Category Archives: opinion

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MY (ALMOST) WEEK WITH TOM CRUISE

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last week we spent some time in Mammoth Lakes, as we have done most summers since the mid-80’s. We used to hike and enjoy the scenery, but then we started playing golf and such pursuits were given up for the joys of hacking our way around the local courses. In retrospect, and in assessing my golf game, I should have stuck with hiking.

My favorite hike in Mammoth is the one up to TJ Lake. It is a magnificent mountain lake, surrounded on all sides by rugged peaks and tall pine trees. And because of its remoteness, it is quiet and undisturbed – one of the last remaining places on Earth without a Starbucks. One of my fondest memories is of the last hike we took up to TJ in 1986 when I spent an afternoon reading “Gone With The Wind” by its shores. It remains one of the top 10 days of my life. Every year since then I have suggested to my husband that we do that hike again but we never have. Until last Wednesday.

We drove to Lake George, which is the trailhead for Barrett and TJ Lakes. I read all the trail markers – 1/4 mile to Lake Barrett and 1/2 mile to TJ. Doesn’t sound like much, right? But Lake George sits at 9000′ altitude and TJ is at 9265′. Only a 265′ vertical hike, you scoff? Hiking at 9000′ is like sucking in air through a rubber sheet. Shoot, base camp for Everest is 10,000′. I definitely needed a Sherpa.

We also noted numerous signs warning of the bears in the area. But my husband patted his side and confidently assured me that he had his hunting knife strapped to his belt. Every wife knows this moment: do you let your right brain take over and humor him or does your left brain shout “Are you nuts? You will be through that bear’s lower intestine before you even have the knife unsheathed!”. But, like wives everywhere, I weigh 25 years of marriage versus pointing out the ridiculousness of his plan and say nothing.

We set out, channeling our best Scouting tactics. Slow pace, traversing back and forth, stopping to rest. There was a lot of stopping to rest. But we forged on up the mountain, crossing a river using rocks for a path, hurdling a dead tree trunk, we were regular John Muir trekkers. At last we came to Lake Barrett. It is crystal blue, surrounded by pines and jagged mountains. I posted a picture of it on my Facebook page and got lots of “oohs and ahhs”. That would be enough for most people. But I wanted to see TJ. I was sure it was just over the next hill.

It actually was over the next hill, but I had forgotten that TJ is lower than Barrett. So down we went, knowing that with every step down we were going to have to make our way back up. But I was on a mission. And finally, there it was! You know how you go back to something many years later and the object you’ve tracked down is either smaller or less grand than you remembered (or in the case of my high school boyfriend, a lot shorter)? TJ was everything I remembered and more. I’ve attached a picture but it doesn’t do the lake justice. I sat there for a long while, taking it all in. And I have to admit that I got choked up a bit when I turned to leave. I don’t know why exactly, maybe just happy that I’d managed to make the hike again or maybe because I know that making a return trip with my creaky knees and arthritic back might not be possible.

As we got back down to George there was a couple standing at the fork of the trails. “Hey, folks!”, they shouted. I though they had obviously identified us as fellow members of the hiking community. But they went on…”Did you happen to see the big bear that just went through here? We don’t know which fork to take to avoid her.” I just about passed out, but my husband tapped his knife like a regular Daniel Boone, confident that he had the situation under control. I immediately went down to have my golf clubs re-gripped.

And now for the Tom Cruise part.  Turns out that he flew to Mammoth Lakes the same day we arrived to film the last scenes for his new film, “Oblivion”.  According to our waitress at the chop house (and really, who is more of an authority on local gossip than a waitress?) he stayed at the Westin next door to us and was served with more papers from Katie while he was there. Too bad we never met up with him.  I could have told him that the best place to avoid problems was up at TJ.  A New York attorney would never risk dirtying his tassel loafers climbing up that trail.

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Posted in Blog Info / Up-dates • opinion

ROAD FOOD

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

My husband, big tough guy that he is, hates to fly.  He has not been on a plane in 12 years, which means that he has never experienced the joys of the TSA. When we used to fly he needed fortification so although he’s really not much of a drinker, I would fill a water bottle with vodka.  He’d order some orange juice, pour a little “water” in it, and he was set to go.  Of course, sometimes he would drink a little too much “water” and start referring to the flight attendants as “buckaroos”.

