Turkeys, Indians and the ‘4 Fs’

by Bob Sparrow

2 turkeys

Tom & Giblets

As followers of the blog know, Suzanne and I alternate writing each week, and for the previous two years, Thanksgiving has fallen on her week, which is a good thing, because she’s so good at writing appropriate holiday blogs.  I, on the other hand, tend to see things through lenses that are just a little warped. So rather than focusing on the ‘Three Fs’ – Family, Food and Football, like I should be, I’m wondering about things like if the turkeys really know how much their lives are in jeopardy this time of year.  I know turkeys aren’t real deep thinkers, after all they’re the birds that go outside during a rainstorm, look up, open their mouths and drown, and though they won’t be invited to a Mensa meetings anytime soon, even they must wonder why they’re being fattened up this time of year and why their friends keep disappearing. “Say, whatever happened to that nice couple, Tom & Giblets?”

I’ve also been thinking about the first Thanksgiving. It was in 1621 (No, I wasn’t in attendance). Due to a record harvest, the pilgrims invited the local Indians for a feast. The pilgrims were waiting for a reciprocal invitation the following year, but none was forthcoming. Why? We’re not exactly sure, but if we examine the recorded description of that first repast we can find some clues as to why the Indians were not that excited about inviting the pilgrims back to their place for dinner.

1st T

“No, you can’t sit at the table, but you can have seconds on the pie.”

First, the Pilgrims and the Indians didn’t speak the same language, so there wasn’t much ‘small talk’ going on between them at the dinner table, like, “Don’t you think the goat tastes a little gamey?” or “Have you started your Christmas shopping yet?” Secondly, the Indians were in the habit of bathing regularly; conversely the English pilgrims took a bath once a month whether they needed one or not. So no matter how good the roasted wart hog might have smelled, the odor from the pilgrims hung over the festivities.  A third factor may have been that the first invitation probably didn’t indicate a dress code; the English pilgrims, who were accustomed to dressing formally for dinner,most likely wore hats, waist coats, ruffle ties and buckle shoes and were probably aghast when their native American guests arrived barefoot and in loin cloths.

$24

“I think I’m getting screwed here, but we’ll give you all these beads for Manhattan.”

Whatever the reason for the hiatus between feasts, it is assumed that during that first dinner there was some conversation amongst each group separately regarding the disposition of Manhattan, as the famous sale of that island took place just five years after that first Thanksgiving. I can see the pilgrims huddling together over by the pie tray, trying to see if they could gather enough beads and trinkets to equal $24, which is what they wanted to offer to purchase Manhattan. On the other side of the table, the Indians were having a very different conversation that may have ended with something like, “White man is trying to ply us with ‘fire water’ so they can take advantage of us, but I don’t think we even own Manhattan, so if they’re willing to give us $24 for it, I say we take it and run.”

I have some other random Thanksgiving thoughts, but with six in-law houseguests coming in this week, perhaps I better focus on the ‘Three Fs’, make that the ‘Four Fs’, I’m adding Firewater.

Hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, filled with all the ‘Fs’ you can stand.

 

GRATITUDE

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

GratitudeIt’s getting to be that time of year … when we blow right past Thanksgiving and start hanging the Christmas or Hanukkah lights. Traditionally, of course, before Target and Walmart took over the holidays, Fall was a time for people to take stock of their lives and give thanks for their blessings.  A friend recently told me about a holiday tradition that I thought it was quite ingenious:  at every holiday dinner each person must say what they are grateful for, using the first letter to spell out the holiday.  So in other words, their dinner gets a lot colder at Thanksgiving than Easter.  I never was a faithful viewer of the “Oprah” show but watched it enough to know that she encourages people to keep a daily journal listing everything that they are grateful for that day. Heck, I can’t do anything every day except brush my teeth and eat, so keeping a Grateful Diary is out of the question.  The concept, however, is intriguing. So this week I decided to combine the two ideas and in that spirit create a GRATITUDE list for the season.

 

G – Girlfriends.  Where would I be without them?  Together we laugh, we cry, we hack our way around a golf course, and we create.  They are, in short, my sanity.

R – Relatives.  I have a wonderful family and I know I’m very lucky that we like and love each other.  NOT ONCE  have  we had to have police intervention at a family gathering.

One of my more subdued friends

One of my more subdued girlfriends

A – Alan, my husband.  He gets me through good times and bad … and loves me even when I don’t have any make-up on.

T – Tea.  Sometimes there is just nothing like a good “cuppa” to get me through the day.  And since I discovered FOAM at Whole Foods, it’s even better with that piled on top.

