs!”. These days I understand a whole lot more about the game; now it’s the players who have me perplexed. The prima donna behavior, exorbitant salaries and off the field antics all get in the way of me enjoying the game. I’d give anything to see someone score a touchdown and simply toss the ball to the ref. Or, as the great coach Vince Lombardi once exhorted his players, “Act like you’ve been there before”.

So as a more than casual fan, I have followed all of the recent events surrounding the domestic violence and child abuse charges against players. It was with great anticipation that I watched the NFL Commissioner, Roger Goodell, hold a press conference to outline what he was going to do to remedy the problem. As he spoke I kept waiting for some action words, like “fire”, “permanently ban” or, as he droned on, “resign”. Nothing. He spent 15 minutes saying nothing. Oh, except when he said he was shocked – shocked! – that women’s shelters and abuse counseling centers are underfunded. If he were any more clueless he’d have to be watered twice a week.

More Clueless than Alicia Silverstone

But what really got me slack-jawed was his statement that the NFL was going to work on a policy to address these issues and he hoped to have it in place by the Super Bowl. In February. I was so stunned by that statement that I immediately went online to make sure I’d heard him correctly. I had. FIVE months to come up with one policy.
A number of years ago, when I worked for one of the major banks we entered into what was, at the time, the largest nation-wide bank merger in history. There were eight people from each bank selected from the various business divisions to put together all of the policies for the combined bank. I was selected to represent Human Resources for my employer. For FIVE months we all worked in our various disciplines and met the deadline of the merger date. So while I don’t underestimate all of the constituencies that Mr. Goodell has to satisfy, it is really not that hard to carve out one policy. Most of corporate America has to deal with complicated issues and make decisions that meet the demands of shareholders (team owners), employees (players), and customers (fans) and do it every day. Heck, he could really expedite things by calling Adam Silver, his counterpart in the NBA. Surely they already have a policy in place given all the miscreants in that sport.

So the fact that Mr. Goodell wants to take five months to establish a policy on spouse and child abuse tells me one thing: he doesn’t think it’s important. And then there’s this: October is national Domestic Violence awareness month. But despite Mr. Goodell’s “enlightenment” about the woefully underfunded organizations that support domestic violence victims, the NFL will adorn themselves in pink from their helmets to their jock straps this month to honor Breast Cancer awareness month. There is no doubt breast cancer support is a very worthy cause, but given what the NFL is going through right now and his statements about helping, wouldn’t it be nice to throw a little support to domestic violence support groups? Or was he once again just giving the problem lip service?

One of the Good Guys

It seems to me that if the domestic violence problems within his organization was uppermost on his mind, he would get the right people in a room and tell them to come up with a policy – within weeks. Because as disquieting as this is to us fans, one can only imagine how upsetting it is to the vast majority of NFL players who are good guys. Guys like Larry Fitzgerald of my hometown Arizona Cardinals, who do fabulous work in the community and whose conduct is above reproach. This is what Fitzgerald had to say about the infamous Ray Rice video: “It’s disturbing to say the least. It was really tough to watch that video. The important thing is to just live life right. Do the right thing and you don’t have to worry…”. Are you listening, Mr. Goodell? YOU have had too many fourth downs.

Posted in Family

The 2nd Annual ‘Cheater’s Cup’

September 29, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

The Cheater Cup slogan: ‘A family that competes together, cheats together”