Needless to say, the old vodka/water bottle trick is no longer possible so we drive everywhere.  We actually enjoy it – he drives, I knit, read or, more commonly, eat.  Last week we made a quick trip up to Sonoma to visit my mother so I spent a lot of time in a car.  Which is another way of saying that I gained five pounds.

We always start our road trips with a stop at a Starbucks.  In fact, our starting time from any destination is dictated by their opening time.  I used to order up those delicious blueberry scones until I read that they have the caloric content of a milk shake.  Last week I briefly considered how much effort it was going to take to drive to Sonoma.  I ordered a plain bagel.

So by 5:30 a.m. I was set to go.  Normally I don’t eat breakfast until 7, but the bagel beckoned me from its bag.  By 5:45 it was history.  As the trip went on, and by “on” I mean another hour, I’m hungry again.  I look in our “feed bag” to see what I can nibble on.  Oatmeal cookies?  Great.  Oatmeal is definitely a breakfast food.

I knit, read, look out the window and realize I’m starving.  It must be lunch time.  I look at the clock- it’s 9 a.m.  Back into the feed bag.  Crackers. They’re only 30 calories each. I munch on a few of them.  And then a few more. I’m a firm believer in the theory that calories consumed while you’re in a car don’t count.

By 11:30 I was looking for the nearest restaurant.  Okay, “restaurant” might be a stretch.  I’m usually thrilled if we can find an In-N-Out but I’ve been known to settle for McDonalds.  I draw the line at Denny’s – my standards may be low but I do have some. We stop at Bob’s Big Boy and I order a salad because I’m on a diet.

Mid-afternoon brought a whole new set of challenges.  We were close to our stopping point and I was exhausted from all the driving.  But we’re staying in a new place and I had no idea what kind of food might be available.  Better load up while I’m still in the car.  A couple of handfuls of almonds, a couple of chocolate squares and some Pop Chips fortify me for whatever lies ahead.  It was more food.

It goes on like this for days.  When I’m at home I’m a three-meal-a-day person.  In the car, I eat like I’m on death row.  Some people are inspired by the lure of the road.  Me – I take any road trip as a personal challenge to see how much food a human can consume.

My vista for the upcoming week?  The view from the treadmill.

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LIFE’S LITTLE ANNOYANCES

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I’m getting older.  There are numerous signs to remind me of this but foremost among them is that I’m getting grumpier.  I am easily annoyed by things that don’t work.  I could insert some joke here about our government but that’s too obvious – and besides there are lots of other people griping about that.   Slumping stock market?  I can deal with that.  Nope, I’m annoyed with the little stuff that sucks the life out of me every day.   Here’s just a slice from my last week.

1.  I went to Costco to buy a jar of almonds.  $500 later I checked out. Among the things I bought was a package of scissors.  They were encased in a plastic “clamshell”.  Ironically, the reason I succumbed to buying the scissors is that my old pair could safely be given to a 3 year old.  In other words, they were no match for Costco’s plastic.  I tried to pry the package apart.  No luck.  A swift slice with a paring knife resulted in a “swing and a miss” and practically sliced my finger off.  I hacked at it with a utility knife, looking a bit like a  scene from Psycho.  But the blade was too dull for the “Costco shield”.  My language, on the other hand, was becoming quite colorful.  What I needed was a really sharp pair of scissors.  Like the ones in the package.  They were as well-guarded as the Crown Jewels.  I thought about whipping out my husband’s chain saw.  At last I found a newer utility knife.  Success!  The scissors were freed from captivity but I was exhausted from the effort.  Do you think the CEO of Costco has ever tried to open one of these things?

2.  My husband and I have been trying to eat more healthy the past couple of years.  We are under the delusion that consuming our daily servings of fruits and vegetables now is going to make up for a lifetime of Oreos, Dairy Queen Blizzards and Chili Cheese Fries.  So I spend quite a bit of time in the produce section of the grocery store.  Have you tried wrestling with those plastic bags from a roller that you put stuff in?  They are impossible to open.  Yesterday I wanted to put some tomatoes in one.  No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get the bag open.  I used to solve this problem but licking my fingers and then twisting the edges apart.  But ever since I read that grocery cart handles are the dirtiest place on Earth, I make Howard  Hughes look like a meth addict by comparison.  I took the tomatoes and the plastic bag over to the carrots that had just been sprayed (by the nozzle that also is full of germs, by the way) and wet my fingers on that moisture.  Okay, I’m a little nutty about this but really – can’t they make a bag that will open without me having to risk the norovirus?

