From A Bird's Eye View

Posted in travel

The Tape Chapter 3 – A Visit with Chief Chuckwalla

May 5, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

(If you have not been following the story of ‘The Tape’ or need a refresher, you can read Chapters 1-2 by going into our archives and looking under ‘January 2014’.)

by Bob Sparrow

While at our timeshare at the Marriott Desert Springs a few weeks back, I decided to take advantage of being near the home of the Cahuilla Indian tribe and follow up on the information given to me by Matt at Chapman University and pay a visit to the tribe. I had contacted Chief Chuckwalla and made arrangements to meet him in a coffee shop in Palm Springs. With The Tape in my hand and Don in my head, I walked into the coffee shop looking for the Chief. I stood at the entrance surveying the small, sparsely populated room when a voice came from my left saying, “Are you looking for a guy in a headdress and war paint?”

Chief Chuckwalla

Embarrassed that I probably was, I turned to meet Chief Chuckwalla, who was wearing a plaid sports coat.

“Good morning, I’m Bob, we talked on the phone”

“Yes, I’m Chuck”

“Oh, so it’s Chief Walla, your first name is Chuck?

“No, my first name is Mark.”

“So it’s Mark Chuckwalla?”

“No, I just use Chuckwalla because it’s the last remaining Inviatim word left in the English language, so I’m holding on to it. You can call me Chief.”

“So are you the current chief of the Cahuilla tribe?”

“No”

I felt like I was part of the Abbott and Costello Who’s On First routine.

Nonplused, I decided I would try to impress the chief with the fact that I’d done my homework on his tribe, by using a Cahuilla greeting. I smiled and said, “Yee-Makh-weh”

He stared at me just long enough to make it uncomfortable and said, “I think you mean Mee-Yakh-weh, which is how the Inviatim Indian would greet a friend. You, on the other hand, just called me a grapefruit!”

“Sorry.” I guess I never was much good with homework.

I continued, “I notice you use the word Inviatim rather than Cahuilla when you talk about your tribe, why is that?

“Cahuilla is the name that the Spanish gave to our tribe; it would be like calling the Italians ‘Wops’ or the Puerto Ricans ‘Spicks’.

(Don echoed in my head: “How’s this going for you so far, you’ve screwed up his name and now you’ve insulted his entire tribe?”)

I doggedly pressed on, “I don’t know how much Matt told you, but I have a tape that a dear friend sent me years ago in a language or various languages that I’m trying to translate, Matt believed part of it was in the Cahuilla, er Ivia language.”

(Don: “I was wondering when you were going to bring me into the conversation, are you going to tell him that I’m dead?”)

Chief: “Matt has done much to help the Inviatim cause. What is this tape?”

The Tape

I held up it up and the chief stared at it

Chief: “Why did your friend send it to you?”

I told him I wasn’t sure.

Chief: “What does your friend say it says?”

(Don: “See I told you you should have told him I was dead!”)

“I actually got the tape in ’95 or ‘96, but when I asked him about it at the time and on several occasions after that, I couldn’t get a straight answer from him, so I just forgot about it. When he passed away a couple of years ago my curiosity was raised again.”

(Don: A couple of years ago, gosh, it just seems like yesterday – where does the time go?”)

The Chief and I sat down in a corner booth where it was relatively quiet and I pulled out my cassette player and popped in The Tape. We both fell silent as I watched the Chief listen. His expression changed from dutiful to curious to interested, to visibly shaken when he stopped the tape and stared at me trying to decide what to do next.

Finally he stood up from the table and said, “You need to see something.”

Entrance to ‘Sec-he’

I followed him outside and got into his dusty Jeep Wrangler and we headed for the nearby foothills. After a few miles we left the main road for a seldom-traveled dirt road which, after a few more miles, turned into no road at all, until we were deep in the Santa Rosa Mountains. After about twenty minutes, we came to a narrow opening which revealed a boarded up, washed out ranch-style dwelling tucked in the back of a canyon behind an outcropping of granite boulders. As we neared the structure, we passed under a weathered wooden archway entry gate with a name carved in it that was barely legible; as we passed under it I read it aloud: “Sec-he”.

I asked Chief what it meant.

“Sec-he is the name the Inviatim gave to this whole desert area, it means ‘boiling water’; when the Spanish took over they changed the name to ‘Agua Caliente’, meaning ‘hot water’. Then the white man came and decided that neither of those names would help them sell memberships to private golf clubs or luxury homes for celebrities, so they changed the name to Palm Springs”.

Chief drove under the archway and parked the car in the shade of a Palo Verde tree in front of the gray wooden structure. He slowly pushes open the front door that had neither locks nor hardware. The wooden floor creakes beneath our feet as I followed the chief to a small room off the main living area that had only a crude wooden desk and chair sitting on a dingy brown rug. Chief moves the desk and chair off the rug and slides the rug over several feet revealing a trap door. The hinges squeak as he slowly opened it. There is a narrow wooden staircase that leads into darkness. I notice for the first time, a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall next to the trap door, as the Chief pulls it down, lights it and heads down the stairs motioning me to follow.

To be continued

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – THE END

April 28, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Obviously they didn’t want to hear my insurance woes.