The ‘Cheater’s Cup’ named in honor of Lance Armstrong

Actually, it’s the first known Cheater’s Cup event, because of a little detail during the first one – like no one even knew there was a contest going on! For those who have followed us here for the last few years, you may remember a story written by Suzanne last July entitled, JOCKO’S AND THE GREAT CHEAT-OFF (link: https://fromabirdseyeview.com/?p=2002). During last year’s Nipomo family gathering, our brother Jack and his wife Sharon, Suzanne and Al and Linda and I decided to play golf at the funky, 12-hole executive course called Monarch Dunes. It was just for fun and no one really kept score, or so we thought, but after the round, while having an adult beverage at the 19^th hole, or I guess on this course it was the 13^th hole, Suzanne, the self-appointed score keeper, pulls out a score card and announces that the women had won the match. “What match?” the men shouted incredulously and demanded to see the card. As suspected it was filled with cross outs, eraser marks and one hole that had been eliminated all together. Thus the ‘Cheater’s Cup’ was born. To add status to this year’s event, we’ve adopted Barry Bonds, who hit a lot of ‘fake home runs’, as our Cheater Cup spokesperson, and have named the trophy going to the annual winners, the Lance Armstrong Cheater’s Cup, so that we never forget the contributions to cheating made by this cycling dope . . . er. I think both famous cheaters would be proud to be part of our short, albeit nefarious history.

Fake homerun hitter, Barry Bonds

This year’s event was held on a ‘real’ golf course, Santa Maria Country Club, Jack and Sharon’s home course, although Sharon, who had spent the last three weeks in France, was ‘trapped’ in Paris due to a pilot’s strike; we think she’ll be home for Christmas. In true cheater style, the ladies tried to have Natalie Gulbis fill in for her – the men were conflicted, but finally didn’t allow it.

It was no surprise that everyone kept score this year and it was also no surprise that none of the scorecards matched at the end of the round. The round was played as a ‘best ball’ between the ladies and the guys, but because the ladies had one less player, the guys agreed that they would eliminate their best ball on each hole and take the best ball from the other two. It seem fair to the ladies . . . at first, but as the match started to slip away from them, they lodged a complaint and played the rest of the round ‘under protest’.

Blowing a putt has a whole different definition with us

I could elaborate on some of the creative golf cheating techniques that were used during the match, like Suzanne’s clandestine foot mashie to improve her lie, or Linda’s way of improving her lie by always carrying a pack of green Life Savers with her and casually placing one under her ball when no one was looking. Brother-in-law, Al would always turn heads when we finished each hole as he uttered his standard phrase, “Give me a par”. Brother Jack wore the pants with a hole in the pocket, just big enough for a golf ball to fit through, so that when we’re looking for his lost ball in the rough, he would surreptitiously slide his hand, with a new ball in it, into his pocket and push it through the hole; it would slide down his pant leg and land in a place that miraculously had an open shot to the green, and shout, “I found it!” With my long putter, I would regularly take ‘gimme’ putts that were ‘inside the leather’, of course the leather on a long putter assured me that I never had to putt anything that was within 6 feet.

Jack, Suzanne & Al

As I said, I could elaborate on these cheating techniques, but the match, the day, the weekend was really all about getting together and having some fun with a great family – and that we did. We all feel very lucky to not only call each other family, but also call each other friends, even though on the golf course we might call each other things that would suggest otherwise.

“You’re such a cheater; the best wood in your bag is a pencil”

Posted in opinion

CHICKENS IN ARROYO GRANDE?

September 22, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

AG…home of the chickens

One of the highlights of our yearly trips to the Central Coast of California is visiting the quaint town of Arroyo Grande. Located between San Luis Obispo and Santa Maria, it looks like any other modern town when viewed from Highway 101. In other words, you see a Trader Joe’s, In ‘n Out, and the ubiquitous Walmart. But Arroyo Grande is actually as unique and colorful a town as you’ll find anywhere. Starting with the chickens.

Grand Avenue is the Main Street in town and is filled with Victorian buildings and cute shops selling items both old and new. There is even a life-sized Elvis statue outside the guitar store and just about everyone stops to pose for a picture with the King of Rock. Gina’s is our favorite restaurant, serving Italian food with friendly service. And nothing is more fun than wine tasting at Phantom Rivers wines, which is in an old Victorian house with a beautiful lawn outside. You can while away the afternoon with a sandwich from the deli next door, a glass of wine, and watch the people and chickens go by. CHICKENS?? Yep – if you spend more than ten minutes strolling the downtown streets one thing will become very apparent – there are a lot of chickens in Arroyo Grande. But why? Well, according to a city representative (who, for good reason wished to remain anonymous) there have been chickens and roosters wandering around town longer than anyone can remember. Do they cause problems? Well, “If a rooster gets rowdy and tries to attack visitors, we have to take care of the problem.” Which I think means that several of the restaurants in town have chicken as their “special” that night. She said that roosters are welcome in town, but they have to act nice with guests. They are not allowed to terrorize, attack or challenge you to a dual for sidewalk rights.

