We here at “A Bird’s Eye View” are taking a break for Christmas. Actually, we consumed too much egg nog and can’t string two sentences together. But fear not, we’ll be back next week with some inspiring drivel for the new year.
Merry Christmas to everyone and thank you so much for reading our blog each week. We appreciate your “views” and comments.
Bob and Suzanne
By Suzanne Sparrow Watson
Note: The shooting in Newtown, CT. is foremost on my mind this week and ordinarily I might comment on it. But others have and will continue to write much more eloquently than me on the subject. And frankly, I still get too choked up thinking about it. So I’ve decided to stay within my wheelhouse and hopefully bring a much-needed laugh or at least the glimmer of a smile to you today.
Last week I lamented to my husband that our Christmas tree is looking a bit forlorn this year. There is barely a present under its boughs – it looks like Whoville after the Grinch stole all the presents. The problem? Gift cards.
Our tree used to be overflowing with beautiful packages – glimmering paper, bright shiny bows and the occasional gift bag. Now – we have a few meager looking gifts and many, many envelopes. I get it – there is a certain practicality to gift cards. It’s easy for us to shop, the recipients get exactly what they want, and hopefully, they can take advantage of the after-Christmas knock-downs. Prices, not fist fights.
But buying gift cards has all the joie de vivre of taking the car in for service. Most every company’s card can be purchased while picking up parsnips at Safeway or cough medicine at Walgreens. I still think there is nothing as satisfying as finding exactly the right present for someone and watching their face light up as they open it on Christmas morning. But I also recognize that sometimes things go terribly wrong. We have had “train wrecks” galore in our family all springing from the good intentions of our mother.
Well into her 90’s, despite years of our protestations, each Christmas she insisted on giving a shirt to every adult family member. To give benefit to the doubt, let’s just say that at her age, she does not exactly have her finger on the pulse of current fashion. Or anything that even hints of fashion in the last 30 years. Each Christmas she would lovingly select quite possibly the worst shirts ever made – colorful geometric or wild prints for the guys and sequins or some sort of farm animal motif for the women. Over the years we could have won Oscars for our performance while opening these gifts. And when it was our turn to open “the shirt” our siblings and their spouses would be in the corner trying to hold in the laughter as we artfully “oohed” and “aahed” our way through with as much sincerity as we could muster.
One year she so outdid herself in her selection of my nephew Matt’s shirt that my nephew-in-law, Colin, declared that it was, in fact, The Ugliest Shirt on Earth. After peals of laughter and a dare to wear it in public, the shirt went into hiding. Matt is a man who knows that revenge is best served cold; he re-gifted the shirt to Colin on his birthday in July, when he was least expecting it. Colin, in turn, wrapped it up beautifully the following Christmas and re-gifted it back to Matt. Over the years, the shirt has been hidden in expensive wine containers, golf ball boxes, and rolled up into Christmas stockings. But the sine qua non, was when Colin, who is British, sent the shirt to his parents in England who put it in a local department store box and sent it Fed Ex to an unsuspecting Matt at his office.
Which all goes to prove that even the worst of gifts can provide years of amusement. Just try doing that with a gift card.
by Bob Sparrow
No, this isn’t the counterpoint to my last post on all that is good about air travel. In fact one of the reasons I have such a positive attitude towards air travel is that I don’t travel during the holidays. Whoever created the phrase, ‘holiday travel’ took the fun out of two of my favorite words. I love the holidays and I love to travel, but together you’ve got the beginnings of ‘the nightmare before Christmas’. If you’re trying to fly somewhere the nightmares feature things like delayed flight, missed connections, lost luggage, sitting on an airplane next to a guy with reindeer breath and practicing your ‘Just what I wanted’ expression when you get that battery operated recycled toilet paper dispenser. If you’re driving, the nightmares are about jammed freeways, road rage, kids screaming “Are-we-there-yet?” and the practicing of, “They just fit” when trying on those new glow-in-the-dark plastic socks.