Our final day in Washington DC dawned bright and beautiful. We rose early, anticipating our 9:30 tour of the Supreme Court. As those of you who follow this blog know, I have lost my health insurance, so I viewed this as another opportunity to plead my case. After all, if the Highest Court in the Land won’t hear me out, who will? Unfortunately, those nice people who run the Metro apparently weren’t aware of my plight – or our schedule. There was a huge back-up that caused us to miss our tour. On the upside, we got to experience – and smell – the local Metro riders at very close range. Despite missing the formal tour, we were still able to view the inside of the building and see the Supreme Court chambers from the hallway. It is MUCH smaller that you might imagine. I mentioned this to my neighbor who has argued before the Justices and he agreed with me – he said he had been in small town courtrooms that were significantly larger than the Supreme Court. So just like the First Ladies’ ball gowns, things are not always the size you would imagine. As you can see from the picture (left) they apparently knew that I was coming ahead of time. Of particular interest to us was the exhibit that depicts Sandra Day O’Connor’s rise to the bench. Upon graduating from law school the only job she was offered was as a legal secretary! But she forged ahead and has been a great example of determination and fortitude. We visited the gift shop which sells all sorts of Supreme Court mementos, but somehow I thought it would be hard to take the Justices seriously after seeing them on shot glasses and bobble heads. We decided to bypass the tchotchkes and move on.

Me…being totally ignored by the Speaker of the House

Our next stop was an appointment with Shelley’s congressman, Ron Barber. Actually, our appointment wasn’t with him, but with staff that draws straws to see who has to lead the tours for constituents. We made our way into the bowels of his office building finding, once again, that the office of a Congressman is not as large as you might expect. Think of your dentist’s waiting room and you’re very close to the size of your elected official’s place of work. We had a wonderful tour of the Capital Building – the artwork and statues are truly breathtaking. The capital dome is currently under repair but even through the scaffolding we could see its beauty. As we entered the National Statutory Hall we passed by the Speaker’s Office. I wanted to poke my head in, certain that he, of all people, would be sympathetic to my loss of insurance. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there. Or so I was told. They never let me get close. But then, as if by miracle, as we were touring the Hall, we heard some rustling and sure enough, the Speaker was walking right by us to his office. I shot up to the front of the crowd, jumping up to get his attention. You can see his reaction in the picture (right). Harumpt! All I can say is, he’s just as orange in person as he is on T.V.

We moved on to the Senate Chamber, where we spent a long while, mainly because Abby loved being there and seeing all the goings-on. Which, frankly, wasn’t much because they were in recess. Senator Landrieu gave a speech with no one in attendance except the acting chairman. It’s rather odd to see a Senator give a speech to no one. Then again, the CSPAN cameras were on so for all I know people back in her state were listening with rapt attention. Several senators, including our own John McCain, walked through the chambers while we were observing so at least we knew he was working…or passing through on the way to the men’s room. We then progressed to the House Chamber where I was almost taken down by Security. We had been through security check lines every where we went in Washington but it would seem they are most sensitive when it comes to protecting members of Congress (which is a bit odd given their popularity level). In any event, one half of a foil from a stick of gum set off the alarms. Sheesh! Once in the famous chamber, we tried to imagine State of the Union addresses from the past and where everyone sits. As it happens, there was an active debate on the floor concerning the definition of full-time work. Having spent my career in Human Resources I wanted to chime in with my opinion but I got the distinct impression they were not taking comments from the gallery. Besides, I already knew the Security Guards on a first name basis. One more disruption from me and I would have been touring the Capital clinker.

A beautiful building, and the cafeteria serves a great chocolate chip cookie.

Our beautiful Capital, and the cafeteria serves a great chocolate chip cookie too.

Once our term on Capital Hill ended, we took a pedi-cab back to the Smithsonian American History Museum. Unfortunately, several busloads of intermediate school kids had been let off there to further their education. Here’s all I’ll say about that: if you are going to send your child on field trip to Washington, they should be going on tours, not goofing around with their friends as if they’re at the food court of the local mall. I think I’m getting old.

Finally, we ventured back to Bethesda and to Tommy Joe’s for dinner. It was our luck that it was Trivia Night. We named our team “Elementary, My Dear Watson” and took second place. It was delightful to play as a team; because we spanned so many decades between us, we got most of the answers right. We only lost because we didn’t quite understand the bonus point system, which Abby tried in vain to explain to us. We should have let the youngest of our group be in charge. Anyway, we won a $20 gift card for our efforts. And Watsons, being nothing if not thrifty, used it when we toured Bethesda the next day.

All in all, I have to say it was the trip of a lifetime. Even though I made no progress regarding my insurance. To spend five days with my niece was a gift – we have always enjoyed each other’s company so it was special to share this with her. And I have to say that if my two great-nieces are any indication of the future generation, we’re all in good hands. They “get” history and appreciate those who have gone before them. And for the 26 miles we walked in four days, they were extremely kind about “waiting up” for their Old Aunt Sue.

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – PART TWO

April 21, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Eleanor Roosevelt in 1933

When last I left you I was in Washington DC, exhausted, achy and feeling every day of my age. But sleep is a magical antidote and sure enough, the next morning I was raring to go. After another trip on the Metro (we had already learned how to shove ourselves into a crowded train car), we began our day at the Smithsonian Museum of American History. If left to my own devices, I would still be wandering around there. If you love history, The Smithsonian is nirvana. We toured it twice and STILL didn’t visit every exhibit. We loved the wing that displays various artifacts from the Presidents’ administrations but were particularly enthralled with the Inaugural Ball gowns of the First Ladies. Not only were they beautiful examples of couture fashion, but the exhibit gives you a different perspective on the size of the women who wore them. For example, I always thought of Eleanor Roosevelt as a rather large woman but her dress would indicate the opposite. So maybe it was just her height that made her seem big. Or it could be that since this was her first of FOUR Inaugural gowns, the talent of the White House pastry chef took its toll. I saw a picture of her 1945 gown and let’s just say that by then even a good pair of Spanx would not have helped her into the gown from 1933. And who among us can’t relate to that?

