DO NOT GO GENTLY … Part Two

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.

Do Not Go Gently…Part 1

by Suzanne Sparrow Watson

A year ago, when my husband turned 70, he decided that he wanted to take up skiing again. Our last family ski trip was in 1989 and while he has occasionally waxed sentimental about skiing, I never took him seriously. Golf, arthritis and unadulterated fear has kept me from any illusions about skiing again. But like a lot of Baby Boomers, my husband was reflective on his birthday and decided that he had no desire to just slide into old age. He said he wanted to experience the excitement of skiing and if he got hurt, well, so be it. Of course, all I could imagine was him with his casted foot propped up and me fetching things for him every time he rang a damn bell.

But I secretly admired his gumption so I humored him through the “Ski” magazine subscription, then the purchase of ski clothing, and finally, his first ski trip. I could not go with him as I was in physcial therapy for my back but I casually mentioned that I’d go with him this year (note to self: don’t let your mouth write checks that your body has to cash). But I figured that one trip from Scottsdale into the cold climes of the Sierra would convince him his dream was folly. No such luck. He has become a ski nut.

The early part of this winter brought no snow to the Sierras. I was not disappointed. But now precipitation reigns and my casual comment has come back to haunt me; I’ve agreed to go skiing. I look at it this way – I’m in decent shape, I still have some spirit of adventure, and, let’s face it, I’m not ready to admit that I can’t do something anymore. My husband was so excited at the prospect of our trip that for his birthday he took me to Ski Pro to buy me a parka. And since then his every trip there has netted me some little “gift”: gloves, ski shirts, goggles, a ski mask, three pairs of socks, and after-ski boots. I did have to go with him when he insisted on buying me ski pants. I want to say at this point that trying on ski pants is the winter equivalent of testing out bathing suits. It completely goes against common sense for a middle-aged woman to try on clothes that make her look fatter. I’m not sure that even my Spanx are going to help me avoid the Michelin Man look.

My friends think I am completely nuts. They have brought out every story about every friend who has ever gotten hurt on a ski run. I’m getting such supportive comments as, “Is there a good hospital in Mammoth?”, and “Do you want to take my Hunger Games trilogy to read in the hospital?” My neighbor, Pat, who is very athletic, went skiing last week after a seven year hiatus. I knew she would offer me some positive perspective and encouragement. So the day after her return I anxiously asked her how it had gone. She looked at me with that middle-distance stare usually reserved for mental patients. “It was horrible”, she said. “I was frightened the whole time. I skied scared every day.” Her hands were still shaking. Great. This was not the reinforcement I was seeking. Maybe I AM nuts.

Today the car is loaded and we are ready to go. I did an extra 10 minutes on the elliptical machine this morning which I’m sure is going to make all the difference when I’m at 9,000 feet. Or not. I’ll let you know.

Getting Ready For The Road

by Bob Sparrow

First, thanks to son, Jeff for the new Header – a great graphic designer if you ever need one!

Next, even though we have a new name, we’re keeping our same ‘Morning News in Verse’ domain, as we didn’t want to ask all you loyal subscribers to re-subscribe to a new blog site. Hope you enjoy our observations.

“You, who are on the road, must have a code that you can live by” Teach Your Children Well, Crosby, Still, Nash & Young

So many of us in the sixties listened to the lyrics above and all we heard were the great harmonies. Why was that? I could put it this way, no one remembers much about the sixties because if they did, they weren’t there, but I don’t want to drag out that old hackneyed phrase . . . oops, sorry. Perhaps the real reason was that most lyrics at the time generally contained the same message: grow your hair, make love not war, feed your head and smoke dried banana peels. Today as I sit in my cannabis-free home with hair disappearing and dropping pills for cholesterol and gout, I’ve started to listen to the words of songs. The lyrics above got me wondering about that opening line and its reference to the ‘code’ by which those on the road must live.

I developed a particular interest in finding this code, if in fact there was one, because as a recent retiree, I had some time on my hands and was looking to ‘hit the road’ to chronicle ‘life’s little observations’. Contemplating these lyrics, I wondered, “What’s this code thing all about?” Would I be out on the road and commit a major road faux pas and be told to get off the road until I had a better grasp of the ‘code’? The lyric kept running through my head, “. . . must have a code . . .” I felt like I couldn’t back out of my driveway until I found and deciphered the ‘code’. I needed to figure this all out fairly soon or risk becoming an agoraphobic.