The AG Town Council

As you wander the village in search of roosters, you’ll notice them everywhere. They are down by the creek, in the back parking lot of the storefronts, and occasionally crossing the street. You’ll notice the “Chickens Crossing” signs throughout the village. They DO have the right of way. Cars will stop and wait for them to slowly stroll across the busy streets. At nearly every boutique, home furnishings or antiques store there are tributes to the roosters and chickens on everything from cards and hand painted artwork, to kitchen towels and antique porcelain trinkets to take home as souvenirs.

Of much greater interest to me, being an inveterate sweet-tooth, is Arroyo Grande’s fabulous ice cream parlor, Doc Burnstein’s Ice Cream Lab. Really, the name says it all. It sounds so scientific. Clearly they have taken ice cream to a new level. There is no slap-dash mixing here. They take developing ice cream flavors as seriously as the guys working on nuclear fusion. In addition to the wonderful handmade ice cream, they have special events, like “Ice Cream for Breakfast Day”.

Abandon hope, all ye that enter here.

Really…it’s as if they made up a day just for me. As a kid, I would get up before my parents on Saturday mornings and pour myself a bowl of Wheaties topped off with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Even at the age of eight I was good at rationalizing my binge eating. After all, ice cream and milk both have calcium, don’t they? But my favorite event at “Doc’s” (we’re now on a first name basis) is the “All You Can Eat” night. Every Tuesday for just a measly $6.99 adults can have all the ice cream they can eat. I think the lovely people at Doc’s seriously miscalculated when they established that event. People like me, who look perfectly sane and reasonable on the outside, lose all remnants of self-control when faced with “all you can eat” challenges. I may gain five pounds in the deal but I’m determined to amortize that $6.99 down to a buck a scoop!

So, if you find yourself driving between San Francisco and Los Angeles and need a great place to take a break, consider stopping in the village of Arroyo Grande. Where else can you find chickens, Elvis and a bottomless bowl of ice cream all in one block?

Posted in opinion

The Scarlet Shirt

September 15, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:9 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

“The pang of it will always be in the heart”

Nathanial Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

My travels last week were supposed to take me to Salt Lake City for, what I must say with all false modesty aside, an induction into the University of Utah Athletes Hall of Fame. OK, it wasn’t exactly me being inducted, it was the entire 1964 Liberty Bowl football team, of which I was a member. OK, I wasn’t actually a regular member – I was a ‘red shirt’ member.

For those unfamiliar with the term ‘red shirt’, it is a college athlete, who is on the team, but does not suit up and play in games for the entire year in order to save his or her eligibility. As a ‘red shirt’ quarterback, I ran the offense of our opponents that week, against our first team defense. I felt it was my job to give our defense confidence with my inept play – I apparently succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. “That was a feckless performance Sparrow”, the coaches would shout and I would beam with pride until I learned the definition of the word feckless. The origin of the term ‘redshirt’ is sketchy at best, but my experience tells me that these non-playing athletes were so bloodied from getting beaten to a pulp in practice that their jerseys were red.

Picture Day – The only time I was allowed to wear a University of Utah uniform

My red shirt never came off; I came to Utah from junior college and transferred after my redshirt year to play for George Siefert, who had taken his first head coaching job at Westminster College in Salt Lake; yes the same George Siefert who coached the San Francisco 49ers to two Super Bowl championships. The same George Siefert, who at a reunion was quoted as saying, “Yes, I coached Joe Montana and Steve Young, but Bob Sparrow was my first quarterback.” I approached him afterwards to thank him for the recognition and he said, “No, I didn’t say first quarterback I said worst quarterback.” Oh.

The Utah Liberty Bowl team was honored at half time of this year’s Utah-Fresno State game and at a banquet held the previous night – I imagined my ‘redshirt invitation’ to these events would look something like this . . .