3.   We have been customers of Direct TV for 12 years.  I’m pretty handy with AV components so I’ve been pretty successful in fixing most of the problems we’ve had with receivers over the years.  But last Thursday our receiver went out and none of my usual tricks would fix it.  I was terrified that I might miss “The Real Housewives of Orange County” so I broke down and called customer service.  It went something like this:

Me:  (After 30 minutes on hold) Hi – my receiver is not working.  I have pressed the red reset button, I have unplugged the unit for 15 minutes, and I have put new batteries in the remote.  I think I need to be connected to your next level of technical support.

Them:  Hello.  My name is Lobert.  (Okay, so I’ve been transferred to some country where they have trouble pronouncing “r’s”).  First, I need to ask you some questions.  Have you tried pressing the red reset button?

Me:  (Annoyed) Yes, I told you, I’ve done that.  I’ve also unplugged it and changed the batteries in the remote.

Them:  Have you tried unplugging it?

Me: (on my last nerve) YES!!!  I told you that – TWICE.

Them:  I have to go through my list.  Have you changed the batteries in your remote?

Me:  (eyeing the ice pick and wondering it it will go completely through my head) Yes – I’ve changed the batteries.

Them:  Oh, well if you’ve done all that then I can’t help you.  You need the next level of support.

So, here I sit, no TV, but I’m eating tomatoes and I can cut coupons out of the paper with great precision.  That will have to keep me happy for now.

Posted in Holiday observations • opinion

FOR THOSE WHO SERVE AT HOME – Part Two

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I left you in Part One with military spouses and prostitutes – quite the juxtaposition.  So let me continue …

One of the most moving and emotional parts of the Coming Home series is when the service member walks down the tarmac.  Spouses dissolve into tears and as they bury their heads on each other’s shoulders you can see their relief.  Relief that the soldier is home safely and relief that, at least for the foreseeable future, they will be a united family unit again.

But the real story of the hardships of military life lie with the children.  During the set up for the surprise homecoming,  Matt Rogers  spends time talking with the children in the family.  These interviews offer a very sobering view of the sacrifices these kids make.  Most of them are mature beyond their years.  They have to be.

They see other children on their base receive news that a parent has died or been severely injured.  With one parent gone these children learn to be more self-reliant, older siblings step up to take care of younger ones, and at important occasions in their life they are forced to acknowledge the reality that their mother or father will not be in attendance.

Birthdays and graduations are the events mentioned most often, but if one listens carefully to what the children confide to Matt you can tell that their parent is missed most in the smaller moments.  A son wants to share with his dad that he made the basketball team, a daughter is starting school and her mom is not there.  Parents are missed when kids are tucked into bed at night or when they come home from school with hurt feelings and need some comforting.

So when the Coming Home surprise unfolds and the children learn that the clown at the circus is their dad or the person in the ump outfit at the ballgame is their mom, it is one of the best moments on TV.  Shock and disbelief are their first reactions, but then as they are wrapped in their parent’s arms something else happens.  Most of these children begin to cry.  Not normal “happy tears”.  They shut their eyes and sob so hard that they can’t catch their breath.  And in that instant you see all that they’ve been bravely holding in for so long:  the worry, the absence, all the missed small moments.  We know it’s coming every episode, and yet we cry every time.

Given how tremendous this program is, we were taken aback by the Lifetime Channel’s decision to replace it with a show about prostitution.  Believe me, I have nothing against sex and I do realize the communal bar has been set pretty low for what passes for entertainment these days.  But to suspend a show that pays tribute to the unacknowledged heroes among us with a show about a madam ….that is substrata stuff.

Apparently there are a lot of other people who feel as we do and have barraged Lifetime with emails calling them everything from pond scum to unpatriotic.  Surprisingly, the “suits” at Lifetime listened.  Coming Home will be returning to their line-up on May 30, the real Memorial Day.  If you want an hour of TV that will make you humble, proud and appreciative of your small moments, I encourage you to tune in.  I guarantee you won’t regret it.