A fraction of the shoes in the display

Next we went to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. I have always had a special interest in WWII so I was anxious to see it. I was particularly heartened to see that Katie and Abby were very interested in learning more about it and absorbing all that they could. The building itself is a marvelous structure, four stories high, light in the center atrium but dark and somber on the perimeters. As you begin the journey through the museum with movies, pictures and artifacts from the early years of the war, the hallways are quite narrow and gives one a slight sensation of what it must have been like to be hoarded like cattle to an unknown destination – everyone pushing and jockeying for position. To compare one section or display of the museum as being the “most” anything – frightening, scary, sad, depressing – is futile. Each person needs to judge for him/herself what is the most meaningful. Personally, I found the exhibit of over 4,000 shoes on loan from the Auschwitz museum the most unforgettable. Shoes and other personal items were taken from the prisoners upon entry to Auschwitz and sorted for distribution to local citizens or shipment back to Germany. At the end of the war when the camp was liberated there were hundreds of thousands of shoes piled up. In 1945 when the great journalist Edward R. Murrow visited Auschwitz he saw the shoes and wrote the following: “One shoe, two shoes, a dozen shoes, yes. But how can you describe several thousand shoes?” The fact is, you can’t.

After the emotional experience of visiting the Holocaust Museum we were in need of fresh air and food. We found our way to the Shake Shack – one of the more delightful eating establishments I’ve frequented. As the name implies, there is ice cream involved here. LOTS of ice cream. We each had burgers and possibly the best french fries I’ve ever tasted and then moved in for the real deal…ice cream. How good was it? I could have taken a bath in it. I’m glad I don’t live in D.C. – I’d be a Shake Shack junkie. As it was, I needed to get on with the business of why I really came to Washington.

This is as close as they let me get

The fact is, I have had my medical insurance cancelled due to the ACA. All I did was raise my deductible way back in 2010 and – whammo! – they cancelled me this year. Lots of people In Washington had assured me that if I like my policy I could keep it, so I decided I’d go right to the horse’s …. mouth to get some answers. I started with the White House. We had requested a tour and I thought perhaps I could just ever so briefly pop into the Oval Office to see if the President would hear me out. Unfortunately, they told us that they weren’t giving tours that day. The picture (left) is as close as I got to the Oval Office. I was going to shout my questions across the lawn but there were some men on the business end of a some weaponry patrolling the perimeter. They looked like they had had a lot of experience with “kooks”. I decided to look elsewhere for answers, which brought us to the National Archives. Nothing like a little bolstering from the Founding Fathers. I’m not sure they ever had to deal with Blue Cross Blue Shield, but they seemed to be pretty far-sighted on a number of issues so I thought they might also have some insight on deductibles. Turns out, the line to see the Declaration of Independence, The Bill of Rights and the Constitution was the longest we waited in all week. After 45 minutes we finally were let into the rotunda where the three documents are displayed. It is somewhat surreal to see them in person, although “see” might be stretching it a bit For example, the Declaration of Independence was kept in a west-facing window for over 40 years and was thereafter subjected to flash photography until 2012. So unfortunately it is so faded that unless someone told you you were looking at the Declaration of Independence, you might think you’re looking at an estimate for getting your car repaired. Still, to see the founding documents is a real thrill and inspired me to continue on my quest.

Be sure you “subscribe” so you don’t miss out on next week’s thrilling conclusion.

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – PART ONE

April 14, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

The Watsons at the Washington Memorial

Several weeks ago my niece, Shelley, asked me if I’d like to accompany her and my two great-nieces to Washington DC over Spring Break. It took me a day to mull it over – not because I didn’t want to go but because I was afraid that “Old Aunt Sue”, as I am affectionately known, might drag down the trip. After all, my two great-nieces, Katie and Abby, are elite athletes and Shelley is an ace tennis player. I try to walk 10,000 steps per day, which is about 5 miles, but the sport I excel at is sitting on the couch, knitting and watching re-runs of Downton Abbey. Often when I move the snaps, crackles and pops that emanate from my back, hips and knees are reminiscent of Rice Krispies. But what the heck, it was the chance of a lifetime so I packed my ibuprofen and off I went. Through some cosmic coincidence, my niece’s husband is also a Watson so the trip was dubbed “The Watsons Go To Washington”. We met up in Dallas and flew into Reagan airport, landing at 12:30 a.m. I was already way out of my element…even though my “body time” was 9:30, I was ready for bed. We hopped in a cab and made the rookie mistake of telling our cab driver we wanted the “fastest” route to our Bethesda hotel. He interpreted that as “speediest” so he took us the long way via freeway vs. the short way via city streets. So it took 20 minutes and $30 more than it should have. The rubes had arrived.

The WWII Pacific Memorial

The next day we set off to see the sights. We quickly learned the Metro system, which is pretty much like every other rail system in the U.S. – it’s crowded, makes frequent stops, and is full of “interesting” people . After a 20 minute ride we disembarked in downtown Washington and began our walk to the National Mall. The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of it. It spans two miles from the Lincoln Memorial on one end to the Capital Building on the other. We decided to split up our tour – half one day and half the other. Since the Lincoln and War Memorials were high on our “must see” list, we began there. First up was the Washington Memorial. Unfortunately, it was under construction or as the guides told us, it was undergoing a face lift. Aha! Something I could relate to – I felt like I was back in Scottsdale. We ventured on to the World War II Memorial which is massive and beautifully thought out. One side is devoted to the Atlantic theater and the other to the Pacific. The countries where the fighting occurred and the names of the major battles are listed on the fountains under each cupola. The most sobering feature was the wall of stars – over 450 gold stars on a field of blue, each star representing 100 men who died in the war. No WWII vets were visiting when we were there but I imagine it must be overwhelming for them to see such a stunning tribute.