Gone are the days when we could just go over the river and through the woods to
grandmother’s house and enjoy some of her homemade Chocolate Chip cookies. Today grandma lives in a downtown, high-rise condo, six hours away where parking is limited and expensive – and the cookies are gluten-free.
Holiday travel, indeed. Shouldn’t there be a term for ruining two perfectly good words by juxtaposing them? I’m sure there are lots of similar two-word combinations that shouldn’t be joined. Here’s one that immediately comes to mind; the word ‘love’ is one of the best words around and ‘child’ is also a great word, but put them together and you’ve got . . . a bastard! Shouldn’t there be a name for these kinds of words, I mean paired words like ‘Civil war’ or ‘jumbo shrimp’ are oxymorons, so maybe we name words like ‘love child’ and ‘holiday travel’ oxybastards.
How could they do that to two such beautiful words? Etymologically speaking, the word holiday is derived from the words ‘Holy Day’, so the term originally had religious connotations, but today it seems that the closest any holiday comes to religion is when 
someone says, ‘Thank God I don’t have to go to work today” or “Can you believe this god-awful traffic?.” Holiday actually is a . . . never mind, what I really wanted to talk about was ‘travel’, because today in the mail I received the National Geographic Traveler magazine featuring their 2nd Annual Best of the World – 20 Must-See Places for 2013 – great reading for a raining Sunday afternoon where I can reverse the aforementioned oxybastard and dream about and plan a ‘travel holiday’. There now, doesn’t that sound much better?
I rarely think of those two words, no matter what the order, and not think of Bob Hope traveling half way around the world every Christmas to entertain our troops. He started during World War II when he island-hopped throughout the south Pacific in 1944 to the tune of some 30,000 miles while performing over 150 USO shows. He travel to Korea
during that war (Sorry, conflict) and did shows in Viet Nam every Christmas from 1964 to 1972. He also did Christmas performances during Desert Storm (1990-91) for the troops in Iraq and the Persian Gulf. Bob Hope was a ‘holiday traveler’ for 50 years, going wherever our troops were stationed. Now it wasn’t all toil and drudgery, he typically traveled in a troupe that included the likes of Ursula Andress, Anne Margaret, Carroll Baker and Raquel Welch, which for those too young to remember those beauties, today it would be like having to spend Christmas with Scarlett Johansson, Halle Berry, Charlize Theron and Salma Hayek. Hope was known to crack, “I bring them along to remind the boys what they’re fighting for.”
There is no place like home for the holidays, but those who will travel and perhaps experience ‘holiday travel’ nightmares before Christmas, might be well-served to remember when you’re flight is delayed or the traffic is backed up and even when you receive that re-gifted fruit cake, Bob Hope’s amazing sacrifice during a time when he most wanted to be home and today’s service men and women all over the world who will be home for the holiday only in their dreams.
by Suzanne Sparrow Watson
My husband and I have lost our minds. We recently decided to add to our family. No, we’re not that crazy (or young). In February we will become parents to a 12 week old Cavalier King Charles spaniel. The picture at left shows the litter at 8 days old. We don’t know yet which one will be ours, but I’m hoping it’s the smart one. I am aware of the pitfalls of a new puppy – we can say goodbye to sleep, sanity and our clean white carpeting. On the other hand, if “Puppy Breath” was sold as perfume it would be a best seller.
I haven’t owned a dog in 25 years so I thought I should become familiar with the modern dog world. Conveniently, PetSmart was sponsoring its annual Holiday Pet Festival near us this past weekend. It offered an opportunity to see (and pet) dogs, peruse the latest dog supplies and hopefully pick up some tips. And it was free. The perfect storm.
The festival was held at West World, which is a HUGE exhibition center where they hold the Barrett-Jackson car auction and other large events. I figured they would cordon off a small portion of it for the dog soiree. But as I entered the building it became clear that I am horribly, crushingly, out of date when it comes to the dogs and the vast array of “stuff” available to them.