Posted in Blog Info / Up-dates • Holiday observations • opinion

FOR THOSE WHO SERVE AT HOME – Part One

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

There will be lots of news coverage this week about Memorial Day.  Unfortunately, most of it will be about hot dog recipes, furniture sales and half-off  underwear at the department store.  Few people remember that before 1971, Memorial Day was always observed on May 30.  Then Congress got in the act, declared it to be the “last Monday in May” and – voila! – the three-day weekend was born.  Now many Americans view Memorial Day as the kick-off to summer versus a time to reflect on those who have served our country and lost their lives.

So this week we want to pay tribute not only to those who have died, but to those who serve without much recognition – military families.  A couple of years ago we stumbled on a television program that puts the spotlight on these families and in the process, gave some perspective to our lives.  It’s called Coming Home.

I’m sure you’ve seen bits on the news about returning service people who surprise their kids by showing up at school or a ball game. Who doesn’t get choked up watching them?  Coming Home  includes some of these reunions but it goes one step further: they work with one service person and his/her spouse to plan an elaborate homecoming to surprise their children.  Often times whole cities get involved to throw a parade or professional sports teams lend a  hand to the cause.

Matt Rogers hosts the show and does in-depth interviews with the spouse and children of the returning service person.  And it is during this portion of the show that we are reminded that we really don’t have any problems.

The spouses of deployed service people have to be and do everything for their children:  supervising homework, ferrying kids to music lessons, attending sporting events or dance recitals, and being the shoulder to cry on when something goes wrong .  They must run the household singlehandedly, managing repairmen and maintenance, keeping everything running smoothly.  The financial hardship alone is stressful for many of these families, and most of all, they’re just plain lonely.  Add to all of that the constant worry for the safety of their loved one and it makes for a pretty difficult way of life.

It is truly a humbling experience to watch this program.  So you can imagine my surprise when I learned that Coming Home went off the air.  Replaced by a series about prostitution. Honest.

Stay tuned for Part Two where we’ll write about the brave children in military families and the fate of Coming Home.  Same time, same channel, on Friday.

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The Palm & The Pine – A California Story Part II

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     So, what about the trees in the picture?  Glad you asked.  If you travel on Highway 99, which goes north-south through the heart of California, about 10 miles north of Fresno, if you look carefully, drive slowly, very slowly, you will see a palm tree and a pine tree together in the meridian.  Nothing else, no grassy park, no plaques, no mention of this being a landmark, no special entrance, in fact, no entrance at all, just rows and rows of oleanders along the meridian, then the trees, then more oleanders, all protected by the freeway guard rails.  Don’t look for a place to pull over to see the trees, there isn’t one. 

     The history of how the trees got there is fuzzy at best.  Most historians suspect they were put there by agricultural students from Fresno Normal School (now Fresno State University – they had to take the word ‘Normal’ out because . . .  it’s Fresno!), around 1915.   We know they were there before 1926 when Highway 99 was under construction.  It was then workers from the Department of Highways (later to become CalTrans) were ready to cut down the trees to make way for the highway, when a crew member (one of California’s first “tree-huggers”) suggested that the highway go on each side of the trees, which it did.

     I was challenged to take pictures of the trees as I drove by (in both directions . . . several times!) window rolled down, one hand on the wheel, one hand on my camera.  As I checked out the pictures that I’d taken I found that they were all a little blurry.  So to get a good look, or rather a good picture, like the one shown here, one would have to illegally pull off to the side of the highway and hope the CHPs are still back at the Dunkin’ Donut cleaning the contents of a jelly roll from their uniform.  Not to be denied a good picture, I got a bright idea.  On my next trip around I pulled off to the shoulder of the highway across from the trees, popped my hood and pretended to be looking under it (which is a fairly common occurrence on many of my road trips), but really I was taking pictures.  Three people slowed down to offer help, but I gave them a big ‘OK’ sign and they moved on; perhaps they didn’t want to get involved with someone who was seemingly taking a picture of his motor.