Abby’s perfect picture

From there we walked along the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to the (you guessed it) Lincoln Memorial. Let me just say …it is HUGE. Oh sure,we’ve all seen it in text books and movies but really, you cannot grasp the scale of it until you’re standing on it. My knees and I would like to report that there are 145 steps from the Pool up to the Memorial…and another 145 back down. But the trip was totally worth it. The Gettysburg address is carved on the left chamber and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address on the right. I was struck by how moving both of those speeches are; they were artfully crafted and in language that is plain yet eloquent. And most importantly, you get the sense that Lincoln labored over every word until it exactly reflected his beliefs and hopes for the nation. A bit different from the “double speak” we hear today, written by professional speech writers and delivered via teleprompter. When we walked around the perimeter of the monument, Abby, a budding photographer, took the picture (right) that perfectly frames the Washington Monument in the distance.

Next up was the Vietnam Wall. I’m not sure that anything can prepare you when faced with all of those names on the wall. It is truly overwhelming. I knew five boys from my small home town that died in that war. Seeing their names carved in marble is something I will never forget. I’ll write more about that experience in another blog. We sat on a bench near the memorial to rest and plan the remainder of our day. By this time I was exhausted (mentally and physically) so we ventured to the Reagan Commerce Building for lunch. I eased myself down in my chair, every bone in my body aching and desperately in need of serious drug intervention. Alas, I had forgotten to put my ibuprofen in my purse but Shelley saved the day by giving me some of hers. I don’t think anything has ever felt so good as when those pills started to take effect. So, now laced with pain-killing drugs, I was ready to go. We decided to visit one of the lesser-known museums – the National Portrait Gallery. It is a fabulous museum and, among other things, holds the most extensive portrait gallery of American presidents outside the White House. I didn’t read the fine print on the information panel and took a picture with my cell phone with the flash feature on. Apparently this is frowned upon and brought immediate action by the security guards. I had visions of being hauled off to the hoosegow. Luckily, they have seen hopelessly ignorant people before and gently told me to turn off the flash. As if I knew how to do that. I did notice that they followed me at close range for the rest of the day.

By the time we left the Gallery it was early evening so we headed for the Metro station and back to Bethesda. I checked my pedometer when we got back to the room and was amazed to see that we had walked NINE miles. No wonder I was moving like a hippopotamus in three feet of mud. A break was definitely in order. Abby worked on editing her photos, Katie went to the gym for a 50 minute run on the treadmill (because nine miles just wasn’t enough exercise), while Shelley and I exercised our arms lifting wine glasses in the bar. That night I flopped into bed, took more ibuprofen, and prepared for the next day and my real reason for coming to Washington.

To be continued next week…

Posted in Uncategorized

In Search of the ‘t’ in Mortgage

April 7, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Mortgage: a French law term meaning ‘death pledge’. For me it must be a ‘death wish’.

There’s a phrase in the mortgage industry that describes someone who is either new to the business and doesn’t know anything or someone who has been in the business a while and is still clueless. That phrase is, “He doesn’t even know where the ‘t’ goes in mortgage”. After a 27-year career in the business, I once again find myself wondering if I remember where the ‘t’ goes, as I was recently presented with an opportunity to get back in the business. As I considered this prospect, I reflected on my nearly three decades in the business and concluded that I could have been a poster child for the ‘Peter Principle’. For those unfamiliar with Peter Laurence’s 1969 book, The Peter Principle: Why Things Always Go Wrong, it goes like this: if someone is good at something, they get promoted, and if they’re good at that job, they get promoted again, and that keeps happening until they are elevated to a job and stay there because they’re not good enough at it to get promoted. More simply put, it says that people are promoted to their level of incompetence. In 1983 I started in the business as a loan originator and was pretty good at it, so was promoted to branch manager and continued through the management ranks until I ended my career as president of a joint venture. No matter what your political bias, we know that we’ve all seen our share of incompetent presidents. I was no exception.

If you’re saying, ‘Wait a minute, why are you telling me about the mortgage business, you’re suppose to take us on a journey to some off-the-beaten-path place?’ Hey, if I’m going back to work, you’re coming with me!

My reasons for contemplating a return to a business that was a major player in bringing our economy to a screeching halt in 2008 are two fold: 1) I don’t seem to be adjusting very well to a life of retirement, and 2) perhaps I wanted to end my mortgage career doing something that I was good at. So after twenty hours of on-line course work and hours of studying and passing both a state and a national exam, I received my mortgage license and last week started working as a loan originator for Metropolitan Home Mortgage, a mortgage banker based out of Irvine, CA. (949) 428-0134.

It’s bad enough that I’m getting back into a business that doesn’t enjoy the best of reputations, but to put some whip cream on this mortgage meadow muffin I’ll be specializing in reverse mortgages. Reverse mortgages or as they’re know in some quarters, Perverse Mortgages, have a rather sullied reputation in spite of the efforts of Fred Thompson, Robert Wagner and ‘The Fonz’ – all espousing the benefits of the loan that pays you. I call it the ‘Hollywood Loan’, not because of the celebrity pitchmen, but because every loan requires the applicants to go to counseling, which is code in Hollywood for therapy. I’ve learned that it’s a very complex loan that has changed dramatically since its inception in 1990 and that it’s not for everyone, but it’s a great loan for the right people.