I – Inspiration.  I am surrounded by very imaginative women who are artistic and talented in ways I never will be.  But they inspire me to improve whatever I am doing.

T – Time.  Somehow it seems I never have enough of it.  How did I ever work? Now I love it when an appointment gets cancelled.  There is nothing like the gift of TIME !

U – Unburdened.  As I’ve gotten older I no longer feel like I “have” to do stuff.  I now say “no” when I feel like it.  This is probably why older people are deemed “cranky”.

D – Dash the Wonder Dog.  Duh.

Dash, The Wonder Dog

Dash, The Wonder Dog

E – Elusiveness.  I am a literal thinker (I’ve taken the test on Facebook to confirm this) but I love that big parts of my life are elusive.  When you think you no longer need to try new things – and fail – life becomes too predictable.  It’s always good to have something beyond your grasp – like losing 10 pounds.

That’s my list for this year.  Next year it could be something entirely different although I suspect that, with good behavior,  Alan and Dash will be on it. Although Dash really is the only “shoe-in”.    As word games go, I thought this was a good exercise to go through.  I may even try the holiday version for Thanksgiving (family members, be warned!).  I still don’t think I’ll ever be disciplined enough to do a daily Gratitude Diary, but it sure feels good to stop once in a while to take stock in all of the things, and especially the friends, that make life good.

Wishing you and yours a very Happy Thanksgiving.  As for me?  I’m off to think of a word that starts with “T”.

Riley to the Rescue

by Bob Sparrow

Puppy

Riley as a puppy

Here it is, that shoulder season between the end of summer and the start of the holidays. It’s actually the best time to travel, weather is still good and kids are back in schools so the crowds are down. But as I sit here on a beautiful Southern California day, I have no immediate travel plans. I stare out the window, and then I stare at my dog, Riley, wondering what to write. I say to her, “I really haven’t been anywhere of interest lately, so what do I write about?” She tilts her head and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell are you asking me for, and by the way, isn’t it time to feed me?” Oh yes, I have a dog, not as famous as my sister’s ‘wonder dog’ Dash, but ‘my best friend’ nonetheless. In fact, the comparisons to Dash are . . . non- existent, the contrasts however are abundant. To wit:

Girls & Dogs

Daughters Steph and Dana (aka Riley) holding dogs (Riley is on the far right)

Dash is a purebred, purchased from a registered breeder; Riley is a mutt, a mixture of a Maltese and Shih Tzu, or for short, a ‘Multi-Shit’ – which she does, wherever and whenever she wants! She was purchased from somebody selling dogs in their front yard. Dash’s name come from royalty, the name of Queen Victoria’s dog; Riley’s name comes from the fake name that our daughter, Dana gave when she was single, to guys she didn’t want to hear from again. Dash has never barked; Riley barks at every moving thing – which is why we don’t feel the need for an alarm system. When presented with a paper plate of food, Dash would elegantly partake, often leaving some, just to be polite; Riley would wolf down the food and start chewing up the plate while looking around for more.  Dash is trim, in shape with a shiny coat; Riley is over-weight and proud of it and usually needs a bath. With Suzanne and Al both retired, Dash is doted on; with Linda and my working and traveling schedule, Riley probably has some separation issues.   Dash has perfect teeth; Riley has a missing front tooth in her massive under bite. Dash is in management; Riley takes a lunch pail to work.

Riley

Lunch-mouth Riley today

They say when dogs are looking into your eyes that they are really hugging you – when Riley looks in my eyes it’s usually because I’m late feeding her. Dash is Suzanne and Al’s first dog; Riley is our last. I’ve always had a dog from the time I was a kid. ‘Boots’ was my first dog, I taught him how to climb a tree with me, then there was ‘Rags’ then ‘Smokey’, who wandered on to the school grounds when I was teaching and was never claimed by anyone, so I took him home. I even had a dog when I was in the Navy stationed in Japan named ‘Xoon’, I think he only spoke Japanese. We’ve been a two-dog family for the past 25-30 years; Igit, Shasta, Kola, Pepsi, Simba and Riley. Simba passed away earlier this year and Riley seemed to have mixed emotions; she surely missed her sister, but also probably thought, ‘Hey, more food for me’.   When we buried Simba in the back yard, with the rest of our dogs, we decided that we wouldn’t get another one, that our travel schedule is such that it wouldn’t be fair to another dog, and maybe we just didn’t want any of our dogs outliving us!

OK, Riley, you helped me write the blog this week, thank you! I guess I’ll have to give you a treat. She gave me that look like, “Yeah, sure, whatever, now where’s the treat?”