Thus I began my search for the code. I was hoping that it wasn’t some mythical or unwritten code – those are the toughest to find and virtually impossible to crack – so I searched under the assumption that there was indeed something, somewhere used by ‘you who are on the road’ when traveling to guide you along your way. Search as I may, I found nothing; even Google was uncharacteristically quiet on the subject and offered no response to a ‘code of the road to live by’. I wondered, for the first time, if Google really did know everything.

I decided I needed to look into the origin of the lyrics.

The song first appeared in the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album Déjà Vu, released in 1970. Stephen Stills wrote the music and Graham Nash wrote the lyrics that apparently dealt with the relationship with his father, who had spent time in prison. Prison? It was beginning to sound like something the country-western folks would have loved to get their hands on. In my research I found an interesting sidebar; Jerry Garcia agreed to play the steel pedal guitar on this song in exchange for harmony lessons for his band, The Grateful Dead. Based on the Dead’s subsequent album I’m guessing that C,S,N&Y never fulfilled their part of the exchange. My search, while interesting, gave me no clue as to the code. However, given the cast of characters, I concluded that hallucinogenic substances were probably involved and that the ‘code’ was most probably a figment of some very fertile imaginations. Clueless and codeless I hit the road.

Welcome to ‘A Bird’s Eye View’

     Yes, you’re in the right place; you don’t have a virus; well, maybe you do, but that’s a whole different subject.  This is Morning News in Verse and you are either receiving this in your email (thank you subscribers, we love you) or are getting it through Facebook (we love you too, but it’s more like a puppy love).  Due to an increasingly diminishing number of requests, we’ve made a decision to change our format from mostly verse and some prose to mostly prose and some verse.  Our number of ‘hits’ tell us that it’s what you would prefer as well.

     We’ll still make fun of the Headlines, Money, Sports and Life, but only occasionally; rather, we’ll proffer samples of ‘A Bird’s Eye View’ of life-observations.  Sometimes our observations will be from the road, usually the one less traveled, and sometimes they will be from just around the corner.  Sometimes we’ll write about insignificant, Andy Rooney-kinds of things and other times we’ll offer observations on this process of growing older, but not necessarily up.

So let’s start with our new name, ‘A Bird’s Eye View’; it is, of course, a play on words of the name Sparrow, but it also has some family history to it.  In 1940 our parents moved to Novato, a small, northern California town, where our father, Jack (yes, Jack Sparrow, but no relation to Johnny Depp) bought the Novato Advance, a local, weekly newspaper, and at 26 became the youngest newspaper publisher in California.  It was truly a ‘Mom and Pop’ business – our dad hand-set the type and operated the printing presses while our mom, who could also operate a pretty mean linotype machine, attended the town meetings to gather the local gossip, or news as she called it.  She also spiced up the paper by chronicling the comings and goings of Novato’s social elite, such as they were.  Those familiar with small town newspapers know what we’re talking about.  Jim and Mabel Cranston were visited on Sunday by Mabel’s sister, Iris from Ukiah; she brought an apple pie – Jim had seconds.  Our mother originally called her column, A Little Bird Told Me and later changed it to A Bird’s Eye View.  When we recently asked her about why she changed the name, she first said, “Who are you two?”  At 93, we forgave her for not remembering the details of a newspaper column from nearly 70 years ago.  Our theory is this: etymologically speaking, ‘A Little Bird Told Me’ sounds like second-hand information, like we’re not sure if this is true, but we heard from someone that yadda, yadda, yadda. ‘A Bird’s Eye View’, on the other hand, seems to suggest more of a first-hand, optimum perspective of things.  Our mother could neither confirm nor deny our theory.

However the name came about, we’ve decided that it’s ours and we’re bringing it out of retirement.  We hope you enjoy our new direction.

SLIME, AND SLIME AGAIN

Headlines:  We’re going to need a bigger jar of Purell.