Twenty-five years ago my dog had a collar, leash and feeding bowls. I fed her whatever canned dog food was on sale at the supermarket. On a good day she got a piece of a hot dog or whatever scrap happened to hit the kitchen floor. Apparently my laissez-faire approach to dog ownership would now warrant an emergency call to the SPCA.
The “fesitval” made it clear that today’s dog requires vitamins, special organic, gluten-free food, freeze-dried liver treats, harnesses, and a bed that would have to pass muster at the Ritz. And though not required, it was strongly suggested that if you love your dog at all you should purchase a dog massage, a day at the doggie spa, blinged out collars and sunglasses. I won’t even go into the ridiculous costumes being offered but really…some of these outifts would embarrass Lady Gaga.
All in all it was a fun day. There were small dogs and large dogs, and dogs that looked like they wanted to be anywhere else:
But my favorite was the dog who decided, right in the middle of the arena, to “do it’s business”. Big time. And guess what breed it was? A Cavalier King Charles spaniel. I think I’m going to need a bigger shovel.
by Bob Sparrow
Most of the time I write about the destination, but this week it’s about getting there. I’ve done a fair amount of air travel, both business and pleasure and I must confess that I’ve probably not uttered any of the above phrases. But there is one thing that I utter after every flight – read on to find out.
The truth is after 2,000,000-plus miles in the not-always-friendly skies, I still think air travel is amazing. It still blows my mind to think that I can get on an airplane in California, sit in a chair traveling 600 miles an hour 35,000 feet above the ground, eat, drink, sleep, completely ignore a person sitting inches from me and within a few hours I can be in Connecticut. I actually flew to Connecticut a couple of weeks ago attending a sorority meeting . . . don’t ask, I’m still trying to explain it to my wife. Anyway, I may be fairly alone on this one, but I think airlines get a bad rap.
I’m always amused by self-important business executives whose flight has been delayed
and they are demanding some answers. These are the same people who haven’t started one of their own meetings on time – ever. The reality is that as a society our punctuality bar has drifted fairly low and actually I think the airlines do a better job than most at being on time.
Admittedly, I love to travel, so I don’t see airplanes and airports a necessary evils – I see them as parts of the process – it’s probably that ‘life’s a journey not a destination’ thing that helps explains my lack of disdain for the airline industry. Yes, I know you’ve read stories about passengers being held on tarmacs for hours without peanuts or vodka, or someone being violated during a pat down, but the reason you’re reading about them is that they are news – they are very rare occasions given the fact that there are somewhere between 85,000 – 90,000 flights in the world PER DAY!
I actually enjoy being in an airport, because if I’m in an airport it means I’m going somewhere, and I love to go somewhere; with the possible exceptions of the dentist and back to Home Depot for the fourth time to get the part that actually fits. Most airports today are full-service – you can get a haircut, practice your golf swing, and a ‘friend of mine’ told me that you can even get a massage with a happy . . . meal. I’ve even heard of people who, if they have a few hours between flights and there is an International terminal, will go there just to eat something foreign and to listen to different foreign languages – OK, that was me on my last trip.
Of course when I was traveling a lot and was up-
graded to first class most of the time that chair was a Bark-A-Lounger with a personal valet, but I ride in ‘steerage’ now and still enjoy the ride. I always get a window seat because:
Additionally, I know when I’m in my seat, I will not get a phone call, I will not be asked to take out the garbage or fix that leaky sink – in short, I will not be bothered. And instead of those dogged eared Sky Malls to leaf through and magazines where the crossword puzzle is already partly done (incorrectly), today we have ‘Apple gadgets’. I don’t need to carry books or magazines with me, just my iPad, and of course, I have my computer for . . . computing, but the most important electronic accoutrement I carry is my iPod. Not just because it affords me a rare opportunity to just sit and listen to some of the 12,000 songs on it, but it allows me ignore my neighbor. I know that doesn’t sound very . . .well, neighborly, but I’m sure you’ve all experienced the person who sits next to you and says, “How you doing?” and before you could answer they’re telling you how they’re doing, where they’ve been, where they’re going and who’s supposed to meet them when we land. So when I sit down I put in my iPod earplug my neighbor assumes I’m busy – sometimes the iPod isn’t even on.