     The two trees have special meaning for me.  I was born and raised 28 miles north of ‘The City’ (San Francisco) in Novato, and then a teaching job brought me to what my northern friends call ‘the dark side’ and have now spent the past 40 years in ‘The O.C.’ (Orange County) in southern California; so I feel eminently qualified to ponder and pontificate on the state of the two halves of the state.    I have observed this: If you talk to Northern Californians they may refer disparagingly to a number of things in the south, nothing personal, just things like, “How do you stand . . . ‘all the smog?’, ‘all the traffic?’, ‘all the people?’, ‘all the fake boobs?’ And then add, ‘and stop stealing our water!’.  If you ask Southern Californians about the north and those remarks, they say, ‘Chill dude, whatever . . . wait a minute, what did you say about boobs?’  An objective observer might say the ‘North’ is a little up-tight and the ‘South’ a little too laid back.  As the self-proclaimed expert on these things, I have seen these traits exhibited as well as some other differences, but I actually see so many more similarities that it’s not conceivable to me that the state will ever be divided.  When I think of California I don’t think north and south, I think of things like our beautiful coast line, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Palm Springs, the wine country, the San Joaquin Valley, where nearly every crop known to man can be grown.  I think of the creativity in Silicon Valley as well as in Hollywood.  I think of the history of the Missions and of the Gold Rush.  I think of those great writers who lived in and wrote about California, John Steinbeck, Jack London, John Muir, Mark Twain and one of my favorites, Herb Caen, although he had no use for the southern part of the state.  I think of the fact that no matter where you live in California you’re just a few hours (and sometimes just a few minutes) from the mountains, the desert, and the ocean.

     So I think the palm and the pine tree are indeed special, not because they create a ‘border’, but because they’ve existed peacefully, side-by-side for so many years.

EPILOGUE

     The two trees were supposedly planted in the exact middle of the state, but actually they’re about 25 miles off, not sure which way.  Incidentally, the palm tree is a Canary Island Date Palm and the pine tree is not a pine at all, but a Deodar Cedar; neither is indigenous to California, but then most Californians aren’t.  Viva La Difference!

Posted in opinion • Tributes

The Palm & The Pine – A California Story Part I

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by Bob Sparrow

      I was recently made aware of a physical and symbolic boundary that screamed, “Road Trip!”.  It is a ‘landmark’ of sorts that I believe most Californians, much less those who live outside our state of ‘fruits and nuts’, don’t even know about .  It is simply two trees in the meridian of a highway that represent the mythical dividing line between Northern California and Southern California – and trust me on this one, there is a division.   As a matter of fact there have  been no less than 220 official initiatives, 27 that have been considered, ‘serious’, to separate California into, sometimes multiple pieces, but mostly in half.  It seems this ‘sometimes-less-than-civil’ war has been going on in California since the very beginning.

      The first secession effort was in 1854, just four years after statehood.  That attempt was a ‘tri-state-ectomy’ where the southern counties were going to be called Colorado, a name not being used at the time, but one that a group from the Rockies had called ‘dibs’ on.  The middle counties would retain the California name, and the northern counties would be called the State of Shasta – the State of Canada Dry had apparently already been taken.  That initiative lost momentum when everyone was more interested in finding gold than defining boundaries.

      The next secession attempt was five years later in 1859, but lost traction when all the paparazzi headed to the South covering another secession attempt, the beginning of the southern state’s attempt to break from the union and that pesky conflict that ensured.  With that, the California state-ectomy soon became back page news and Californians didn’t want to waste time on political posturing when there was a good war going on.

      Ironically, it was another skirmish that got in the way of yet another effort by Californians to subdivide the state in the twentieth century.  In 1941 individual counties from both northern California and southern Oregon were seceding, one each week, to form the State of Jefferson – a name probably inspired by the television show of the same name, but, alas, the Japanese were planning some sub-dividing of their own that year, which gave those in the entire country, and particularly those on the west coast, more important things to worry about.

      There was another major state-ectomy initiative in the 1960s – of course, what wasn’t going on to interrupt the status quo in the sixties?  Sorry, I don’t remember.  But hey, there was another war going on then too, so it must have been time to look at separating the state.

      The nineties offered up another tri-sectomy with a proposal of the states of Northern California, Central California and Southern California, which died in the state senate; I’m thinking it was because no one wanted Bakersfield.  As recently as mid-2011 the latest attempt to create the State of South California was laughed at by most politicians in the state; which was an ironic twist since we’re usually laughing at most politicians in the state.