They’ve discovered that the meat in our schools has “pink slime”,

And slimy ex-governor “Blago” is finally in jail for his crimes.

But the biggest “yuck” of all goes to Afghan prez Karzai,

“Untrustworthy slime ball” is too good for this guy.

Money:  March:  the lowest productivity month of the year.

The market is going up; mortgage rates are on the rise,

But all we care about is our office pool size.

Everyone is studying brackets, sizing up who’s #1,

It’s finally March Madness, which mean no work is being done.

Sports:  And to continue the theme…

Sure, Peyton is making all the stops, looking for a team,

And Tiger’s nursing his Achilles to keep alive his Master’s dream.

But it’s Kentucky who has to worry and hope that things don’t go awry,

For now they have to overcome the dreaded “jinx” from S.I.

Life:  It’s All Over Except the Shouting

That juggernaut, “American Idol”, has begun its 11th season,

And maybe we’re just cranky but it’s a bit “off” for some reason.

Some contestants are okay, a couple sing like they’re from Heaven,

But why do most decide to turn one note into seven?

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STILL DIGGING FOR THE GOOD NEWS

Headlines: Time to Stick Our Heads in the Sand

Rogue solder in Afghanistan, the Taliban’s enraged;

Massacres In Syria – this whole world’s an ugly stage.

But on this Tuesday morning, let’s not the bad news chase;

Let’s focus on the things that put a smile upon our face.

Money: Just What We Needed – Longer Days

We’ve made it through that weekend where we had to change our clocks,

And now we are just days away from the Vernal Equinox.

When Spring begins in earnest and the sun is beaming stronger,

When our nights are getting warmer and our days are lighter longer.

Sports: Tiger’s Having Another Hissy Fit

College basketball’s ‘Big Dance’ gets started off this week,

While Peyton’s on a US tour, a new football team to seek.

And Tiger keeps on swearing and after bad shots bangs his club;

It seems that the ‘new Tiger’ is more like a tiger cub.

Life: Whatever You Eat . . . It’s Bad For You.

In looking for some good news about things to drink and eat,

We didn’t find much solace for those who eat red meat.

But veggies contain pesticides and mercury’s in our fish,

So this evening try some raw nuts and a gourmet tofu dish

 Bon Appetite!

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WHERE AM I?

Headlines:  We knew those “duck and cover” drills would pay off.

As if we didn’t have enough on our minds these days,

Solar storms are wreaking havoc in new and critical ways.

Navigation systems may go down, power grids may take a hit,

Which means we may hear the GPS lady get confused and say “Oh, Shit!”

Money:  We’re going to work on that “beer belly” girdle.

Forbes is out this week with their annual billionaire list,

Gates, Slim, Buffet…you all get the gist.

But the newest club member invented the shapewear, Spanx,

Who knew that squeezing fat would result in billions in the bank?

Sports:  The Stanford Band should be part of the deal.

Irsay says “it’s not about the money” but we all know it is,

He’s got his eye on Andrew Luck, the Stanford QB whiz.

But Peyton Manning is a class act, who has done the Colts fans proud,

We wish all football players were so articulately endowed.

Life:  One smart cookie.

The Girl Scouts of America were founded 100 years ago,

By a quirky, childless woman by the name of Juliette Low.

Hilary Clinton and Barbara Walters are among those who did their stints,

But the greatest Girl Scout triumph? Those addicting, darn Thin Mints!

Why not add a little humor – and a weird take on the news – to your email?  We’re better than spam…or Spam.  Sign up on the top right corner of our site.  Thanks!

Thank you, Sis!

by Bob Sparrow

First and foremost, thank you Sis for last week’s wonderfully written tribute that touched my heart.  I feel so very fortunate that you are not just family, you are a true friend.

Those who have lost someone very close know that for a period of time, the world just isn’t quite right; days seem a little cloudier, the music is a little flat; things are just out of rhyme.  Which, for someone tasked to put some topical, humorous rhymes together, is problematic. For example, reading the HEADLINES this week all I get is:

      The word came in a ‘Rush’, when he called that girl a slut;                                                   He passed up a really good chance to keep his pie hole shut.