So sister Suzanne and I have sort of switched rolls with me staying close to home and she off cavorting in Washington DC – a trip that you’ll hear about next week. In the mean time, if I work hard and use spellcheck I may once again find the ‘t’.

Posted in opinion

THE LOST DIVAS

March 31, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last Friday night we planned a great dinner with friends, followed by an Il Divo concert. What we didn’t plan was spending our remaining years lost in a parking garage.

The Seinfeld group was organized compared to us

How can you get lost in a parking garage, you ask? Well, apparently pretty easily. It started out innocently enough – we made reservations at Kincaid’s in downtown Phoenix for a nice dinner before the concert. Problem is, we didn’t check the sports section before we left home and as luck would have it, BOTH the Diamondbacks and the Suns were playing in their respective arenas right across the street. Which in Phoenix means that every street is turned upside down for “game night” – one way streets are reversed, lanes are blocked off, and the police seem awfully serious about imposing their silly “game night” traffic rules. So we pulled up to the corner where the Kincaid’s parking garage is, only to be told by a very nice policeman that we couldn’t cross the intersection to get into the garage – we had to turn left. Traffic was horrendous and we began to panic that we might lose our reservation. So my girlfriend, Terri, and I got out of the car to secure our table and left our husbands to find their way back to the parking garage. Big mistake. Big, big mistake. Let’s just say that if Lewis and Clark had depended on these guys to find the Pacific Ocean they would have ended up in Spain. Terri and I settled into our booth, read the menu, ordered a drink…no sign of our husbands. Another five minutes went by. Neither guy had their cell phones with them (naturally) so we couldn’t call. Finally, my husband came panting into the restaurant with a wild-eyed, distress-call look. Turns out they couldn’t find the right parking garage. At which point I did what every woman in America would do – I sent my husband to the booth to order a drink and I went down to our friend’s car to give directions.

That crisis averted, we had a wonderful meal at Kincaid’s with about 40 minutes to spare before our concert, a 10 minute drive away. We hopped into the car and circled our floor (P2) several times. There was no exit. We circled again, almost getting into a head-on accident when we tried to go “up” the “down” ramp. Finally we found a ramp and followed it…DOWN. And the sad thing is that the four of us thought we had achieved success. We wandered on P3 like Bedouins in the desert until we finally realized that we had only buried ourselves deeper in the garage. Up we went again to P2 and circled. By now the language was becoming colorful. I was imagining a life lived in a parking structure. Finally we figured out that in their effort to control traffic on game night, the garage had put traffic cones blocking the “up” ramps. Once we had dispatched the cones (and we’re very sorry to whomever owns that 2010 Toyota that now has a door ding suspiciously the size of a traffic cone) we sped to the theater. I had purchased reserved “special” parking ahead of time. It turns out that meant we could park on the fifth level no where even close to an elevator.

Our view from the stolen seats

FINALLY, we reached our seats just as the curtain was rising on Il Divo. People all around us asked us (quite curtly, if you ask me) to sit down and get out of their line of vision. We attempted to secure our seats, once again wandering about in a quandary, until we figured out that someone was already in our seats. We quickly found a security person who looked at us with some suspicion. Frankly, I couldn’t blame her – we looked a bit frantic given our recent brush with Death By Parking Garage. She reviewed our tickets, scanned our faces, and then assured us she was on the case. Inspector Clouseau had nothing on her. She had us stand in the holding area while she marched right back down the aisle to grill the people in our seats. So while Il Divo was wowing the crowd with their rendition of “Tonight”, the people in Section 3 were being entertained by a security guard, a flashlight, four idiots in a holding area and the scofflaws in our seats. Turns out, the people in our seats had discovered that someone had taken THEIR seats, so they took ours. Apparently there is an outbreak of seat-stealing in Phoenix. Several minutes later, we finally settled in, much to the relief of everyone in the immediate area.

As for the concert…it was FABULOUS. For those of you who have never heard of Il Divo, they are four tenors who were assembled by Simon Cowell, of American Idol fame. They are from Switzerland, France, Spain and the USA and did not know each other before Mr. Cowell decided they would make a great group. They have previously focused on classical music but this tour they are singing songs taken from the musical theater. They have soaring voices and their close harmony is worthy of goose bumps. Phoenix is the first U.S. stop on their world tour and they frequently said how glad they were to be here after touring Asia where no one understood a word they were saying. Joining them on this tour is Lea Salonga, the beautiful Filipino soprano star of Broadway and the West End. In 1996 I was lucky enough to see her in London in Les Miserables. To hear her sing “On My Own” again after 18 years was one of the highlights of my life. She has not lost one ounce of her talent, range or phrasing.

Lea Salonga in 1996. One of us has aged.

Oh, and about becoming a diva. We learned from several Il Divo fans around us that if you are really a follower of them you are referred to as a “diva”. Based on Friday night’s crowd of self-described “divas”, I’d say their demographic skews to the high side of Social Security. There is something that is both heart-warming and pathetic about senior citizen women shouting out “I love you” to 40-something entertainers. Someone in the crowd offered to take a shower with the French member of the quartet, which he deftly laughed off. I was waiting for one of the “divas” to throw her panties on to the stage. Which, from all appearances, the men from Il Divo could have used as a car cover.