 

 

WE DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ DAYLIGHT SAVINGS

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Ben...contemplating DST

Ben…contemplating DST

So, you’re feeling a bit more chipper this morning, aren’t you?  Unless, of course, you live in Arizona or Hawaii.  Because, once again, the bi-annual changing of the time occurred over the weekend and the ensuing arguments about it have begun.  Every year “experts” debate whether we even need Daylight Savings Time anymore and this year as I read one of the arguments against it, I became curious about whose bright idea it was to begin with.  Of course, living in Arizona, it’s all theoretical to me since we don’t change time.  But more on that later.  As it turns out, the first person to propose the “saving of time” was Ben Franklin, who up until this point I thought of as the inventor of electricity and the $100 bill.  Turns out that in 1784 Ben wrote a rather humorous piece while living in Paris as an American delegate to France, proposing various ways to save daylight during the summer months.  No one took his suggestions seriously, partly because at this point in his career he was well-known for being something of a sot and was suspected of seeking ways to have more daylight in which to navigate the streets in search of liquid refreshment.  So while his proposal was met with some amusement and limited interest, it went nowhere.  It took until the Twentieth Century for the idea of “saving time” to come to fruition.

 

The concept of Daylight Savings Time came into its own during World War I.  At that time, in an effort to conserve fuel needed to produce electric power, Germany and Austria began saving daylight on April 30, 1916, by advancing the hands of the clock one hour until the following October. Other, but not all, European countries immediately adopted this action.  The U.S., however, did not join in on the idea until 1918.  So, as hard as it is to figure out the time differences today with the help of  technology, can you imagine the difficulties 100 years ago?  Good thing the telephone was not in wide use at the time or people would be awakened at odd hours all over the world.  All that aside, after the War ended, the law proved so unpopular (mostly because people rose earlier and went to bed earlier than people do today) that it was repealed in 1919.  However, Daylight Saving Time became a local option, and was continued in a few states, such as Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and in some cities, such as New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago. So figuring out what time to call your Aunt Martha became a matter of figuring out what state or city she lived in (and hoping she didn’t move around too much).  Then in response to WWII, President Franklin Roosevelt reversed the 1919 law and instituted year-round Daylight Saving Time, called “War Time,” from February 9, 1942 to September 30, 1945.  When the law sunsetted (excuse the pun) at the end of 1945 there was no federal law regarding Daylight Saving Time.  So again, there was mass confusion as states and localities were free to choose whether or not to observe Daylight Saving Time and could choose when it began and ended. This understandably caused confusion, especially for the broadcasting industry, as well as for railways, airlines, and bus companies.  And, not meaning to be too repetitive, it became even more confusing to determine what time to call Aunt Martha.

No one knew what time in was for several decades in the U.S.

No one knew what time in was for several decades in the U.S.

In the early 1960s, observance of Daylight Saving Time was quite inconsistent, with a hodgepodge of time observances, and no agreement about when to change clocks. The Interstate Commerce Commission, the nation’s timekeeper, was immobilized, and the matter remained deadlocked. Many business interests were supportive of standardization, although it became a bitter fight between the indoor and outdoor theater industries, and all farmers were opposed to such uniformity. State and local governments were a mixed bag, depending on local conditions. Perhaps the most telling example of this confusion was on the 35-mile stretch of highway (Route 2) between Moundsville, W.V., and Steubenville, Ohio, where every bus driver and his passengers had to endure seven time changes! To prove my point about when to call Aunt Martha, the ICC interviewed telephone operators from all parts of the country who confirmed that people were perpetually flummoxed as to what time it was in the city they were calling.  Finally, in 1966, Congress stepped in to end the confusion (remember when Congress actually did something?).  The Uniform Time Act of 1966 established a uniform Daylight Saving Time throughout the U.S. and its possessions, exempting only those states in which the legislatures voted to keep the entire state on standard time.  Arizona and Hawaii were the only two states that elected to remain on Standard Time.  Arizona has such intense heat in summer daylight hours that it wasn’t considered a benefit for its residents to have even more sun.  As I can personally attest, this is one time the legislature got it right.  Arizona in July is like living on the face of the sun.  One more hour of it each and every and I’m certain the suicide rate would skyrocket.  As for Hawaii, its location closer to the equator gives them more consistent days year round. They wouldn’t be gaining, or losing, many daylight hours by observing the clock change.