So, what do I always say after a flight? As I pass the cockpit on my way out . . . I always say “Thank you”. Because if I’m saying thank you it means that my perfect record of number of landings equaling the number of take offs is still intact, and I have the pilot to thank for that. I’ll admit that flying isn’t always peaches and peanuts, but even if I’ve had a bad experience I’m still amazed by that chair that goes 600 miles per hour 35,000 feet above the earth.
By Suzanne Sparrow Watson
As my brother so accurately wrote last year, Thanksgiving is our family’s favorite holiday. After all, we are related to five of the 17 families that came over on the Mayflower. After I discovered this bit of history I deluded myself into thinking that our DNA is hard-wired to love the holiday commemorating them. But the cold, hard truth is that we love this holiday because we love to eat.
We are all big eaters in our family. There is never an “old maid” left on the hors d’oeuvre tray and “thirds” are for the light eaters. We are the family that inspired expandable waistbands. We do have standards – we do not eat jellied cranberry sauce and no one belches at the table. So far.
And yet we are not so slovenly that we have no self-respect. No sir, we are all pretty good about exercise and trying to stay in shape. For years I wore a pedometer to ensure that I walked 10,000 steps every day. So in anticipation of Thursday’s annual bacchanal, I went to walk.about.com which has a handy little feature that lets you check all the food you’ll eat on Thanksgiving and then covert it to calories. I thought that could be an interesting exercise, forgetting that when it comes to food, ignorance is bliss.
A glass of wine? Check. A celery stalk stuffed with bleu cheese? Why not? Okay, I’ll opt for one cracker with a slice of Stilton. How much could that add? On I went, from the turkey to the mashed potatoes to the requisite green bean casserole . My total calorie count? 3,365!!!!
Then the intrusive, vindictive, people-with-too-much-time-on-their-hands snoops at walk.about.com felt the need to let me know with laser-like precision exactly how many miles and steps it would take me to burn off all those calories. Turns out I need to walk 34 miles or 67,300 steps to wear off my dinner. From a scheduling standpoint, I need to cram 6 1/2 days of walking into Thursday. If I start walking in downtown San Francisco I couldn’t stop until I reached Santa Clara. Fortunately Stanford Medical Center is on the way – perhaps I could drop in for a gastric bypass.
But here’s the worst part, I lied when I took the test. One cracker with cheese? I so frequently hog the snack table that my family nickname is “Hoover lips”. I consider mashed potatoes to be health food and, frankly, I think it insulting to the cook if I pass on all the pies and whipped cream. Even though the “cook” is Costco. My real calorie count is probably north of 6,000.
So when everyone gathers on Thanksgiving to eat, watch football and talk about the nation’s pending financial crisis, I will sadly find no room for compromise. Despite the obvious risks and danger, I will be jumping off the caloric cliff.
by Bob Sparrow
If you’re reading this on Monday morning it may have just reminded you that yesterday was Veteran’s Day. If you’re reading this after Monday, you may have just been reminded that you missed Veteran’s Day – it’s easy to do. I’m going to give our blog followers the benefit of the doubt and assume that they were well-aware of the holiday because if you’re reading our blog then you’re among the most intelligent people on the planet. I don’t know about you, but I heard more than once over the weekend things like, “Is Monday a holiday, what is it Columbus Day or something?” Veteran’s Day is probably our least known about and remembered federal holiday. Why is that? How has it become so easy to marginalize a day that we all should remember and celebrate?
The history of Veteran’s Day perhaps lends itself to its enigmatic reputation. The holiday was created as a celebration of an armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at the end of World War I in 1918 at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the
eleventh month, thus Veteran’s Day is November 11th. However, the Treaty of Versailles, officially ending the war, wasn’t signed until June 1919, but our government didn’t let the facts of history get in the way of the creation of a new federal holiday.