At the end of the night, now considering ourselves “divas” in spirit if not in actual fact, we all agreed that it was one of the best concerts we had ever attended. If they come to a city near you, RUN, don’t walk, to buy tickets.

Posted in Uncategorized

Cinderella’s ‘Big Dance’

March 24, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

This week I found myself in a bar (What?!) trying to explain to a Brit, who was now working here in the U.S. and who apparently has been in a cave for the last 30 years, the excitement around all the college basketball on TV. I explained that this is the N.C.A.A. College Basketball National Championship Tournament; more succinctly referred to as ‘March Madness’ or ‘The Big Dance’. He asked if this was the finals of Dancing With The Stars. I patiently explained that it is a 64-team, single elimination college basketball tournament for the national championship. I wondered if I was going too fast for him.

“The Wizard”

I proceeded to tell him that for the seeding of this tournament, he’d have to throw out where he thinks regions are in the United States. There are four 16-team brackets, South, East, West and Midwest (I said I think the North is still playing hockey), but this year Milwaukee, a Midwest team, is seeded in the East, Louisiana-Lafayette, a southern team, in the West, Manhattan College, in New York, is in the Midwest and UCLA, is seeded in the South. UCLA however, has no one to blame but themselves for this. The tournament used to be seeded by region, so there would always be a team from each region in the Final Four. Until from 1964 to 1975 ‘The Wizard of Westwood’, John Wooden’s UCLA teams won 10 of 12 championships and the other coaches in the west argued that they never got to go to the Final Four because they were always eliminated by UCLA in the regionals. While geography still plays a small role, it’s more about seeding teams according to ability. My new European friend only perked up when I said the word ‘Wizard’.

Win $1,000,000,000

I asked him if there was a lot of buzz at work about the ‘office pool’ and then disappointed him by telling him that there is not a new aquatic center being built at the home office, that the pool is merely the 64-bracket seeding sheet that allows folks who think they know basketball to prove that they don’t. I told him Vegas gets more bets during this tournament than at any other time of the year, including the Super Bowl. Super Bowl, he asked? Never mind. There are all kinds of ways to bet this tournament and this year, for the first time, billionaire Warren Buffett has offered $1,000,000,000 (yes, that’s with a B) to the person who picks every winner of every game – that’s picking all 62 winners without a mistake. Actually there are 4 ‘play-in’ games making it 66 winners. The odds? One in 9 with 18 zeros behind it! (Update: after two days and only 25 games everyone who entered for a chance at the billion was eliminated)

I told him that he’ll hear some alliterative terms being bantered about this week, ‘Final Four’, Elite Eight’ and bet him that he’ll never hear the word ‘sixteen’ without the word ‘sweet’ in front of it. At the risk of confusing him even more I mentioned that he’ll also hear the term ‘Cinderella’ quite a bit over the next couple of weeks.

I continued by telling him that the term has nothing to do with wicked stepmothers, glass slippers or getting home before your horses turn into mice. Rather, it’s a term for the ‘long shots’ in the tournament. It is usually a small college, seeded 10^th or below in their bracket, with a charismatic coach, who, after his team loses in the ‘Sweet Sixteen’, will dump that school and accept a pumpkin chariot full of money to go to a non-Cinderella school. It usually doesn’t work out and he ends up scrubbing gym floors for a wicked Athletic Director in Podunk Hollow, Mississippi. There have however, been ‘Cinderella exceptions’ in recent years; Wichita State, Butler and George Mason all made it to the Final Four. Coach Brad Stevens, who took Butler to two Final Fours, skipped going to a non-Cinderella school and signed a contract to coach the Boston Celtics, where his team has a .329 winning percentage this season. I think he left his pair of glass slippers back at Butler. Who are this year’s Cinderella teams? Stephen F. Austin, Oregon, Harvard (yes, that Harvard), Virginia Commonwealth, Nebraska and Mercer. If none of these teams are still in the tournament as you’re reading this, you’ll understand why Buffet’s money was so safe!

Cinderella schools can also have unusual mascots. This year we have the Manhattan College Jaspers (a long story), the St. Louis University Billikens (an even longer story) and the Coastal Carolina Chanticleers.

Upon hearing this last name, my new acquaintance lit up and told me that Chanticleer is the rooster in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (which is exactly where Coastal Carolina got the name!). He was now interested in ‘The Big Dance’ and has a ‘Cinderella’ team for which to root. He thanked me as he left and I thought I saw him doing the ‘Chicken Dance’ on the way out the door. Brits!

(Update: Coastal Carolina lost it’s first game and is out of the tournament)

Posted in Blog Info / Up-dates

SCHOOL DAZE

March 17, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Dash the Wonder Dog in a quieter moment

Over the past three months we have been doing LOTS of homework around our house. Studying, practicing, shouting. Lots of shouting. Let’s just say the atmosphere has been a little tense. As much as we rehearsed, success was infrequent and attention spans were non-existent. But finally, last Saturday, our big day arrived – Dash the Wonder Dog was tested for his Canine Good Citizen designation. I swear I haven’t been as nervous about a test since I took the SAT. Actually, I wasn’t that nervous about the SAT since I had pulled an all-nighter the night before and could barely fill in the circles on the test paper (which probably goes a long way toward explaining why I didn’t get into a better college). But this day was Dash’s big day and nervous energy prevailed. We made sure he had a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast. “They” say it is the most important meal of the day and I wasn’t about to question whether that also pertains to our canine friends. We made sure he had “done his business” beforehand as I was quite certain that pooping unexpectedly in public was not part of the test. At the appointed hour, we walked into the classroom at Pet Smart where Dash immediately lost control and jumped up on the instructor. It was going to be a long day.