Dear Redshirt,

The 1964 Liberty Bowl football team (and you) will be inducted into the University of Utah Athletes Hall of Fame. There will be a banquet Friday night at 8:00 p.m., could you please get there an hour early so you’ll have time to eat before hand and then serve and clear dishes for the regular team? We have sent commemorative blazers and rings to all the regular players, and have enclosed for you to wear that evening, a double extra large commemorative red shirt. As a special favor, we’re asking that you please plan on sticking around afterwards to help clean up.

The shirt says it all

The team will be honored at half time of the game on Saturday; would you mind getting to the stadium a little early to wipe down the seats after you finish lining the field? Don’t forget to wear your redshirt to all events, as we don’t want anyone to confuse you with any of the regular team members.

Maybe I was letting my imagination run a bit wild , but I was just trying to get something off my chest . . . and back – it’s that damn red shirt! Truth be known, I actually got a nice invitation and would have loved to attend, but had other commitments. I actually had a good experience at Utah and a great experience at Westminster College, where I played football, wrote for the college newspaper and met my first wife . . . OK, two out of three’s not bad; I think she was just a red shirt anyway.

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Posted in opinion

OUR BELLA SERA AT THE BELLA SERA

September 8, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Hearty appetites are the hallmark of our family. That, and drinking. When we can combine both we are like pigs in slop. No one in our family says things like “Seconds? I couldn’t possibly” or “Gee, I’m so full I couldn’t eat another mouthful”. In fact and practice, we all eat like we are going to “the chair”. So how fortuitous that Bob’s daughter, Dana and her husband Joe, now own a restaurant (with a lovely bar) in downtown Monrovia, California. In our family, Joe is the rock star of cooking. For Bob’s 70th birthday he cooked for days and presented cuisines from five diverse countries. We think Dana married VERY well.

Dana and Joe during renovation

In May they took over an established Italian restaurant – the Bella Sera Trattoria- and completely renovated it. It has been a great success, with all tables full on many nights of the week. In a business that is notoriously tough, they have been a rousing success. Which goes to show that good food, beautiful surroundings and hard work are still appreciated in this day and age. We have been anxious to visit ever since it opened and this week on our way over to the Central Coast, we finally had our chance. I wrote Dana ahead of time to let her know we were coming, and would be meeting Bob, and his wife Linda, for dinner. We are simple people, but we do have a few requirements for any restaurant so I wanted her to be prepared. They were little things like:

We can only eat salmon that has been caught on a Thursday, preferably by a native Eskimo.
Salad greens need to come from California (of course) but need to have been carefully picked by a Swedish woman who uses Dial anti-bacterial soap.
Our wine should come from Chile, with grapes grown on a south-facing slope, and from a vintner who also weaves his own serape (I like to incorporate my love of needlework whenever I can)
For dessert, we LOVE chocolate but only if it’s been flown in that day from Belgium.

Oh…and we needed a separate chair for Dash the Wonder Dog, who loves to sit at the table and pretend he’s “in” on the conversation. Dana didn’t blink an eye. I think she already considers me “her crazy aunt”.

At last the evening arrived! We were amazed at how beautifully they have completely transformed the space. It is warm and inviting with a contemporary flair. But the main attraction was the food. We didn’t eat all day in anticipation but I think we didn’t start early enough – we should have starved for a week. Dana thought we should begin with some wine. I’ve always thought she was a very smart girl. Next, she brought out a plate of bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with ricotta, mascarpone and a blueberry reduction. That “light” little starter was followed by Portobello mushroom fries with a fabulous sauce that should be named “Straight from Heaven”.

Me – with Bob – who thinks he can turn water into wine.

Then we had more wine, followed by entrees that were all varied and all mouth-watering delicious – pastas, lasagna, halibut – each dish looked better than the last. And then as if we were in need of more food, Dana emerged from the kitchen with tiramisu and her special dessert creation of the evening, a chocolate cookie filled with marzipan cheese and then smothered in a chocolate ganache. I forget what she was calling it but I think it was “Watch Aunt Sue gain 10 pounds”. I wanted to lick the plate but some deep-seated shred of dignity kept me from making a complete fool of myself. Although in retrospect I’m thinking it would have tasted awfully good and besides, I’m never going to see those other customers again. Next time I won’t be so constrained.