     The reality is, over the last 150+ years, destiny, providence circumstance and various wars have prevented us from even getting close to bifurcating California.  So the trees have come to symbolize, at least to some, the cultural divide between Northern California and SoCal – see, even these two terms typify the different cultures.  So, you say, “Enough with the history lesson, what’s the story behind the trees?’

 Coming in: The Palm & The Pine – A California Story  Part II

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LIVING ON THE FACE OF THE SUN

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Eight months of the year I live in Paradise, otherwise known as Scottsdale, Arizona.  Contrary to popular belief, it does get cold here in the winter – we’ve had a freak snowfall most every year – but generally we have sunny days and 70 degree temperatures.  It’s what causes some of my jerkier acquaintances to call home to Minnesota every January and taunt their friends who are digging out from an ice storm.

But all that is about to change.  This past weekend we had our first 100 degree temperature of the year.  That’s right – it’s frigging APRIL and we hit the century mark already.  Although it will cool down a bit this week, the fact that we’ve had a 100 degree day means only one thing:  we are once again facing hell on Earth.  Literally.  The average temperature here in July and August is 105.  That would almost be bearable except that the average low is 75.  So it never cools off.  We are God’s warming drawer for four months of the year.

I know that the conventional wisdom is that it’s a dry heat, but then again, so is my microwave oven and you won’t see me living in that.  In the 14 years we’ve lived here I’ve never become used to this “upside down” schedule.  My whole life I was conditioned to love summer – school was out, we looked forward to time at Tahoe, and we had lots of beer parties.  Now summer is something to be dreaded.  Somehow that still seems unnatural to me.

Our strategy since I retired ten years ago is to escape out of here each summer.  We have tried all sorts of combinations for our summer road trips – renting for a month, staying in hotels for a week or two, mooching off some of our friends who have mountain homes.  Two years ago when our house was being remodeled we rented a condo in Sun Valley, Idaho for three months.  Ironically, that was our worst summer.  I have to admit, as nice as it was to get away for the whole summer, I really missed my “stuff” at home.

So once again this summer we will be in and out of Arizona, traveling to California’s central coast, the Bay Area and up to Sun Valley.  That leaves a lot of time to sit at home in the air conditioning and get stuff done.  I’ve already started to compose my list of “summer projects”; really fun stuff like cleaning and organizing drawers, saving computer files to a hard disk, and alphabetizing the spice rack.

But I also have a potential blockbuster to keep me occupied. When I did our family history last year I traced it back to medieval England, and there is some possibility that one of our lines goes back to the Irish kings.  If true, that would go a long way towards explaining Bob’s propensity to enter every Irish pub he sees.   We also might be related to King Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, in which case I think we are 16,346 in line to the British throne.  You’d think that should have warranted an invitation to the Royal Wedding last year.

So, as those of you in other states get ready for BBQ’s, planting a garden or just chilling at the beach, I will be putting the cardamom between the caraway seeds and the cayenne pepper.  And, maybe, getting fitted for my tiara.

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Don’t Call It ‘An Old Folks Home’ (Continued)

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(Continued from April 3rd post)

by Bob Sparrow

    The show begins.  The entertainment was a husband-wife team in their 50s who had a Captain and Tennille sort of vibe, except he played the keyboard more like a deckhand than a captain and she, pardon the mixed metaphor, couldn’t carry Toni Tennille’s jock strap in a wet paper bag.  I have no idea what that means.  Their repertoire included mostly Snoop Dog and Lady Gaga stuff.  Oops, sorry, that was the music I had running through my iPod during their performance.  Just kidding, I don’t have any Snoop Dog.  Actually they weren’t bad, as they succeeded in keeping the audience awake, no small task, and on numerous occasions even had them ‘gumming’ the words to some old familiar songs.

      Several times during the course of their performance, mom would turn to ‘New Jack’ and start talking about various subjects, not in hush tones, but as if she had learned to whisper in a saw mill.  A woman sitting directly behind us, wanted of all things, to listen to the entertainment and not mom’s ‘whisperings’ of sweet nothings into New Jack’s hearing aid. After several room-filling, head-turning ‘shhhhes’, the woman realized that mom was either ignoring her or hard of hearing, or both, so tapped me on the shoulder and nodded over to mom, using the now-familiar, non-verbal, face-contorting, silent language of seniors, that screamed, “Can’t you shut that old stove up?”  I shrugged and tried to give a non-verbal look that said, ‘Welcome to my world.’