The first part of the test was done in the classroom where the conditions were somewhat controllable. Dash sensed my uncertainty and shot me a look conveying “Chill, Mom, I got this”. I wasn’t so sure. None of our practice sessions indicated anything close to success. But there was no delaying the test. The first few requirements were child’s play – “sit”, “down”, “stay”. Basically the canine equivalent of kindergarten. But then it got more serious – he had to sit and stay while I walked 15 feet away and then come to me on command. My palms were moist, my mouth was dry and Dash was distracted by a rather comely Poodle walking past the window. I took a deep breath and called him to me. Just as Dash passed the mid-point the devious instructor placed an open bag of peanut butter treats between him and me. Jeez – that’s like asking me to pass by a piece of Costco’s chocolate cake without at least sticking my finger in the frosting. Luckily, as it turns out, Dash the Wonder Dog has a lot more self-discipline than I do. He ran right over to me, hardly giving a faretheewell to the treats. I’ve never been prouder in my life. After two more “inside” tasks, we ventured out into the aisles of the Pet Smart store. On a Saturday Adoption Day. I’ve seen less chaos at an Under Six soccer game.

His Senior Portrait

We began by testing whether Dash could pass another dog and owner as they walked by on our left side. Fortunately, just as we were passing the other dog and his master, Dash became mesmerized by some goop of unknown origin on the right side of the floor. I was momentarily concerned about the make-up of this “goop” since Dash was proceeding to ingest it, but decided to just “take the win” when the instructor said he had passed the test. Apparently, he can wreak havoc as long as it isn’t toward the other dog or owner. Good to know. The next task was to walk 20 feet through a crowd in a “heel” position and then return to the starting point without breaking stride. The instructor gathered five strangers to act as the crowd. Frankly, I think some of them looked a little too strange. I peered at them assiduously, certain that some of them were planted by the instructor with beef liver treats in their pockets. But again – much to my amazement – Dash walked through the group as if he had better places to go and other people to see. I was beginning to think someone had drugged him. This was not the dog that I had been training at home. Our last task entailed Dash going up to a stranger with me and sitting quietly while I conversed. He behaved like a champ. I think all the time I spend talking with my friends on the phone has provided him with a tin ear where I’m concerned. I can almost see him thinking “blah, blah, blah – does she ever shut up?” No matter…after ten tests were completed Dash had officially become a good citizen. We all cheered, donned funny hats, and ate peanut butter treats.

Dash doing what he does best.

But now here we are, back in the real world. Every day I work with him a bit, trying to ensure that he doesn’t forget any of the valuable lessons he has learned. Unfortunately, I’m not sure retention is his strong suit. As soon as I take him outside and ask him to heel he assumes the attitude of a teenager and pulls me in the opposite direction. I ask him to sit when we reach the corner and he is suddenly rendered deaf. I am thinking that I would like to have him certified as a therapy dog since he is so gentle and loving by nature. But at this point, I think his forte is the “sleep” command. He has that down pat, especially when he’s on our bed. Now all I need to do is find someone who needs a sleeping therapy dog. Who snores. Oh well, we’re proud of him anyway and the framed certificate looks great on the wall next to the college diplomas.

Posted in travel

The Road Past Hana

March 10, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:4 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Hana, Maui

As I pulled onto main street in ‘downtown’ Hana; OK, there is only one street in downtown Hana, actually there is barely even a downtown Hana, I dropped off Kristen and headed down to Hana Bay to eat the picnic lunch that I had packed. As I gnawed on some dead chicken and gazed at the picturesque crescent beach, I started turning over in my mind the story that Kristen had told me about Carly Scott’s disappearance and put together another scenario of why Kristen was out on the road hitchhiking. Perhaps Kristen had been seeing Carly’s old boyfriend, Steve Cabobianco, and when she learned that Carly was carrying his baby and feared they might be getting back together again, she . . . made her disappear. So now I wondered if I had aided and abetted a criminal and was now a ‘person of interest’ in the on-going investigation. Either that or someone had put a hallucinogenic in my chicken. On further contemplation, the hallucinogenic chicken theory makes more sense.

Hamoa Beach

My first couple of stops heading out on the ‘road passed Hana’ were at two spectacular beaches – Koki and Hamoa – they were un-crowded and pristine, right out of South Pacific; in fact James Michener, called them the most beautiful beaches in the south Pacific even though they are in the north Pacific.

Seven Pools with Hippos

Haleakala is the 10,000-foot dormant volcano, which from the top several years ago my daughter, Dana and I saw a beautiful sunrise and then bicycled down the mountain. Haleakala State Park goes from the peak down to the beautiful shoreline in front of me, where numerous waterfalls and the Seven Pools are located. Actually they used to be called the Seven Sacred Pools until no one could answer the question as to why they were sacred. To me they looked like a hippo watering hole at feeding time as the pools were filled with large, over-weight tourists detracting from the otherwise beautiful waterfalls and pools. I quickly moved on.

Next stop was famous American aviator, Charles Lindbergh’s gravesite, located just up the road on the beautifully jagged Kipahulu coast. When faced with cancer in 1968, rather than take treatment on the mainland, Lindbergh chose to live out his remaining years here – he died in 1974.