As I sat back in my food stupor I watched as Dana and Joe bustled about, making sure every dish coming out of the kitchen was perfect and each customer was happy. The evening really was magical, not only because of the food and drink, but because it is really wonderful to see two young people, working hard, and realizing a dream. You can’t buy the look of satisfaction and happiness that is evident on both of their faces.

So if you happen to find yourself in the cute little town of Monrovia, be sure to stop by the Bella Sera Trattoria. You will be treated to delicious food, great service and a fun atmosphere. Just don’t blame me if your pants won’t button up the next morning.

Posted in opinion • travel

The Freaks at Venice Beach

September 1, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:

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by Bob Sparrow

Venice Beach circa 1905

On July 4, 1905 tobacco mogul, Abbot Kinney dug some canals, opened a few shops and launched ‘Venice of America’ next to Santa Monica Beach, hoping to ‘recreate’ Venice, Italy and attract lovers of art, music and culture – it did not. Being the ever-astute businessman, he quickly scraped the idea of bringing the Renaissance to America and instead brought in exhibits, amusements and freak shows that attracted young counterculture artists, poets, and writers. I don’t know about artists and poets, but I’m here to tell you that the freaks have definitely survived – I was one of them last week, when I made my first visit to Venice Beach. With summer drawing to and end, the usually packed boardwalk had thinned out, the freaks were fewer in numbers, but no less freaky and it seems that even some of the homeless people had gone home. What I noticed was a lot of older guys walking around taking pictures – I guess we were the freaks.

“Stop, no wimps allowed on Muscle Beach!”

In the heart of the Venice Beach boardwalk is ‘Muscle Beach’, where guys can workout in the open air on the sand. I thought it would be fun to drop in and do a workout, pump some iron, maybe throw in a clean and jerk. I was stopped at the entrance and told that I would give ‘Muscle Beach’ a bad name if I took off my shirt, and was admonished that if I tried to enter the workout area, a ‘jerk’ would certainly be part of my future.

“Most of your future is ahead of you”

Curious about what my real future looked like, I moved on to a nearby Psychic Fortune Teller. I knocked on the door to the psychic’s office or séance room or whatever it was, and a pregnant young lady, with a cell phone to her ear, appeared. She whispered that she was on the phone with the water company, who was threatening to turn off her water, and asked me to sit down. As I sat there for about 10-15 minutes I got to thinking, didn’t she know I was coming, and, do you really have to be a fortune teller to know that if you don’t pay your bill, they’re going to shut off your water.? I may be parsing words here, but isn’t it an oxymoron to have a pregnant psychic woman ‘expecting’ – shouldn’t she ‘know’?

Chinese Fortune Cookie

With some trepidation I paid to have both palms and my face read. She examined my palms and told me, I was married and had 2 to 4 children. I think my wedding ring gave her a clue to my marital status and I’m guessing 80% of married people my age have between 2-4 children. I wanted to play along to see what other amazing revelations she had in store for me, so I said, “That’s unbelievable!” She smiled knowingly and droned on for about ten minutes, giving me such gems as, “You’ve had some conflicts in the past”, “You’d rather give orders than take them”, “You will travel somewhere” and other phrases she had memorized from Chinese fortune cookies. The only thing I really remembered hearing was “You’re going to make a lot of money next year” – I think that one was accurately divined. After rattling off hackneyed phrase after phrase, she suddenly stopped, got up and walked out of the room. It was like the meter had run out and my time was up, or she suddenly looked into her own future and saw the guy from the water company at the side of her house preparing to turn off her water. I left and walked down the boardwalk with a little more spring in my step, comforted by the thought that I was going to make a lot of money next year.

There’s canals here???