      The entertainment was really just the opening act for the main event – the crowning of the Merrill Gardens Valentines King and Queen.  The room quieted as the hostess from ‘god’s waiting room’ came before the group to announce this year’s king and queen.   In a very officious way she explained that the king and queen were voted on by the residents and that the results had been sealed since yesterday noon, probably in a prunes jar.  She paused dramatically and explained that this year’s voting had a little twist – she would explain later.  She announced the names of the king and queen.  The new queen hurried to the front to be crowned and explained that the king was in the restroom at the moment and would be out when he was good and ready.  The hostess then explained that the voting was so close this year that they decided to crown a runner-up king and queen, which was unprecedented.  She then called out, “Jack and Barbara” – New Jack and mom!  I leaned over and congratulated mom and whispered to her that as runner-up queen, should the 1st queen, for whatever reason, be unable to perform her queenly duties, that she would become queen!

      I must admit that soon after I heard my mom’s named announced I had to restrain myself from jumping up and running around the room shrieking, “I’m a Prince, I’m a Prince”. Or would I be a duke?  Whatever, I was inwardly thrilled with this brush with royalty.  My enthusiasm dimmed however as I realized that while my sister would become a royal princess, my older brother would be the first in line of succession and as the middle child, I’d be squeezed out again.  After this realization, to be completely honest, I became secretly happy that my mom was only runner-up and muttered under my breath, “Long live the queen.”

      After the show, mom, New Jack and I retired to mom’s room.  I knew my brother and sister were going to be asking a lot of questions about New Jack, so I needed to get some information out of this guy.  With the help of some light water-boarding and a flood light, the grilling began.  I learned that he was originally from West Virginia, but he seemed to have all his teeth and as far as I could tell did not play the banjo.  He was a dentist for 30 years before moving to San Diego and getting into real estate where he apparently found that he could make more money with his hands in people’s pocket than he could with his hands in their mouths.  He came to Sonoma because his only child, a daughter, lives there.  The daughter has three grown children, the most interesting of which is a son who lives in Taiwan and works for the US government.  New Jack thinks he’s a CIA spy of some kind; I think he’s a ping-pong table salesman.  All and all, at the end of the interrogation, he seemed worthy of my mom’s attention.

      This budding romance is the talk of Merrill Gardens, but will it last?  We don’t know whether to expect a call from ‘New Jack’ asking for our mother’s arthritic hand in marriage or a call from mom saying that the ‘Chicken Lady’ is now saving his seat.  Time will tell.

 Post Script: I have poked some fun at the elderly here, but I poke fun at everyone and I just didn’t want to discriminate.  Merrill Gardens does an excellent job of caring for their residents.

 

 

 

standard Posted in Blog Info / Up-dates • opinion

DO NOT GO GENTLY … Part Two

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Please excuse me if this is brief; it’s really hard to type when you’re in traction.

Just kidding. Some of you thought that was a real possibility, though, didn’t you? But I am home, safe and sound. I honestly didn’t know what to expect from skiing after 23 years away from it. But just like me, some things were the same and some were radically different. Here are a few of my observations:

Observation #1: The Weather Channel is never to be trusted.

Last week they said it was going to be bright and sunny for our trip. Just what I wanted – spring skiing! So imagine my surprise when on the first morning we woke up to snow. I went to the Weather Channel app and drilled down to their 15 minute forecasts. They said the snow would stop by 10:15. It didn’t.

Observation #2: Ticket pricing makes no sense.

I was surprised to learn that the age for a “senior” ticket is 65. This struck me as strange. Last week I went to the movies and was able to buy a “senior” ticket and the sum total of my physical exertion was to amble down a concourse, balancing a Pepsi and popcorn, and sit in a cushioned seat for two hours. Here, they strap two fiberglass boards to my feet, haul me up to 9,000 feet, expect me to slide down on snow and ice, and somehow I’m just an “adult”. This whole “senior” ticket thing is going to require some investigation.

Observation #3: Technology is a beautiful thing.