Just passed Lindbergh’s gravesite the road changes from a narrow, single lane, partly paved, bumpy, unmaintained road to a narrow, single lane, unpaved, unmaintained, crushed lava carriageway. It was here I was expecting to see the ‘Dead End, Turn Around’ and ‘No Rental Cars Permitted Beyond This Point’ signs but, “Honestly officer, I never saw them.” If you came across another car coming from the other direction, which I did only once, I had to back up to the nearest wide spot in the road so they could pass. As reward for the demanding drive, the scene in front of me of black lava, contrasting with the green vegetation and the blue water crashing against the coastline was so amazing.

Kaupo General Store

After several miles, where the only building I saw was a solitary church, I got back to what is termed as ‘rough paved road’ and ‘civilization’ which consisted only of Kaupo General Store, sitting all by itself along this desolate road. I purchased a pineapple-coconut shave ice and stood alone on a small rise next to the road and looked at the miles of grassland, actually grazing farmland for horses and cattle, all the way down to the black lava coastline where there were several energy-producing windmills. If you’re ever looking for peace, quiet and solitude, this is the place.

As the crushed lava trail I was traveling on turned into a paved two-lane road, I saw two cars ahead of me and several tourists standing by the roadside posing for pictures and I knew the adventure on and passed the road to Hana was over.

Update: As of this writing there is still no new news on the whereabouts of Carly Scott, missing now for 30 days.

Posted in travel

Murder on the Road to Hana?

March 3, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

I know that title sounds like a 48 Hour Mystery headline, and it just might be one day, but it’s the lead in to this week’s blog subject. Two weeks ago Linda and I were on the island of Maui with three other couples, mostly to play golf, drink pina coladas and watch sunsets – I figured I needed a break from my hectic retirement schedule! To add a little adventure to my relaxation, I decided to rent a Jeep and ‘do’ the road to Hana. I had attempted this once before about 20 years ago with Linda and three small children in tow, but after a dizzying ride through 25 miles of multiple twists and turns with Linda and the kids tuning green, we reached a shave ice stand with a sign that read, ‘Halfway to Hana’, “Halfway!!”, came the cries from the back seat. I got out to get some shave ice in hopes of buoying the troop’s spirits, but by the time I got back, the Jeep had been commandeered and was facing the other way – the message was clear.

Halfway?!!!

When I told our group this year that I was going to finish that journey and asked for any passengers, I heard crickets. I was not going to just do the road to Hana, I had planned to do a complete circumnavigation of the southern part of the island and ignore any signs past Hana that said, ‘Dead End’ or ‘No Rental Cars Beyond This Point’, so it was just as well that I had no volunteers to accompany me on my illicit and operose odyssey.

I set out at 7:00 a.m. and I have to admit, the road does have a few turns in it – 617 so I am told, and although driving doesn’t allow you to observe much scenery, there are plenty of places to pull over and enjoy the water falls, hiking trails, lava caves and spectacular shoreline – which I did.

Because of the early hour, there was very little traffic on the road, although surprisingly, I did pull over twice to allow police cars to go around me. When I stopped to observe the beautiful Keanae Peninsula I saw what I thought was a sightseeing helicopter, but tuned out to be a police helicopter. I wondered what was going on. I briefly wondered if Linda had called and asked them to keep an eye on me. I didn’t think much more about it until I was about 6 miles from Hana when I came upon a young lady standing on the narrow roadside, flagging me down. I would normally not pick up a hitchhiker, especially in a strange place, but she seemed to be a damsel in distress, I had room and I was on an adventure, so I stopped. She jumped in and said “Thanks”. I asked her where she was headed. She looked at me as if I was from a village that was missing its idiot and said, “Hana?” It hit me that there really was no other place to be going. Feeling stupid, I wanted to show her that she was dealing with someone who could ask astute, insightful questions, so I continued with, “What’s your name?” I knew I didn’t know the answer to that one. “Kristen”, she replied and I think she felt bad about her first response so she felt obliged to tell me ‘her story’. She had just been out with her boyfriend and a couple of other guys, who were wild pig hunters, to search for a friend, Carly Scott, who had been missing for three days (At this writing she is still missing after nearly a month). I asked her why she left the search party. She said these pig hunters really knew the terrain well and she was afraid they were going to find Carly and it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. So she decided to leave the group and head back to town. I asked about the circumstances around Carly’s disappearance and she told me that Carly was 5-months pregnant and was last seen with her ex-boyfriend, Steven Capobianco, the night before she disappeared. She went on to tell me that Carly’s car had been found torched and left in a ravine, parts of her clothing were also found along with her dog, Narla – Kristen said that Carly never went anywhere without her dog.

Here is a link to an early news release on the story:

http://www.kitv.com/news/hawaii/Search-continues-on-Maui-for-missing-pregnant-woman/24498394

I asked Kristen if the boyfriend was a ‘person of interest’ and she indicated that she and her friends concluded that morning prior to setting out on the search that they thought he was the primary suspect. It was believed that she was carrying his child, he was the last one to see her under strange circumstances the night before her disappearance, and he failed a lie detector test given by the police. That’s why I’ve used the word ‘Murder’ in the headline; I don’t pretend to be judge, jury and executioner, but it’s hard to go missing for a month on an island as small as Maui. I check the Internet everyday for up-dates, but nothing new for the last two weeks.

Koki Beach

You can Google ‘Missing Woman on the Road to Hana’ to see new info as it becomes available.

Next time: I’ll conclude my journey ‘On the Road Passed Hana’ which includes the beautiful Koki and Hamoa Beaches.

Do you read our blog but don’t subscribe? Subscribe, it will make us feel better; and if we feel better perhaps we will write better . . . it could happen.