I asked about 10 or 12 people on the boardwalk where the canals were, and mostly I heard, “There are canals here?” I started to explain the Venice connection, but no one seemed really interested. I finally found the canals inland about two blocks off the beach. There are only six canals left, there were about twice that many originally, and they are only deep enough to accommodate very small boats and kayaks, but the homes around them were small, but quite nice.

If Abbot Kinney were alive today, he might be a bit disappointed that poetry and art are found on tee shirts, the music comes from homeless street musicians and the culture does not evoke the Renaissance, but the business man in him would probably appreciate the fact that millions still comes to see the freak shows every year.

A Renaissance Man?

One jar for tips, the other for his 401(k)

Posted in opinion

ANTICIPATORY BIRTHDAYS

August 25, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:3 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Great combo – Medicare and Cake!

Three weeks ago I celebrated what might be my last “anticipatory” birthday – I turned 64. These “anticipatory” birthdays are something that I completely fabricated (like a lot of other things I write about) to recognize that some years, all we really want to do is get to the next birthday. For me, since my health insurance is being cancelled as of December 31, I am waiting in breathless anticipation to turn 65 and be eligible for Medicare. Hopefully “breathless” is a slight exaggeration since I would prefer to be breathing when I turn into an official Senior Citizen.

But this birthday got me to thinking about other “anticipatory” birthdays I’ve had. The first was when I turned 12 and couldn’t wait to be 13 – an official teen-ager. I imagined all sorts of wonderful things would happen once I was finally in my teens. Alas, all I got was a few pimples and wild hormonal shifts. After that, I focused all of my attention to turning 16, when I could finally get my driver’s license. Every teen-ager dreams of that day when the world opens up and you can cruise Main Street unsupervised. I spent my entire 15th year counting down the days to 16. I took all of the requisite driver’s ed classes and then suddenly lost my desire to drive. As I look back on it, I think I may have been unduly influenced by the teacher screaming in my ear and his constant pumping the imaginary brakes on his side of the car. Or maybe, it was because

A 1962 Fiat – the size of a shoe

the car that I would have been driving was my mother’s 1962 Fiat.It was a strange, VERY small car, something akin to today’s Smart Car,only without any safety features whatsoever. It also had something called “compound low”. I was never sure what that meant other than anytime we needed to go up a slope greater than 3 degrees, my mother had to shift it into that gear. So I actually waited until I was 17 to get my license, when my mother had upgraded to a 1967 Chevy, approximately the size of the Queen Mary.

The next great expectation was turning 20 – only twelve more months until I could drink! Legally. Actually, I didn’t have to wait a full year since my boyfriend at the time (well over 21) decided to “doctor” my driver’s license by scraping off the left-hand circles of the “8” , thus turning it into a rather lopsided “3”. So all that spring and summer I flashed my license at every bartender and was served without so much as a farethewell. I don’t think any of them were fooled by the amateurish editing on my license but drinking laws were not quite as strict then and I looked like I was good for the $1 beer tab. Only I didn’t drink beer. I decided it was ever so sophisticated to drink Gimlets. I don’t know how or why I got that into my head – I probably had watched some old “Thin Man” movie and saw Myrna Loy drinking them.

A Gimlet – a surefire hangover

And then since age 21 there’s been a dearth of “anticipatory” birthdays. Sure, I’ve had parties to celebrate the beginnings of new decades, but other than having to start my age with a new number, they were all rather meaningless. So I was convinced this was going to be my big year until I remembered that I’m not eligible for Social Security until I turn 66. So I actually have ONE MORE big “anticipatory” birthday after this! I also learned this week that some people have additional anticipatory birthdays beyond Social Security. Jimmy Fallon noted last week that Bill Clinton turned 68 or as Fallon “quoted” him – one more year until the “fun” one!

In any event, I will celebrate the coming year in style. I will collect the deluge of supplemental medicare flyers that will come my way. I will set up an Excel spreadsheet and compare each one and get my paperwork in three months early. I will schedule an appointment for a physical and hope that I need some test that is horribly expensive, where I can just flash my Medicare card and have it all paid for by someone other than me. I will, at last, be a “taker” rather than a “giver”.