There have been several small changes to the Uniform Time Act over the years, most notably in 2007 when the dates were changed to extend DST from the second Sunday in March to the first Sunday in November.  Which is why, getting back to my opening line, you may be feeling a bit more chipper this morning, having gained back the hour you lost last Spring.  As for those of us who have stayed on Standard Time, we now have to go adjust our atomic clocks (that automatically assume we live in a DST zone), the clock in the car, and the cell phone.  Seems not every technology has kept up with the times – or the zones.

 

The Queen Mary – Luxury Liner, Troop Carrier . . . and Haunted

by Bob Sparrow

G&L2     In an effort to get our readers and myself into the ‘spirit’ of Halloween this week, I visited, what has been billed as, ‘one of the most haunted places in the world’ – the Queen Mary. Not the actual queen, although by the looks of her picture in the grand foyer, she could have haunted a house, but I’m speaking of the ship the RMS Queen Mary, now docked in the port of Long Beach. Two ‘Haunted Tours’ were offered, I took both of them, but first a little history of this grand ship (Don’t worry, I’ll make this the Reader’s Digest version).

      Commissioned in 1936 as a luxury liner, she was soon put to work as a troop carrier when World War II broke out. In fact, she still holds the record for the most people (troops) transported across the Atlantic in a single voyage – 16,683! She was painted gray to help avoid detection and was ironically called the ‘Gray Ghost’, long before any ghost stories about her emerged. Hitler actually had a bounty on her, offering over $2 million to any U-boat captain that could sink her. There were two reasons the mustachioed maniac never had to pay up, 1) the Queen Mary was actually quite fast and could outrun a German submarine, and 2) the code breaker, Enigma, helped identify the location of German U-boats.

qm troop carrier

Troop carrier

      After the war she went back to being a luxury liner and for a mere $1,400 you could cross the Atlantic on her. Doesn’t sound like much now, but the average income in the U.S. in the late 40s was right around $2,000 . . . a year! Which is why the ship’s manifest included such names as, Bob Hope, Fred Astaire, Greta Garbo, Bing Crosby, Clark Gable and Elizabeth Taylor.

      OK, let’s get to the spooky part. The first tour I took was called ‘Ghosts & Legends’ and was much like Disney’s ‘Haunted Mansion’; it was a walking tour that took a group of about 12 of us into the bowels of the ship, down narrow stairs and dark passageways with special effects along the way. We stopped at one of the two indoor pools where we could hear people splashing and playing – real water drops hit our face, despite the fact that the pool has been empty for decades. We continued further down in an elevator, but when we exited, the doors jammed behind us and we had no way to get back up. Just then, leaks began to appear in the ships ironclad walls and water came pouring in – we seemed doomed, but we escaped just in time as our guide lead us to a secret passageway to safety. This tour is definitely not for those afraid of the dark or the claustrophobic.

b340

Room B340

      The second tour I took was called ‘Haunted Encounters’, where a guide took us throughout the ship and related real ghost stories evoking such characters as the last captain of the ship, a ‘lady in white’, a young girl who still swims in the pool, a crew member who was crushed to death in the engine room by the closing of ‘Door 13’, as well as other various ‘shadow people’ and balls of light. One of the most intriguing stories was about Room B340, where a man was purportedly murdered, faucets turn on by themselves and bed sheets fly across the room. The room has provided so many paranormal experiences that it is no longer rented out, in fact, as the picture I took when in the room shows, it is completely bare of furniture.

      The tour ended with our guide telling us of several ‘ghost stories’ that he     experienced personally including seeing wet footprints by the pool that’s been dry for decades. I couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or he had to make up those stories so he could keep his job. Either way, the stories were very entertaining. The tour ended and we were left to wander the ship on our own to see if we could have any encounters of third kind.

foyer

Grand Foyer

      As I walked through the Grand Foyer and poked my head into the Grand Ballroom to get a peek, I was struck by how truly grand this ship is, even today. The art deco décor was so 40s that it seemed ‘in’ today. It truly must have been magnificent in its day.  My visit to the Queen Mary was complete, including a honest-to-goodness paranormal experience . . . or was it just a coincidental iPhone malfunction?

     Oh, the paranormal experience? I swear this is true; back when I was visiting room B340 I waited until everyone had cleared out of the room so I could take a picture of it with my phone. I took the shot you see here and then my phone vibrated and showed the ‘Ringer Silent’ and the symbol of the bell with a line through it (putting my phone on vibrate), then it vibrated again and the symbol ‘Ringer’ and the bell with no line through it; that happened three times in a row! Yes, vibrating frantically each time as it went on and off, and I never touched the vibrate on/off switch – honest!

 Have a Happy Halloween – may the ‘spirits’ be with you!