When I recently asked people to explain Veteran’s Day, they mostly said something like, it’s a day to celebrate our veterans. I think the name gave it away. When I ask them what they are going to do to celebrate, they usually just looked at me funny and said, “Celebrate?” Some will say solemnly something like “We’ll celebrate by remembering those who gave their lives for our country.” I’m tempted to remind them that that is Memorial Day, but I don’t. After hearing a lot of confusion about this holiday, I decided to compare Veteran’s Day with other holidays in terms of how we celebrate them or what is associated with them and see if there wasn’t some way to get Veteran’s Day on the same level as some of our more ‘popular’ holidays.
So it would seem that in order to make Veteran’s Day more popular, like our other holidays, we need to create more customs around it like traditional garb and food. Perhaps on Veteran’s Day we should all dress in camo gear and pop open a can of c-rations to feast on. 
It also might be nice to commit to memory the words of Alan Alexander, who said, “A veteran is someone who at some point in his or her life writes a blank check to the United States of America in an amount up to and including the loss of his or her life.”
Thank you to all who have served – we owe you a great deal.
By Suzanne Sparrow Watson
As I write this we are two days away from the election. Or, as we say in our house, 48 hours away from re-gaining control of our telephone. I know we’re not alone in this. It seems people everywhere are complaining that robo calls have disturbed dinner, naps and even Monday Night Football. Do you think it’s possible that the machines actually do come alive in the wee hours to plot the most effective ways to torture us?
Most of the calls tout a politician’s virtues. Or is that a self-cancelling phrase? In any event, in all the years I’ve been voting I have never received a call from a polling company. This is truly remarkable given the number of polls that have sprung up. Remember when Gallup was the only poll? And remember when nobody paid attention to it?
In an attempt to get a jump on the 2016 race I am thinking of some new polls that people might actually care about. In my opinion, here’s what I think the pollsters should be asking:
I’m only dreaming here – I’m pretty doubtful we’re going to get asked any of these questions. But this much I do know: regardless of who wins the election, this country will carry on. Despite what the ads say, no one individual, not even the President, can wreck it.
As for me, after Tuesday I’m going to sit back and enjoy the peace and quiet of my house. No longer will I fear the telephone. But the computer? That’s a different story.
by Bob Sparrow
My most recent ‘road trip’ took me off the road and on the water, to Santa Catalina Island. It is a very interesting island, to say the least.
You may know the island from the song ’26 Miles’, made famous by the Four Preps in 1958. I’m warning you right now, if you remember the song and you go to Catalina, that song will be playing in your head – THE WHOLE TIME YOU’RE THERE! I believe that’s called an ‘earworm’ – it felt more like ringworm. Like most people my age, I remember some of the lyrics to the song, but not all of them, so I ended up humming the words I didn’t know. Out of frustration of this song being on ‘replay’ in my head for three days, I decided to look up the real lyrics. It is said that the cure for earworm is to finish the song and I couldn’t finish the song until I looked up the actual lyrics. So I did. I was not surprised to find that these 1950 classically banal lyrics were . . . well, classically banal as well as factually inaccurate, starting with the title.
Catalina Island is 22 miles from Los Angeles, 33 miles from Long Beach and 34 miles from Newport Beach – it is not 26 miles from any port.
‘Water all around it everywhere’ – Isn’t this a little superfluous? Isn’t an island, by definition, a land mass that has water all around it – everywhere?
‘I’d swim with just some water wings and my guitar’ – The song was written by Four Prep members, Bruce Belland and Glen Larson, two mature Southern California young men. I think we get a clue to their desperation when they suggest that they’ll swim 26 miles (or whatever) to find romance and that they’ll use water wings to do so. Two men swimming to Catalina with water wings really doesn’t call up an image of the kind of men women would be looking to hook up with, even in the 50s. But if for some reason they were not able to navigate the 26 miles in water wings . . .