Posted in travel

My Assault on the Old Western White House

August 18, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:10 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

It was hard to avoid the stories on the news these past few weeks about the 40^th anniversary of the resignation of Richard Nixon, a seminal moment in presidential history. It was August 9, 1974 and I can still see him on that fateful day, climbing the stairs to the helicopter that was waiting for him on the White House lawn, reaching the door, turning to those standing by and flashing that goofy, sweat-on-the-upper-lip smile, arms out-stretched and hands in his signature ‘victory’ sign. I’m unclear about exactly what victory he thought he was celebrating, but I’m fairly certain once he got into the chopper, Pat Nixon said something like, “Wipe that stupid grin off your face Dick, you just lost your frickin’ job!”

Nixon looking for change

The helicopter took him to Air Force One, which flew him to Camp Pendleton Marine Corp Base, where be boarded another helicopter that whisked him to the Western White House just up the road in San Clemente. I guess officially it was no longer the Western White House, since by the time he got there he was no longer president. It is said that Nixon spent the next several years looking for loose change as he walked along the beach in his suit and tie.

Nixon bought (using a political supporter to finance the deal) 26 acres on the ocean at Cotton’s Point in 1969 for $1.5 million; then sold all but 5.9 acres, which was where the main house was and lived there until 1980. I lived and sold real estate in San Clemente while Nixon was living there, so I was very familiar with the estate at Cotton’s Point, but of course, we ‘commoners’ weren’t allowed anywhere near the property unless we could tell his Secret Service Agents the secret password. I was to learn years later that it was, “I’m not a crook”, said with a goofy smile, flapping jowls and a ‘victory sign’.

In light of this anniversary, I thought it might be interesting to visit this historic place and see if I could now get a peek at what Nixon called, ‘La Casa Pacifica’. It was not interesting . . . it was humiliating.

My welcome at the Cypress Shores guard house

I first tried the direct approach to getting close to the old Nixon compound by driving up to the first of two gated guard stations at Cypress Shores and begged to be let in. I was summarily turned away. I then drove to the nearest public entrance to the beach and, channeling Nixon, donned a coat and tie and walked about a mile and a half on the beach to get in front of his former house, then searched for a ‘bird’s eye view’ vantage point. While walking along the beach I noticed two things, 1) people look oddly at someone in a suit and tie on the beach, and 2) there are still plenty of teenage girls laying out trying to get a tan, which bodes well for the future employment of skin doctors.

Drone made to look like a seagull

Channeling Richard Nixon

A supposed ‘fishing troller’!

In my Nixon disguise I was able to get to the fence line of the property without raising too much suspicion, and there, snap a few pictures, but the ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’ signs and barbwire fence impeded any further progress. I looked around for a breach in the fence line and noticed a fishing troller about 200 yards off shore and then realized that it wasn’t a fishing troller at all, but rather a Secret Service command station keeping a close watch on the shoreline for people just like me. Overhead I noticed what was ostensibly a flock of seagulls, but I quickly detected that the seagull in the middle was humming – no question in my mind it was a spy drone made to look like a seagull.

Not a Navy Seal

I’m sooo close!

Undaunted, I retreated back to a staging area where I stripped down and decided a beachfront assault from the ocean was my best opportunity to get a closer look at the former residence. Upon entering the water I realized that there had just been a great white shark citing two days earlier. In my head I heard ‘Jaws’ music and made a quick exit.

Just as I got dressed and was formulating my next plan of attack, a young female security officer came up to me with her Taser gun at the ready and personally escorted me off the beach. I told her I wasn’t a crook, but she said she’d heard that one before.

My escorted exit

As I walked away I realized that my day ended in failure, much like Nixon’s presidency. The security guard was watching me as I left the beach to make sure I got in my car and left the premises. Feeling a little sweat on my upper lip, I turned and gave her the ‘Nixon victory sign’; I thought I saw her smile as she raised the Taser gun and motioned me to get in the car.

Posted in opinion

A POX UPON OUR HOUSE

August 11, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Gracie Gold…practicing her spins.