Ok, it’s not out of rhyme, but it’s not out of Shakespeare either.  There’s just no good stories about MONEY these days:

   They have nets around the top floors of the ‘sweat shops’ in China                                       To catch the workers when they jump, so they don’t miss a day of work.

See, out of rhyme.  SPORTS – you’d think it would be easy with all that’s going on.

Waiting for March Madness, waiting for Baseball, waiting for the Masters                            Waiting for Danica Patrick to beat the boys.

See, now I’m writing about NASCAR, for crying out loud, ya’ll.  And LIFE?  It sucks right now, but it will get better, and so will my rhymes.

So why not subscribe to Morning News In Verse so it comes directly to your email – where you can delete it without even opening it up.  It’s free.  Two steps: A) fill in the white blank in the right hand column of this blog with your email address, and 2) go to your email and confirm the subscription.  Instruction for the secret handshake will be forwarded as soon as your background clearance is complete.

Also we’d really like to hear from you, so click on ‘comment’ and let us know what you’re thinking.  Or riddle me this: we get more hits, significantly more, when we write prose verses poetry, can you tell us why?  Saying something like ‘bad poetry’ is perfectly acceptable.

Thank you to current and future subscribers for your support

TRIBUTE TO A FRIENDSHIP

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Normally we post on Tuesdays and Fridays but this week is not a normal week.  Today my brother Bob has the heavy burden of delivering the eulogy at the funeral of his best friend, Don Klapperich.  So as friends and family gather today to mourn Don, I want to pay tribute to a very special friendship.

While so many of us have let childhood friendships lapse into occasional emails or Christmas cards, Bob and Don maintained a close bond for 53 years.   They first met in 1959 when they were juniors in high school. They struck up an immediate friendship, connected by a love of music, sports and good humor.  This was the era of folk music – the Kingston Trio, Limelighters, etc. – so Bob and Don started playing guitar and singing.  They dubbed themselves “The Neverly Brothers”.  They actually were darn good; they could play, sing and banter with the best of them.

Over the years they got several paying gigs and more importantly for us, they entertained our family, turning every gathering into a joyous sing-along party.  Somewhere along the line Don insisted on drinking rum and Coke, but only if it was cheap rum and diet Coke.  He dubbed that drink “the Klapper” and many a family gathering has resulted in too many Klappers!

They stayed in touch all through college and afterwards, when they both joined the Navy.  Don was a fighter pilot and served four tours of duty in Viet Nam.  He stayed in the Navy for 20 years and retired as a Lt. Commander.  After leaving active service, Don worked overseas as a fighter pilot instructor before finally retiring to San Antonio a few years ago.  Bob, after his Navy stint was over, elected to teach and then joined the business world and was very successful in the mortgage business in California

I give this background because what is amazing about their story is that their bond of friendship never faltered.  No matter the distance in their residence or hectic pace of their lives, they still found time for one another.  This is not to suggest that they never disagreed.  They held very different political views and had some lively discussions over the years.  But their opinions never got in the way of their friendship.

They saw each other through marriage, divorce, re-marriage, children and finally grandchildren.  They shared all of life’s experiences together, as close as two people could be without being related.  Of course, being friends with Don was, let’s just say, “interesting”.  He was a cross between a steely-eyed jet pilot and John Belushi.

In the early 1980’s the three of us were out for dinner and Don decided he was going to teach me how to properly eat a hamburger.  He took a huge bite out of the burger, threw his head back, mouth agape, picked up the plastic mustard and ketchup containers, and squirted them directly into his mouth.  As you might imagine, it got the attention of the wait staff, not to mention the other diners.  This was one of the milder things he ever did.  He was always brilliant, at times socially inept, but always a true friend.

Don never went to any high school reunions but last September, for their 50th, Don agreed to attend with Bob and reunite The Neverly Brothers.  They sang and entertained the crowd, not knowing that it was the last time that two great friends, doing what they do best, would be together.  Thankfully it was taped and put on YouTube for posterity.

I recently received an email that said, “Treat your friends well, for you never know when God is going to want them back”.  It is certainly understandable that God would want Don back – for good humor, good music and maybe even a “Klapper”.

Rest in peace, Don.  And to Bob: my heart aches for you today but just know that you were the best friend that anyone could possibly have.