And specifically, I’m talking about the improvement in fabric and equipment. I have lots of memories of skiing while freezing. I used to dress in so many layers that I looked like a shoplifter. And I still froze. No more. I wore a thin ski t-shirt under my parka and I was toasty, even in snow and 20 mph winds.

Skis are better too. They used to be the height of my arm raised over my head. Now, the skis barely come up to my chin. I like anything that gives me more control and these new skis are like my own little minion, awaiting my command. Even the tickets are digital. They look like a hotel room key, and when placed in your pocket, allow you to ski right through the lift portals. The portals look something like the security scanners you go through at the airport only without the annoying TSA agents frisking you and stealing your stuff.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is ski boots. Although they were comfortable and warm, they gave me all the grace and agility of Frankenstein. It was not lost on me that I could survive the skiing, only to break my arm doing a face plant coming down the steps from the bathroom.

Observation #4: The 60’s are alive and well in skiing.

One of the major changes to skiing in these 20 plus years is the advent of the snow boarder. Most of these kids (and they are almost ALL kids) look like real slackers. I sized a few of them up on our first day. They probably thought I was staring at their great outfits. I wasn’t. I was assessing each one of them as potential human missiles that would later be careening down the hill aimed right at me. But on some of our gondola rides we met a few of them and almost all were college graduates, just “chilling” for a while before they got a real job. For those of us who came of age in the ‘60’s this sounded awfully familiar.

The other similarity to the ‘60’s was the spirit of fraternity and honesty among skiers. When we stopped to get lunch on the first day I suggested that we rent a locker to store our skis while we ate. My husband looked at me like I had lost my mind (this happens off the ski slopes as well). We simply leaned them against the railing and left them there, for the entire world to see – and steal. We also left our parkas, gloves and goggles on a table while we went to another room to get lunch. And when we came back, they were still there. Maybe I’ve lived in major cities for too long, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that there is still a place where people don’t take things that don’t belong to them. That said, I’m not sure I’d leave my iPad unattended.

Observation #5: It pays to set reasonable expectations.

I used to be a pretty good skier. But after such a long absence I set new expectations. Very LOW expectations. The last run I skied all those years ago was at Mammoth, and it is called Stump Alley. I’ve always assumed its name refers to the trees, not the appendages of humans who have fallen. It’s a fairly steep intermediate run and I pretty much knew that my days of skiing “Stump” were over. I was perfectly content to start – and stay – on the bunny slopes. You know, the ones with six year olds whizzing past and people bent over like they are in a perpetual state of looking for their car keys.

But here’s the thing: just as everyone assured me, skiing is like riding a bike. By the second run of the day I had my “legs”. That familiar pole plant-weight shift feeling came back. It was awesome. The rest of the trip was one joyous run after another.

There’s also a big mental benefit to skiing; it requires your complete attention. Usually I’m a prodigious day dreamer. I contemplate a million things on the golf course – the fabric for the family room chairs, what to fix for dinner, why that person said she had a 5 when I know she had a 6. But a lapse in focus while skiing can have disastrous results. So for the entire time I was skiing I didn’t think, or worry, about anything except keeping my knees bent and my weight on the downhill ski. As my husband said “Skiing is good for the soul.”

Observation #6: There’s a missed opportunity here.

Okay, it wasn’t all perfect. I did fall once. I put my weight too far back when I came to a stop and fell backwards on my butt. Nothing spectacular, in fact it was one of those stupid things you do and then look around in the fervent hope that no one saw you. But that wasn’t the worst part. I could not get up. After several humiliating tries I finally had to take my skis off. The only way I could stand up was to roll over and claw my way to an erect position, looking like a polar bear digging for roots. So here’s my idea: Life Alert for the ski slopes. One little squeeze of a button and some cute ski patrol guy would come along and help you up. I think I’m on to something.

So, that was my trip. I’ve spent some moments being mad at myself for having missed all this fun for so many years. I don’t know why we tend to be afraid of active sports as we get older. I suspect it is the fear of getting hurt. But living life being afraid just isn’t a very satisfying way to live. So from now on I will apply my re-conquest of skiing to other things in my life that I have been afraid to try. Except hang gliding. I’m not completely stupid.

Oh yeah – guess which run I skied on the second day? Stump Alley! Here’s a picture of me at the bottom of it. At 61 I skied the same run that I did at 38. Next time I’m not waiting 23 years between runs.