Let’s see…where were we before my brother went off into the wilds of Montana, losing both his wi-fi and his dignity as he chased after Sandra Bullock? Oh yes, my husband and I were just starting a wonderful two month vacation in Sun Valley, Idaho. We were enjoying the hikes, golf and watching the Olympic skaters who perform there every Saturday night. We were ignoring the obnoxious people who frequent the town this time of year. We had BIG plans for the summer. And then something went terribly wrong. It started out innocently enough. My husband discovered a small, red spot on his forehead. Now, let me just say right here that men react differently to illness than women. When women get a cold they still have to go to work, cook dinner, take the kids to school, and generally run the household. When men get the sniffles they take to their beds as if galloping pneumonia was going to carry them of to their great reward at any moment. Okay, that’s a generalization. But I’ve found in talking with my girlfriends that it’s got enough basis in fact that I think we can rely on it as “conventional wisdom”. So I brushed off his complaints as being a bit overly dramatic.

Frankly, I was certain that it was a bug bite. After all, we were in the mountains. Plus, the wonder dog (who sleeps on our heads) had been running around in the bushes. The second day, when the spot seemed a bit larger, he was worrying in the mirror over it, and asked me to look at it with the flashlight to see if I could see anything. I did. I saw a red spot. On the third day, when two other spots appeared nearby, I told him to take a Benadryl and slap a little Calamine lotion on it. But the next morning, he insisted on seeing a doctor, convinced he had the Ebola virus, or something close to it. So off we trudged to the local clinic. Usually when he is ill I go in to the exam room with him, figuring that two sets of ears are better than one. This time, however, I let him go in alone, convinced he would come out chagrined about a bug bite diagnosis. Besides, I was in the middle of a really good book. So I stayed in the waiting room. He came out ten minutes later, looking a bit shell-shocked. He began to walk over to me, shaking his head. This was not a good sign. When he reached me he just said one word: “Shingles”.

We are of an age where several of our friends have had shingles and none of them have one good word to say about it. We both envisioned large welts and agonizing pain. Armed with an antiviral prescription, we went to the local pharmacy, where, as luck would have it, the pharmacist told us she had shingles just last year. Great – an expert! She assured us that the medicine would reduce the length and severity of the shingles. I mentioned that I had been tested a couple of years ago and turns out I never had chicken pox, from whence the shingles virus originates. I caught just the slightest rise of her eyebrow, but then she told us that it is actually pretty hard to transfer the virus. Luckily, his shingles were a mild case, he never had any pain, and was back hitting golf balls within the week.

Us…under quarantine

However, contrary to our “expert” pharmacist’s opinion, apparently it actually isn’t that hard to transfer the virus. Sure enough, two weeks later I started getting chills and fever. After four days, spots began to appear on my body. I’m no genius but even I could figure out that I was coming down with “the pox”. So back we went to the clinic. Chicken pox for children means a week out of school and your mom bringing you endless bowls of ice cream and Jello. For an adult, however, it is quite a different matter. The doctor told us that the particular type of pneumonia that is caused by adult chicken pox can come on suddenly and lead to death if not attended to right away. He said in a week either the medication would do its job or I would be in the hospital. Alrighty then…that got our attention.

So…we made the decision to leave Sun Valley the next day and drive back to Scottsdale. I figured if I was going to get really sick, it was going to be in my own bed with my own doctor nearby. My dear husband earned a lifetime of brownie points by completely packing up our belongings, shipping most of it back to our house via UPS, and then loading up the car. I think this means I can never say anything bad about him again. At least for a while. We took off, spending the night in Ely, Nevada again (see blog of July 7) where, contrary to common sense and a need for rest, I laid awake all night worrying that my fever would spike in Ely and I would never see real civilization again. Luckily, however, we made it home where I saw my own doctor and am now practically recovered.

As for our summer – well, it hasn’t exactly gone as planned. But isn’t that just the way life is? We are loving being back in our own home, I am strategizing a re-decoration of the family room, and we are planning for our trip to California in September. So it’s all turned out okay. But I’m not sure we’ll be going back to Sun Valley any time soon – the “bug bites” up there really suck.