I can leave the wings but I’ll need the guitar for romance. This seems to suggest that if their little sister had borrowed their water wings for the weekend, they could leave them and use a guitar to get over to the island. Acoustical guitars are made of wood and can be fairly buoyant, and perhaps even act as a floatation device, but the guitar would have been rendered unplayable after upwards of 8-10 hours in salt water. So these ‘Preps’, who apparently were striking out with women at home, were probably not going to have much better luck on Catalina.
I’d work for anyone even the Navy, who would float me to my island dream . . . This plan seems a bit half-baked and completely irrational, but that really doesn’t surprise us at this point, does it? Joining the navy would probably mean a four-year commitment and training who knows where. After basic training their chances of getting deployed to Catalina would have been non-existent.
Forty kilometers in a leaky old boat, any old thing that will stay afloat Finally the boys have the right idea here by looking into a boat; the fact that they’d settle for one that is old and leaky speaks volumes about their nautical acumen. Why they’ve switched to the metric system for measurement here I’m not sure, but forty kilometers is equal to a little more than 24 miles, still leaving them far short of their chosen destination.
While looking at the logic of the lyrics was a bit unsettling, finishing the song did indeed rid me of my earworm. How was Catalina? Very enjoyable, so enjoyable in fact that I’m headed back there to spend the New Year’s weekend – at that time I’ll try to give you more of a flavor for the island itself, assuming I can get that damn song out of my head.
PS: I actually like the song and The Four Preps
By Suzanne Sparrow Watson
We’ve been hearing a lot the past few weeks about the “undecided” voter in the presidential election. At this point it seems that most people have made up their minds about which candidate will screw up the country for the next four years. But there remains a significant percentage of people who are unable to make a decision, even though there are pretty big differences between the two candidates. The other night a major broadcaster was skeptical that anyone could still be undecided. He obviously does not work with the public.
Nine years ago, after retiring as a bank executive, I decided to take a job one day a week doing something fun. So I signed on at the local yarn shop. I hadn’t worked with actual customers since college and, for the most part, it’s been fun. The average client walks in, chooses a pattern and some yarn, and walks out happy. Sometimes a person asks for help and after a few basic questions the right project is selected. It’s all done within 30 minutes.
But then we have the “undecideds”. They typically walk in and say “I have no idea what I want to make.” Okay, I’ll say, let’s narrow that down – a sweater, hat, golf club cover? Perhaps some steel wool so you can knit yourself a washing machine, I joke. But I am speaking to the wall. No pattern is quite right, no texture is appropriate, no color just the right shade. The quandary over a skein of yarn is beyond comprehension. A long time ago my brother, Jack, taught me this: the important thing about a decision is to MAKE one.
My favorite example of an “undecided” was when a tourist came in one day, completely befuddled. She asked me if I had a yarn that would match her brown coat. She somehow assumed that I would know exactly what her brown coat looked like. I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t even know you, much less your brown coat”. But after an hour of searching for yarn, gnashing of teeth (me) and tentative murmurings (her), she made a selection. I’ve often wondered if the brown coat was happy.
I really worry about these people once they leave the store. If they have this much trouble picking out yarn, how in the heck to they make more critical decisions? I shudder to think of these people picking out something more permanent, like carpeting. The texture selection alone must give them the vapors. Colleges for their kids? They must have to start when they’re in kindergarten to reach a decision in time.
But you don’t have to work in a yarn store to experience these people. They are the ones in the front of the line at Starbucks, completely undone by the choices. Tall or grande? Foam or whip? The choice between bold or mild is enough to send them into an apoplectic state. These unsure souls are the reason that the wait is usually interminable.
So, back to the election. Apparently in some states there are so many “undecideds” that the whole darn state is considered to be a “swing” factor in this election. As far as I’m concerned these people are getting what they deserve: a barrage of negative, mean-spirited campaign ads. But I have news for the campaign managers. If an “undecided” can’t choose between red or blue yarn, choosing a President of the United States is a reach beyond their grasp.
from a bird's eye view 