AN ODD PLACE FOR GOOD NEWS

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

How I started my morning

How I started my morning

I don’t know about you, but I’m finding it very hard to find any good news these days.  This morning our local paper was a virtual smorgasbord of bad tidings….ebola, ISIS, a volatile stock market…all things that are probably in your newspaper as well.  In addition to the scary national and world news, I also have to absorb all of the LOCAL bad news.  Today’s lowlights include stories about an 8-year-old found starving in a drug den, the shooting of a police officer and more layoffs at a major employer.  As if all that weren’t enough, my favorite ice cream parlor has closed!  Some days it’s just too much to handle.  I admit that I am a dinosaur when it comes to getting my news – I still like a newspaper.  I guess it comes from being the daughter of a newspaper publisher.  I suppose I could limit my reading to the more frivolous fare downloaded on my iPad so my day could start with TMZ reports or updates on Pinterest.  I would probably be a lot happier, albeit less informed.  But for now I’m sticking to the printed page and I have found a spot where I can consistently find good news:  the obituaries.

 

I need to state right off that there are definitely categories of obituaries that are NOT uplifting.  Any notice about children is tragic on the face of it and often brings a tear to my eye.  I also feel for the people who die “before their time”, although I guess if they’ve died it was their time.  My definition of dying too young has changed a bit over the years.  I used to think that anyone who died before age 60 was sad but not completely unexpected.  Now as I approach Senior Citizenship, I’ve decided that anyone who dies before they get to collect their Social Security checks has died too young.  After all, if you make contributions all of those years and never get to collect, then it really was a bad deal and you could have spent that money on wine, (wo)men and song.  Luckily, the vast majority of obituaries are written about people who are well past Social Security and most of them have lived pretty darn interesting lives.  In fact, rather than finding the obituaries depressing, I think of them as living history – reading about the people who were part of our community and how they fit into the fabric of our lives.

A typical obit picture of a man who died in his 80's

A typical obit picture of a man who died in his 80’s

I love the quarter-page obits, where you learn interesting tidbits such as where the deceased went to grammar school and what their favorite type of pie was.  But even the ordinary tributes often give a wonderful insight into a life well-led.  Today there was a notice about a woman who was described as outgoing, loved a good card game with her family, took part in an animal rescue organization and danced with a senior citizens group.  Makes me wish that I had known her.   I did read one recently that listed EVERY job the man held at an oil company over a thirty year career; that was a bit over the top even for me.  The best obituaries are generally written by children and include great tributes to the departed’s love of family, favorite jokes or legacy of examples set.  These days there are a dwindling number of obits about WWII veterans but being somewhat of a connoisseur of the well-written obit, I assure you that they are almost ALWAYS the most interesting.  Often they include the theaters of operations the person served in, the major battles, and oftentimes something about how fond the deceased was of his fellow “buddies”.  As if to prove just how important those years were, the photo accompanying the story is not of the person in old age, but as they looked during their time in service 60 years ago.  Of course, obituary pictures in general should never be relied on for accuracy since most people choose a photo that resembles them only on the most flattering day of their lives.  There was a decade or so where those old “glamour shots” were a popular obit choice and believe me, nothing looks more out-of-place than a story about an 89-year-old woman accompanied by a picture with the wind machine blowing so hard she looks like a dog with its head out the window.

Finally, there are the truly humorous final notices.  Generally these have been written by the deceased and serve to set a tone of how they wish to be remembered.  There was one circulating on Facebook this past summer about a ex-advertising man in Pennsylvania who wrote, “Kevin J. McGroarty, 53, of West Pittston, died Tuesday, July 22, 2014, after battling a long fight with mediocrity.”  He went on to explain about his mis-spent youth and exhorted his friends “don’t email me anymore, I’m dead”.  It was a fairly long piece and you get the feeling that Mr. McGroarty took great pleasure crafting it in his final days.  That’s a luxury, I suppose, that we all would like to have.

So as you read the paper or watch the news over the next few days and you begin to feel depressed, turn to the obituary page.  I promise you’ll find something to boost your spirits, inspire your day or, if you’re really lucky, make you laugh.

A Tahoe Tribute to Mom

by Bob Sparrow

two glasses

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

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 1939

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.

M&D

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.

 

 

MR. GOODELL: IT’S NOT THAT HARD

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

He must be rolling in his grave

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

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

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.

The 2nd Annual ‘Cheater’s Cup’

by Bob Sparrow

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

cheaters cup

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 19th hole, or I guess on this course it was the 13th 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.

BBonds

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’.

blower

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.

JSA

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”

CHICKENS IN ARROYO GRANDE?

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

AG...home of the chickens

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

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.

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?